"constituting" poems
What little sunshine being recognised
Out of a storm flames approaching disorder
Building vast contradictions without impediment
Widespread in antiquity with alluring interpretations
Constituting mutilated transformations whose opposing
Lies stinking and fly swarmed, rotting at our feet
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
The Israelites (/ˈɪzriəlaɪts/; Hebrew: בני ישראל Bnei Yisra'el)
were a confederation of Iron Age
Semitic-speaking tribes of the ancient Near East
inhabiting parts of Canaan during the tribal & monarchic periods;
Modern archaeology has largely discarded
the historicity of the Jewish religious narrative;
re-framing it as constituting an inspired national myth:
The Israelites & their culture according to modern
archaeological accounts,
did not overtake the region by force,
instead branching out from the indigenous [Canaanite peoples
long inhabiting the Southern Levant, Syria,
ancient Israel, and the Trans-Jordan region]
through the development of a distinct _monolatristic_—
[_Monolatry_ (Greek: μόνος (monos) = single,
and λατρεία (latreia) = worship) is the belief
in the existence of many gods but with the
consistent worship of the one deity; the term
"monolatry" was perhaps first used
by Julius Wellhausen;
Modern scholars of Israel's religion have
become much more circumspect in how
they use the Old Testament; not least
because many have concluded the Bible
is not a reliable witness to the true religion
of ancient Israel and Judah; representing
the beliefs of only a small segment of the
ancient community _centered in Jerusalem_
& devoted to the exclusive worship
of the god "Yahweh": Monolatry is
distinct from monotheism,
which asserts the existence of only one god;
and henotheism, a religious system in which
the believer worships one god w/out denying
that others may worship different gods with
equal validity]; later cementing as a monotheistic religion
centered on Yahweh, one of the Ancient Canaanite deities;
the outgrowth of Yahweh-centric beliefs
along with a number of cult practices
gradually gave rise to a distinct Israelite
ethnic group setting them apart
from the other Canaanites
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
We need a new constitution
constituting a needed revolution
revolutionizing our evolution
evolving into a new attribution
attributing to a new distribution
distributing love is the solution
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
Since I've loved you dear,
Brain underwent change,
To a sentimental piece of junk,
With two halves constituting it,
All brains have two 1/2s,
And my brain is strange.
There's nothing right in the left half of my brain,
And there's nothing left in the right half of my brain,
Yes, ever since me having loved you my lovely dear.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
Our little collegetown is a jungle tonight,
with the deafening, staticky drone of locusts constituting
its own kind of warm gravity,
sidewalks drenched and carpeted with a rotting mess of
blood-red maple leaves, and
thousands of spiders the size of human eyes, glaring
down from the dead-center of their backlit, dew-drizzled webs.
I always thought that I'd never be loved enough.
In crafting anthologies on the angles of my favorite noses,
I pretended I didn't want someone else’s protractor on my own,
and prepared for a life sentence as the uncharted geometer,
the invisible painter, the secret poet,
the immortalizer, rather than the immortalized.
I find myself, now, to be a poem––
your poem––
etched into the curvature of your jungle-green eyes.
But walking home in our jungle tonight, I feel sick.
Your ears distort my hesitant laughter
into a dissonant, deafening euphoria, and
when I lay my head on your heated chest, I can feel the blood
gushing underneath your skin,
surging through your veins, storming, drowning
you, and I feel sick because all this love you pump for me--
all this love you are drowning in--
only rots in my guilty stomach...
When my memory is watching me
with her thousands of glaring eyes,
she will always mourn the breaking of a beautiful heart.
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 3:08 AM UTC
muse,
*she/her has no master, only a mastery;
she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding,
a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine,
which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing
of a principled particular “present participle,”*
*write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.*
*a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey,
submission; write freely but not free, compose or
decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered,
demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving,
can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?*
<>
wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint
protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced,
repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the
white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting.
eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto
a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests
a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a
world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism.
this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor
a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward-
bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory,
a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity.
this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis.
<>
*the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference?
none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and
verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always,
different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness*
7:13 AM Thu Jul 29
2021
S. I. Sound
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
Morning:
My taken place at the faucet, a peer
Staring into eyes, not sworn to me
And I was standing, looking in the mirror
Speaking as my reflection
Spoke back to me.
I was shocked when he took my hand
Starting speaking about identity
I was shocked he knew so much
More of me
Than I.
He talked about my too-long hair
Or how good I looked in green
Or how messy my morning face could be
Or whether I was feeling smart or lean.
He knew it all:
I’d go so far to say more of me than I.
Evening:
Look to the east! A sun set
—Bravo! At least consistent and THEN gone.
Me? I’ve no such liberty
I couldn’t even tell, bereft a mirror,
The thing I like to call me.
Walking the roads, lined with lights
Bustling, living,
Lined with sights
Constituting the parts of me, invisible
—Added to nothing, they’re indivisible
Closed, exposed, fall and drizzle
Without the gall keep hold
From doors and boughs
In the windows—I’m there now
And THEN I’m gone.
Night:
The stone church’s door where
The righteous moor their souls
Piety flows
In its golden veins
And I’m there no more.
Their God does hate me
Without presence in the
Pews; I’m dross
Since the saint I chose
Was Saint Me beatified
Confirmed from the sinner Laity Goss
—So I turn
To the school affording play in my words
And a tact therefore
But rejects
All but their templates in blue shoes
Who sleight my for company
Only when within them
Or drowning in *****
—So I turn
To the wilderness
Blooming in virginal grapes
Disrobed save the skin
Unfamiliar,
Self-aware but only on a whim
And whirlwinds that blow
Ice and shrapnel and
Exile me to the country
Where not but dearth may grow
In a single season of mine
—So I turn
Too afraid of that winter
So much more the fall
And me in the mirror
Knows it all, knows it plenty
A casual drop in a casual chat
About identity
—So I turn
Back to the mirror
Back to it all
With showers and pictures in its wall
Staring into eyes, sworn not to me
Speaking as my reflection
Speaks back to me
I was not shocked he knew so much
More of me than I,
Since he strides alongside mine
And only in a certain climb
Telling me
It’s almost time, I’m almost there
But it’s not clear in which direction,
Or where.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
It was hard to forget her
Especially on overcast days.
The spots we stood, eavesdropping in the clouds where she came the hardest.
The quiver sent through her spine constituting the lightening that left her paralyzed.
She stood electrified, curious of where we would strike next.
All I wanted was to be needed.
Soaked in the rain that poured
In between sounds of thunder.
Her moan was the loudest.
In the pursuit of true happiness
I stood in her storm.
Pacing back and forth becoming the lightening rod causing her to strike.
With gusts up to about 120 mph she came without haste.
A bolt of lightening, devoured by swollen space.
As strong and as fast as she came she was fragile.
Collapsing soon as she struck.
Dissipating into the belief that she was to disappear without a trace.
Thunder pierced through the sky.
Bellowing her return.
The crackle of her moan replied, wrapping around complete space.
Resting her head for moments longer.
Changing the way she saw herself
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 1:09 AM UTC
Loyalty and power,
I gotta take a shower,
My salary’s forgiveness
In history I cower.
Ahem.
The sharpest devils were created in wealth – in wealth
That money power getting bad fa ya health – fo yo health
I climb the lady of liberty
Holding the fire of infamy
**** girl, how tall ya. gotta. be?
How much a man gotta pay for a woman to be free?
If it costs him his life, the debt is paid
For just an hour a day, living death is the wage
I can’t even start about the water we wade
Constituting ignorance, no more to a slave.
I predict the government will feed on your hate
And product your anger to the tricks of the trade.
There’s more to the story,
I’m ****** and poorly,
Ganked and gory,
Just ignore me,
Cents and sore knees, forgetting my name is Jason? Lord, please!
They’re brainwashing with
trumping ******
jumping ******
crazy info?
Know what you’re in fo
When you
Turn on the telly, the venue, is
Just another place for kids, welcome,
We’ve got another ****** for your cerebellum,
Gosh!
You’re welcome!
Mosh! Jump up, jump up, and don’t frown, when
They murdered more babies in jars.
Again?
That is if your mother’s in a jam...
When?
I don’t know, half past midnight in the twilight zone,
Which means absolutely nothing when a dog is a bone
Under your house
When you mistake your cat for a mouse.
How many things do I have to get backwards
For you to realize I’m doing math with slick words
Calculating fascination, a concoction, a plantation
Of seeds so small they appear not to exist
Turn the page and out comes a fist
Rattling down the road is canned laughter
Wait up a minute I’m down in the rafters.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
The shattered world vanishes beneath thee,
the emptiness, now pervading within me.
I see what was once there before,
now ceasing to be there at all.
What I once called,
my life and my family,
the cornerstones of my very identity,
turning into dust, a part of my memory.
Even this, ceases to be,
what was "forever", now just a "could be"
time erodes all that I deem,
important to no one, except me.
Yet this breaking,
deconstruction of worlds,
changes my perception,
for good or for ill,
into something beyond,
becoming adjourned,
into a part of something, new it may be.
My ideas begin to break,
my thoughts begin to shatter.
What was important, now doesn't even matter.
I recall a time, things were important to me,
now no different than the dust beneath me.
I then pay attention, to what is void and apparent.
The unchanging past, and the future in development.
I see what was broken, will be made anew,
and that there is nothing that won't be so.
Breaking my mind, breaking my soul,
breaking the heart that tears me so.
Overwhelming the part constituting this "me",
what then dies, is now reborn to see.
Of a time once past,
of a future yet to be.
Of a wholly new perspective,
rich as can be.
Our lives are such,
a deconstruction of the past,
to make a better future,
for every one of us.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
I wish
I wish I knew the old just like the new
Helping me mark the difference in colors
Of a painted disaster
Because the incomplete sketches
Spread across time make me
Dream
I dream of falling off the edge
Knowing it will only lead to
Madness
And madness is remedy
For sanity is
Lethal
Lethal is monotony
Gradually crumbling into
Ordinary
Ordinary is choosing to look away
From the display of
Sparkle
Sparkle moulding up souls of the illimitable
Walking on the other side of
Fear
Fear shies in the face of the limitless,
What a thing it is to
Embrace
Embracing the uneasy comfort
Constituting your Favorite Paradox
Of whose absence makes you love
But presence makes you hate
Everything
Everything is an illusion
And you’re constantly creating your own
Infinities.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
The wind lifts you up
the waves are
your angry face
calmness is
your supple beauty
the tide is
your love for the earth
because in your blood
every drop of it comes from
the rivers on the land
the breadth of your mind
makes you immeasurably
wise and sophisticated
your underwater world
nourishing all lives
constituting
a huge natural ecosystem
the world is gorgeous and colorful
because of you
you don't change your character
your passion
your glamor
your vision
never
you believe that life is
always wonderful
and a sincere life is
your feelings that
come from
afar.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
To my plentiful nights
Where i shivered
Even with a blanket on
To when i cried
Because i understood my flaws and irrational thinking
To when i forced myself to sleep
So as to prevent further harm
To when i thought of you
Because you are you.
To those nights and more
Constituting me and my celestial being
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
Twas accursed destiny
since birth alack
nascent emasculation abominable barrack
emergent deus ex machina,
viz zit ting older sibling counterattack
thirteen plus chronological gap
eldest sister struck like diamondback
surrogate "mother" role
assumed tubby exact
protectorate pseudo fullback
against cruel beastie boys
bullying barbs
comeuppance giveback
pummeling spongiform
gray matter (yours truly)
fisticuffs she didst highjack
proxy mothering
kept corporeal essence intact
jilting nefarious nemesis aligned
(maligning) and stalking,
this fee-fi-fo-fum
ordinary bean sized Jack
are runt (arrant) cowardly
(non lion) nerdy lad owning a knack
courage lack this glum
older married chap doth adumbrate
satisfactory accomplishments lack
king, where crazy quilt aimless wandering
described purposeless multitrack
thus, sympathetic
to hue men/women nonblack
or decimated aborigines
once populating Australian outback
existential nihilism would,
undergirding hypothetical
unwritten paperback
with little need to prevaricate,
nor appear as quack
*** one measly **** sapiens,
who accrued millennial palimpsest zeitgeist
where, punctured
disequilibreated psyche dust rack
asper protean (in utero)
multitudinous setback
soundlessly resonating
with concussive thwack
as this rickety ship of state
(a haunted junk ket)
unwanted emotional ballast to unpack
asseveration, asper assiduously
preferably welcoming
dry suction no vac
jar this pawn (knight wannabe
in his bishop rick) torrid
me psychological wrack
king within (castle keep)
complex edifice shackled
in dungeon with repast constituting.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
February 28th, 1968 marked the date
Boyce Brandon Harris
(my octogenarian widower father)
purchased a small tract of land
constituting shadowed sliver
once hailing, hallmarking, harkening,
glorious vast "Glen Elm" estate,
which circa 1910 encompassed
a hundred plus acres of woodland
Pooh would Winnie
(including a pond frequented
by migrating Canadian Geese)
eventually zoned for commercial,
industrial, and residential development
(all in the name of productive land use)
particularly put into motion
courtesy Donald J. Neilson,
who transformed expansive woodland
rivaling shutterfly
sprouting like mushrooms towed stools
booming explosively
after ample precipitation
little houses on the hillside
little houses made of ticky tacky...
popped up overnight
transforming landscape
displacing flora and fauna with vinyl city
(minus spit of property papa bought)
manicured bumped uglies with wild wisp
reduced pristine niche leftover jot haven
squawking disoriented geese instincts
thwarted, where drained wetlands
a Arcadian past suburbanization
overlaying (palimpsest like) rural setting
trademark bucolic print Currier And Ives
stock in trade signature prints
landscape sparse human population
country aire sprinkled with family farms
fresh dairy, produce, vegetables
butchered animals free ranging
without synthetic injections
nostalgia faintly recreated here
Highland Manor Apartments
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
a slip of country revered
against a Paul Ling urbanization
nothing appears familiar
retracing roadways now major highways
frequent moments breeds alienation
familiar ground confusing, frightening, and perplexing.
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC
He nurses his coffee, by himself most days,
Occasionally with the one or two others
Constituting the bulk of the clientele of the diner
(Low-slung building both faceless and nameless
Although those who remember a day
When the village was at least borderline prosperous
Still refer to it as “Kitty’s Place”,
Though its namesake has been dead and gone some two decades)
One of the few going concerns which implausibly remain,
Seemingly through nothing more than sheer inertia,
In the drab little downtown along Canton Street.
He languishes over his cup for as long as the mood hits him,
There being no discernible reason to hurry
(Indeed, the diner itself, once open before sunrise
Now dark and silent until a leisurely seven-thirty or so)
His place not really a working farm these days,
Just a smattering of beef cattle
(Milking and stripping out more than he can manage now)
And what acreage of corn he can get in the ground.
Eventually, he totters out of the front door,
One sleeve of his shirt rolled and pinned up
(Its former occupying member removed
After the incident with the ancient and malevolent corn binder),
Moving toward his truck with an all-but-one-legged gait,
His left-leg jigsaw-puzzled
By an overturned Farmall some time back
(Most days he reckoned he’d tipped the tractor
By failing to shift his balance to accommodate driving one-armed,
Though if he was in a black enough mood he’d put it down
To an old Iroquois curse placed on the entire St. Lawrence valley.)
One could say, if he was a poet
Or some other **** philosophical fool,
That these partial sacrifices served
To ward off some even more awful finality.
He would have none of that, of course—in his own cosmology
The gods and demons most likely have bigger fish to fry,
And, as to the prospect of some inexorable wreck and ruin,
He is of the opinion that what he was given up to this point
Is both ample and sufficient.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
(this written about a baker's half-dozen years ago)
this then stunning lithe oldest teenage niece, daughter of
my younger sister epitomizes a tall drink of water
(similar to the mother at same age)
What with her willowy young woman body
brimming with budding potential
for breath-taking beauty
enhanced by her quiet mien
expressing itself thru exemplary
artistic and literary flair
if asked to draw a character sketch anime
or wax poetic she would demure
modesty restrains her
acknowledging creative talents
so I thought to compose an ode in praise
of this quiet-natured adolescent
teetering on the brink of adulthood
(now a glowingly radiant young woman)
evolving positive qualities
via submittable, the strength of said niece
whose ambitious parents (my youngest sister =
the proud mama of Ansley),
who embarked to Spain
late summer (many Earth Orbitz back in time
found them bound for the Iberian peninsula
this brother suppresses
envy adventurous bold risk-taking
exposing offspring to world wide web
of Europe fostering cultural awareness
represents continuity for I remember
this youngest sibling of mine
as gently conniving plus possessing
pluperfect courage
to act on her je nais sais qua esprit de corps
as like an inner divining rod
and faith in self-enabling
an exemplary example
of motherhood constituting
both this and Marleigh
(the second of deux whip-smart darlings)
with the world at their fingertips
as hands-on learning
all the while insinuating courage
to take life by the red bull by the horns!
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
(alternately titled: Zayda born April 9th, 1929)
e'er since his birth,
his daring do didst not abate
the penultimate most spectacular
concrete incontestable product
constituting biological offspring
developing, fashioning,
and incubating gene nee us,
he unwittingly didst create
encoded whence he got conceived
approximately begat circa
July nineteen twenty eight,
and hence upon April ninth
two thousand and eighteen
cometh denoting exceptional great
ness among kith and kin innate
awareness to take stock and celebrate,
how a series of fortunate events
commencing with a date
to Harriet Kuritsky
(at that time, yet to pledge her troth)
accepting storied handsome fellow,
whose constitution sturdy as "forest" timber
(definition of groom) to be lawfully wedded wife...
until death do them part)
unwittingly marriage didst emancipate
my mother, who met a awful, cruel
and terminal undeserving fate,
which tortured demise, the grim reaper
gladly, gleefully, and glibly
held her steadfast
thru death decreed grate
a permanent life sentence,
she vehemently did hate
and fiercely fought tooth and nail
(unimaginable to me,
thee sole son), how
agonizingly bitterly clearly irate
such suffering wrenched, wrought, wrung
August marriage permanently
cleft by malicious, nefarious,
and opprobrious tongue
no heroic measures,
only lamentation slung
upon the livingsocial clinging,
where grief rung
every last ounce,
though thru each passing year
thy mum gone thirteen orbitz
round the sun, that shear
ring raw emotion
still persists in concert with lear
ring grimace of deathly hallows, 'ere
obstinate heart ache lessened now
since papa found bliss
in which to steer the prow
of his four score and nine
aged ship of state row
wing (or more or less peacefully drifting)
berthed in consonant with vow
wills - a staunch spirit does wow!
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
quick figurative brush stroke drawn out character sketch
(serendipitous verisimilitude)
i stand in awe
(with mouth agape) at elegiac, fantastic,
and graphic idyllic Kinkade magic
leaving breathlessness from craw
at such artistic talent oozing
spellbindingly, whatever
aforementioned noteworthy craftsman
didst paint or draw,
and chanced to comment
about sad affairs leaving flaw
in regard to questionable business ethics -
where press hee haw
contradicting, maligning, undermining, and jaw
boning sans said late talented mortal
engaging in sketchy traits of south paw
city when contrasted with a dog given gift -
ooh...such rah...rah...rah
when he first appeared on the scene,
where most viewers saw
utmost dynamic, fantastic,
and harmonic convergence
displaying such prosaic, rhapsodic,
titanic art show events
hum...and perhaps not surprising
his illicit in dull gents presents stark contrast,
staring hypnotized as imagination invents
experiencing peaceful, restful
and tumblerful joie de vivre espying
honorable mentioned nonpareil oeuvre
that placidly rents
craving to disappear into bucolic landscape whence,
splashed upon canvass,
attempting to bat
presumed "FAKE" rumors aside as nonsense - fat
chance prevailed constituting:
deceitful, immoral, unfaithful sly kat
nocturnal antics, despite scathing attacks
(cut him down to size), niggardly praises spat
out for me, I maintain cult of personality (his)
setting Mac Book Pro wallpaper
with exemplary landscape,
either authentic or copy cat.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
-
That line in the distance which
defines the boundary between
the Heavens and the Earth
is not even a line–
actually it is an arc,
so i have fooled
myself already.
I imagine this as a border
constituting what i can
and cannot reach
with all the lofty fixtures
of space high above
and the rocks below—
my endurance erodes
between them.
I admit to having grown
fond of the certainty
this divide represents
because it renders the scope
of my options unambiguous.
Still, i fancy some rungs–
a way to step up
so i can place hopes
just above that threshold,
but having attempted to
measure the height of
"Jacob's Ladder",
i realize success could mean
my condemnation to
a hopelessness
below...
s jones
2021
.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 7:58 AM UTC
Tonight I looked into
An overdue doubt
Of mythic proportions
So come check it out
Of this federal system
Reserving its heist
For the terrified hostages'
Crisis zeitgeist
These zodiac killers
Who keep turning pages
In all of these doctrines
Is one for the ages
Immaculate in
It's deception conceptions
Omnipotent forces
Controlling elections
And rigging the game
For the bishops and crooks
To build their empires
On stacks of these books
Which sell like hot cakes
They claimed were the towers
Of ivory patriots
Sharing their powers
When really the lies
Are as old as the story
Enslaving the masses
Since gold, god, and glory
First hungered for many
A few white horse christians
Waging their wars
Through apocalypse fictions
Then spreading the plagues
With addictive distractions
Dividing the factions
With taxing subtractions
And billing our rights
Constituting their claim
Must govern the people
In image and name
In his kingdom of fear
No home for the brave
When freedom is buried
In salvation's grave
Dug for the masses
And martyr's who bled
From the hole fatal truth
In the back of their head
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 12:52 AM UTC
Where's he come up with his lyrical content
Where the hell does he come up with the song's concept
Does he strain his brain
Bringing up the past pain
Or hang on a moment in the heart
Of a situation
And I can't stop this invasion
They take the words right out of my mouth
How can I stop when I'm addicted to this
I can't just call it quits
Especially when you've got a flow like this
And some people call me the kiss of death
Some people just don't see the visual effect
And then when the storm surpasses
And they realize we gotta rely on each other to make all this work
And a lot of people don't even understand the words
And I don't mean understand
What the words mean
But what the songs I write are referencing
And I get it, it gets a little confusing
When something that runs through your mind keeps constituting
What makes you think about being so blinded to the situation
But you know you can make it
There all seeing what your starting to say and I'd give my life
Before I lose out on living and breathing the freedom
To say what I mean
Because I mean what I say
Do you follow
Do you understand me
©2017 Written By Benji James
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 6:35 AM UTC
Mellow is the sweet singing of the sparrow,
To the fellow sitting on a tree trunk,
Sobbing himself 'til he's full and blind.
His creed is speaking, ready for taking.
Ready to make the skies green with storm,
Jilted with scorn his prayers must be,
To compose such cruelty.
We let ourselves entertain our hopes.
Yet he will not listen.
So instead we hope the sparrow's notes,
Glisten with his blood,
Glisten.
And the tears are dripping,
Ripping through the crowds.
We never saw the circle,
Constituting to our hate.
So we were ate up by clouds,
And avenging crows,
And millions of divine foes,
Yet defensive we became,
In the cycle of hate!
Mellow is the sweet singing of the sparrow,
O'er flowers growing from hearts long rotten.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 7:56 AM UTC
I wrote a letter with an tremendous amount of emotion
Going back constituting the top of I's with little tiny hearts
Throughly proof reading the lighthearted gesture
Don't take to serious the tone I used
Consider it
A philosophy of the heart
It's intense ego
To get this point across
Though outrageously verbal
Choosing to live for now, contrasting to the future of reply
Tucked in an envelope
Optimistic in it's view of being open
A chronicle of sorts, envelope following envelope
An incarnation of my heart being sent in letter form
Count each word as a single throb of thought
practical words coming from a mouth that cannot speak
Only moral that I would send it's words in practical selfishness
This need wrote in ink
A sort of food that longs for the companionship of purpose
A need to speak and be heard
A need of touch, to feel this effort that somethings happening
An extension to the abstract heart that throbs in latitude
the height of it's dreams
So forth sealed in darkness
Awaiting the conference of your eye
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 3:44 PM UTC
The remnants of yesterday's closure
Either creates tomorrow
Or destroys the future
Divided by variances too shallow
Yet united against the walls
The vague resolutions that regress
Constituting for the insistent calls
Are today's mend-in-progress
That whatsoever made no progress.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC