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luci Jan 2018
Assisted suicide?
Physician Assisted Suicide is the process of a doctor providing the necessary sleeping pills/lethal dose to allow a terminally ill patient to perform the life ending act. In the United States, all but four states have made physician assisted suicide (PAS) illegal.When in a situation a terminally ill patient is in, they should have the right to commit a physician-assisted suicide.
In 1994, the state of Oregon enabled the Death With Dignity Act (DWDA). With 51% voting in favor of the act, it gives terminally ill patients access to PAS. Attorney General John Ashcroft challenged the act by saying it was not “real” and that allowing doctors to do perform that, violates the Controlled Substances Act (CSA). CSA protects the regulation of doctors from performing unauthorized distributions of drugs and drug abuse. If doctors are able to assist suicides, through Ashcroft’s claim, they would be using drugs as an abuse. In the Supreme Court, petitioner Paul D. Clement argued in the case about the violation of CSA, with 6-3, “we conclude the rule is not authorized by the CSA, and we affirm the judgment of the Court of Appeals” (Gonzales V Oregon).
Patients of irreversible illnesses often develop disorders that go underdiagnosed causing them to live a life that isn’t happy for them or their family members. According to Dr. Fine of the Office of Clinical Ethics, terminally ill patients usually get depressed when dealing with intense suffering. When the patient is depressed, they may not respond to treatment as expected. If the patient is not responding to treatment well, the doctor may up the dosage of medication or consider adding antidepressants, causing the patient to be reliant on medication for the rest of their life.
Patients who receive a terminal diagnosis usually experience high levels of anxiety.  According to Dr. Fine, anxiety can cause problems such as, agitation, insomnia, restlessness, sweating, tachycardia, hyperventilation, panic disorder, worry, or tension. Sleep deprivation plays a huge part in the anxiety the patients feel. The patient’s sleep is often interrupted many nights and several times to get their blood pressure checked, blood withdrawals, checkings of veins, etc. Because these medical requirements can not be withheld, many doctors may feel the need to heavily sedate the patient to make them feel lucid during the day time.
Studies have shown that patients of terminal illnesses fear that they’d burden their families. The patients feel, “grief and fear not only for their own future but also for their families’ future” (Johnson), researchers say. The feelings of being in the way can cause emotional, physical, social, and financial problems. In  doctors Johnson, Nolan, and Sulmasy’s research, they found that feelings of burden are most likely to affect emotional symptoms, quality of life, and patient satisfaction. Wanting to feel like they aren’t a burden to their families and society was most important to patients seen by the doctors. The research the doctors conducted found that out of a list of 28 qualities, the wish to not be a physical or emotional burden on family, 93% of respondents said that this was very or extremely important to them. The doctors made three categories of experiences that were related to “self-perceived burden” (Johnson). The first one being “concerns for other” (Johnson), then “implications for self” (Johnson), and last being “minimizing the burden” (Johnson). Feeling like a burden can cause “empathic concern engendered from the impact on others of one’s illness and care needs, resulting in guilt, distress, feelings of responsibility, and diminished sense of self” (Johnson).
To let a patient commit an assisted suicide means, they’re freed from pain. To force someone who knows that their time's coming to an end quickly when they do not wish to be in pain anymore should be a crime. In Epidemics, Book 1, it states, “practice two things in your dealings with disease: either help or do not harm the patient”, by allowing the patient to continue their life is harming them, all physically, mentally, and spiritually. Doctors take an oath, the Hippocratic Oath when practicing medicine. In the oath, there is a phrase that says “Also I will, according to my ability and judgment, prescribe a regimen for the health of the sick; but I will utterly reject harm and mischief”, if the patient has considered an assisted suicide, they’ve been in too much pain and wish for it to end. Refusing them the help causes them more physical and emotional pain; physical being the illness itself and emotional being the feeling of being a burden.
Patients with terminal illnesses have the right to commit assisted suicides because it allows them to end their life from something no drug would be able to fix. With the illness being irreversible, dragging it out will cause both suffering and financial problems. Terminally ill patients have the right to die with dignity. Dying by choice will let their loved ones know that they are ready and have accepted their fate, easing weight off their families shoulders. Having the ability to die will portray the patients as human beings who want to make one last decision before going rather than people who are laying in a hospital bed waiting to die. A patient knows that the doctor’s job is to relieve pain, with a doctor refusing their wish, only cause distrust in their relationship. Letting assisted suicide would allow their families to begin healing. By refusing the patient their right to die, forces them to live a poor quality of life no one would ever wish upon anybody. It is in everyone’s interest to let them go. Doctors have a responsibility to make the patient happy and to relieve them of any kind of pain, letting them go is relieving them of the pain they wish to no longer feel. PAS gives them the ability to go happily and contently.
Shadow Rai Jun 2010
In the wayward’s of a Wiccan
do no harm (those who’ve paid heed)
Ye old religion doth fright some
believing charms hold ***** deeds

Familiar’s rest contently by
Ye pentagram untangling lives
within ye coven “their” demise
will make all “those who’ve paid” view twice

“Peace is free, peace is free
Invoke thee, invoke thee
Evil doers now flee, now flee
far, far away from thee”

Sodium sears without ye knowledge
invade homesteads if you dare
but if evil hath been among you
tis your soul that will be bared”

Ye old religion doth fright some
believing charms hold ***** deeds
In the wayward’s of a Wiccan
do no harm (those who’ve paid heed)
© 2009 By ♪Po3ticMi$tr3$$♫
Molly Pendleton Jun 2011
I am content
To just sit here
I do believe
I am content
To just sit here
Watch you bloom and
Watch you blossom
Witness you cry
Witness you suffer
Observe you mature
Observe you nurture
But remain the
Exact same myself
I am content
To just sit here
I do believe
I am content
To just sit here
While you are the
One to live life
Experience
Everything that
I am far too
Frightened and
Immature to
Ever do myself
I do believe
I am content
To just sit here
Because I am
A coward myself
Mallory Aderhold Oct 2017
The Dream-house isn't the same and Barbie doesn't wanna play anymore.
Barbie wears a painted smile but her heart is so sore.
Oh, Ken's just on vacation.
But Barbie is home contemplatin'.
Sweet Barbie, how could Ken do this to you? After all you two have been through.
Barbie, you must make Ken pay.
Ken must see the wrong of his ways.
Just wait til Ken gets home.
He'll regret all those times he didn't pick up the phone.
It's a new day in the Dream-house and Barbie can see Ken from the window.
There's a hatred in Barbie's bright eyes, but poor Ken doesn't know.
Barbie greets Ken with a hug and a kiss.
Ken said "glad to be back", but Barbie knew it wasn't her that he missed.
"Of course...so how was your trip?'', Barbie asked.
Barbie waited for his lie while she poured him a glass.
Ken explained, "Oh, it was great".
Barbie already knew what was up and Ken should be afraid.
Barbie handed Ken his glass before calling out his major slip.
Barbie stared contently while waiting for his first sip.
"You know Ken, you should always close your email", Barbie sighed.
Ken almost choked and his eyes got wide.
The jig was up and Ken couldn't hide.
Barbie began to laugh and even cry.
Ken's vision started to fade and h  hit the floor. Barbie walked over dying Ken towards the door.   Oh, don't believe what they say about life in plastic.
Barbie could tell you, it's not always fantastic.
Zoe R Codd Feb 2015
Running through ancient Appalachia
Frolicking without a care
She had never felt more joy-
Never felt less aware.

As they followed the waterfall trail,
There was no time to spare-
Time was irrelevant,
As they were breathing in clean air.

Treetops swirling into one another,
Breeze slow and soft,
Sweeping salty tears off of her cheek-
They were lost.

Lost in their own minds,
Nothing left to exhaust.
Inspiration was the mountain peak-
Floral scents aloft.

Driving in a spiral
Down the rugged cracked road-
They pulled off to the side,
Anxieties and heart rates slowed.

There they found two cement half-
Pipes peering over the mountain side
They climbed down, sat in their grasps-
Contently contemplating their lives.

She turned to her love
To ask what he was doing.
He said “writing down ideas”

There, she saw her fate.
rebecca Nov 2013
the curtain has risen,
and miniscule snow flakes,
make their appearance,
darting to and fro across the sky-
their stage.

they quickly find partners-
one bows, the other curtsies.
and they begin to dance

twirling and spinning,
weaving stories with every move.
they dance a breathtaking ballet,
an astounding performance.

at the end of each snowflake's performance,
they sprinkle the world around them,
making the atmosphere light
as the lawns turn white.

inside a cozy house,
one filled with the spirit of the holidays,
two people sit at a windowsill
on the second floor.
they watch contently,
at the beauty just outside their window.

the two people-
a content boy and a wistful girl,
are wearing slight smiles,
as they enjoy the bliss of winter
and each other.

fingers interlaced,
with shoulders touching,
the boy plants a kiss on
the girl's forehead.
and they get lost in the moment,
watching the ballet
together.
Its happy yay :)
Justina Green Nov 2013
If I were to mindlessly meander the streets
That you told me were all in my thalamus, I
Would find the edge of Earth, devastated
And barren. Then I would contently sit on the
Brim and toss broken asphalt into the somber
Chasm and listen for echoes that remain absent.
I would welcome the silence into my
Lonesome and say, “Thank you for
Reminding me that this is all  my imagination.”
Moon Nectar Apr 2017
For now there is only ocean
And skies
The possessing blue expanse of it all
One beautiful unending sameness
Contently captivated.
Tomorrow sitting on the horizon
Swallowed by the sunset
Yesterday a world away
For now there is only stars
And this body entirely
Dipping and weaving her way
Through darkness unguided
Jay Silkstone Apr 2015
In a life constantly moving there are only so many perfect moments. The pale blue sky holds the remorse of every soul ever with drawn from our everyday life and it’s the moment that the sun and the moon lay distant from each other, yet still apart of the same sky, neither light nor dark but a symphony of an in between that we are just for a second able to witness the soft song that the wind blows, holding within it the memories of words. If I were able to witness a perfect moment in our busy lives I would pick this one, the one where I am able to feel your heart beat and your relaxed breath. It is that I am able to sit so contently in your arms, as if the moon and the sun and all the planets aligned creating a lasting moment of euphoria it is that I am able to gaze upon your face and see another galaxy, and know with the deepest part of my heart that you are all I’ve ever wanted and so much more.
gabrielle boltz Jul 2013
this lightening bug landed
on my arm while
i was driving.
not only did the dumb thing
scare me half to death,
but it suddenly decided it did not
want to leave me alone in the car.
so this lightening bug
sat there, on my arm,
blinking its rear end,
doing the only things it knew how to do.
the winding country road
passed through wheat fields
in the dark
speckled by mother natures fireworks.
with hazards flashing behind me,
i got out of my car
and stood there.
my lightening bug flew
into the field and i watched it
contently blink into the
shimmering landscape in front of me,
and turning the key of my ford
i wondered for a moment
if the landscape that
i contently melt into is as
breathtakingly stunning
as my lightening bug's
from the outside looking in.
Emanuel May 2015
She stands there like a goddess in the myst
Truth is she's the goddess and the myst
Every single plot twist
Every vengeful fist

She is the all encompassing mother of creation
The source of all of your frustration
The train station, police man, "late-ing"
She's the one who tells you

Stop waiting.

And come find me.

I am everywhere but will you ever see all of me?
The Man gazes contently at Her everlasting beauty
He wonders if, truly, he will find every piece
But alas, it matters not - she's him, he's her

Infinity is nothing
Without a conscious observer.
shootpoetry.com
R K Hodge Apr 2016
A glowing ember I once was
Now all I feel as if I all I do is sit upon the colour blue, wetted by dissipating champagne fizz whilst being kept afloat by curved cold glass
The bottom of the bath is scaled with confusion and differently shaped stresses
An unquenchable vanity lies within
The clumps of gold leaf I dust my cereal with has blocked up my veins
When I think about kissing you my brain floods with the taste of the reddest, sweetest cherries, only within this act the most vivid aspect of my mind is lit up as if it were a neon light display
Only within the flow of this electric current I am gloriously and contently happy
Caitlin Roberts Dec 2020
Pieces of paranoia
Placed properly,
in parts of my brain

We're all the same

Noises ,are noted as loud
Not , nothing or quiet ;
Like a race car
Driving on a highway

You can't act calm
Nor contently
Mostly on crack ,
You're crazy

It's an escape from events
And/or our ethnicity
To be or not to be just
Another soul

It's bonkers our minds ,
Blasts , such wild
Imagination beyond our
World

A plant so potent
Rich in poison
It breaks away
The pain

Masks the broken
And enhances the
Spoken

We're all the same.
Brandon Barnett Apr 2012
I like em slinky, two drinks deep
long drawn legs, golden shine, cheeks blush pink
I like em mean with a grin and sharp white teeth
they make it too hot, too hot to sleep

five-ten, buck-ten, too thin
gold flips, french tips, sunny skin
this ride, this rush, I’ve been, let’s go again


straight up, shut up, just dance, don't speak
stuck up, mean girls, no tab, pay for their drinks

I love em spoiled, pampered like they aught to be
I like em cocky, don't want you if you got time for me
just ignore me and be pretty

faces in MAC makeup cases
they’re always too fast no matter what the pace is

thin in slim cuts they never walk they don't stroll, they strut
coming down a runway unstoppable, all legs and ****
slide through the room, make it known they cut
they don't make love but they love to, love to ****

hammered sideways and still drinkin
I’d like to do to you two times everything you’re thinking

five-ten, buck ten, too thin
long gold legs,
too hot, too hot they make it too hot to stay in

no job, rich snob, eye candy
trophy chick, too quick, and you can be
in the thick of it if you watch carefully
drive em crazy if you drive a Maserati
they don’t want to be real people they just want to be pretty
perfect
it’s spit flattery and they listen contently
the only things that need clarity clearly are these three
one, you gotta understand that you and me don’t make “we”
two, you gotta want em but you can never be as good as they can be
three, it’s over when they’re over you instantly

cut jeans with holes, brass poles, no holds, lets go, delight me
honestly i don't give a **** if you really like me

I love em trim
wearing very little other than a grin, I like skin
I hope it’s twins, let me see the kinda trouble I’m in
face down *** up
tone ****, hard ****, on top, loud buck
that's the way we like to ****

five ten, buck-ten, too thin
gold flips, french tips, hard tummy, sunny skin
this ride, this rush, I’ve been
I wanna go again
Elaina Oct 2023
My sleep is healing and renewing.    
            Slumbering contently,
I am wrapped, in peaceful comfort
               and divine safety.
         Every part of my being....
  is rejuvenating and preparing me,
                 for the glorious,
                       new day.
Each night in preparation for the day to come.
Nemo May 2013
Submissive shadows of the night flee like frightened children
As the sun rears it's incandescent face to kiss that of the earth's.
A quiet dew rests contently in it's grassy green crib
And it does not stir.
The birds have since congregated
To wake the earth with their sweet songs of worship
Poo-tee-weet!
So the sun and the earth meet and make love
as passionately and as curiously as when time began
oblivious to the ever-envious stars
that they chase away.
Good Morning.
It's broken, so they say.
Miceal Kearney Sep 2010
i

It took three of us to pull her out
onto steel-float-finished concrete —
where her mother; BNNZ-0031U
fell from GXA339605 —
a little black Limousin heifer
later to be Christened
IE18576-0426.
Shortened to Patch.

Like my nephew Jamie
he’ll never know dial-up.
Imagine … I lived 27 years B.FB.
(Before Facebook.)


ii

If a cow calves down successfully —
that’s no guarantee you’ll end up with a cheque —
they’re moved to the postnatal paddock.
Almost the furthest field back,
gives junior a peak at the future fields
they’ll someday graze.
Provided they live long enough.

One year, the tour had entered the 3rd Hill Field
which has 8 gates, the cow knew which one.
I was only here to open and close the gates.
So she checked her mirrors
then indicated left. Migratory.
Junior, on-the-other-hand
didn’t quite know what to do
so floored it; head-on
into un-suspecting gate.

It was like in the cartoons,
something would fall on someone’s head,
they’d walk away like an accordion.

I nearly died laughing
5000 times funnier than castrating lambs
I swear to God.


iii

They came into my world and leave
from the shed

I like to think that there word for the shed,
when translated would mean pain —
between being de-horned; castrated;
belted with sticks; stobbed with needles
and yucky medicine rammed down their throats.  
Then weaned: no more mommy from now on.

Let back out, having weathered their 1st winter.
Yearlings; grazing different field.
Their 2nd summer at grass — according to the book —
is where they’ll experience Compensatory Growth.
When the gate up to the Rock is closed,
that’s the end of the road for them.
We finish the cattle here.
Well used to gates by then.

That’s all it is really; a series of galvanised gates
opening and closing in conjunction
with a selected grazing rotation.
One cycle around 62.4 hectares.


iv

There’s only one reason
cows are moved in with the cattle —
well, yea there’s the other reason too,
but primarily —
to keep Romeo away from Juliet.

At this age, there elders are generally knackered,
probably mastitis in more than one ***.

In the Beef Book in college,
cull cows are referred to as ‘canners’
as that’s where most of them end up —
in tins of dog food.


v

It was 17 years ago, Patch ran into that gate.
I’ve seen her go from bullied springer to bully.
She’s taking a trip with the cattle today.

I wonder did she know
that IE18576-0851 was hers
from last year. I like to think so.
And everyone of her offspring,
all lived to be killed.
Only space for that in my notebook.

Mart starts at 10, it’s 8.30am
waiting for Lynsky.
All my years loading cattle,
it’s never once been raining.

And calves in fields over
contently ****.
Looking for comments and feedback please.
Springer: a cows first calf.
Jack Savage Apr 2013
Hello there, excuse me
Can you help me lose
A little of my mind
Or the rest of what's left of me
The losses won't get cut or cost us
Until we're tipsy from the *****
Gain the vibe,
**** feeling loose

Alone,
***** deep in a bottle of Goose
The silence got more violently silent
After I tossed Dumbo his noose
But I doubt these next five minutes
Will tell me some new news
So I guess it's safe to say
I'm safe in my own room
For now..

I hate celebrity status village idiots,
Not quip or quick enough to resolve
They're useless
Abandon them,
Like Kardashians,
They milk the useless gift they're used to
Middle class man Stan
He doesn't know what this world is
Doesn't even have the vocabulary
To specifically support the image
Meantime the whirly money's leavin,
What happens when that card's dead

This earth's caught up in it's own smoke,
Toking on the pandemic called man's hubris
No one has the courage to catch eyes in the mirror
They all take sides with Ustes
But I'm used to it
Enough already,
Let me sift switch-like for the verse before this

I keep all the bodies in the walls
So my neighbors won't hear me whisper
Plus I like the company,
At home ******, cold and lonely,
I hear the dead make great listeners
As I, myself, contently intend to directly suppress
The nostalgia deep under my the bed skirt
Lost in the esther's fine print, I'm weaker,
Steeping on this substance

ET can't call me
Caulkin's finger's on the beeper
But I'm not trying to kick it,
I'm home alone for a reason
Hopin dark thoughts don't surface
But if they do,
Hold hope that they're worth it
Creativity's no enemy of mine,
But that ****'s not good all the time
Waterfalls of tortured souls reek of paranoia

I won't deny real eyes,
That seek to see my life
Frankly, the story's kind of boring
They'd finally realize
It's all just lies and groaning
Now please,
Puff puff pass
That battle scar baggage back
To the man that wrote this

Kick back, relax,
But know which way the door is
Just slipped both pill's in my bird drink
Watch the ice animorph it
Overworked, shoulder's hurt,
Stomach light, don't deserve it

Man,
I wonder what's in the kitchen

Cupboard, give me Anagrams
Spit synonym toast crunch
Just found toys
Memories that left me
But cereal's for breakfast
NDHK Dec 2012
I wonder,
If this is all just a waste of time or a lesson in progress.
I can't quite decide how I want to interpret this situation yet.
It seems so fragile to me.
To my heart.
No one else but to me, does it matter.
Maybe that's the thing of it...
It's not suppose to matter to anyone else.
Are we all just destined to really travel this life alone?
In a sense.
Because that just breaks me a little to think we are.
Coming from a heart guarded person.
Doubt, vulnerability,
These things scare me.
But not enough to not try, to overcome them.
Standing tall and strong on an independent pedestal is fine.
It really is.
To enjoy life solo and free is a wonderful experience.
But then sometimes...
You want to share the journey with someone.
Laugh with someone, smile with someone.
Hold someone.
It's just not something we can plan for.
We can't map out exactly when and where and who we'll be drawn toward.
We can't expect the unexpected, when we're not expecting anything to begin with.
And isn't that the thing of it.
I never expected.
Dropped into something when I wasn't looking.
Tricked myself right on through a maze of emotion.
And now the plan, the way I was contently leading on
Has been affected by the unexpected.
And I'm not sure what to do.
Or not do.
See...fragile.
The snow globe that was my life has been shaken,
And all around me falls uncertainty of the heart.
I was fine with waiting until it happened naturally.
Not being alone anymore.
Finding someone who just...
Fits.
But I guess what I had been doing was expecting.
Expecting to not expect anything.
And now there's this place.
This situation that I can't really determine.
If it's a waste of time,
Or a blessing in progress.


*© NDHK
Jon Tobias Oct 2011
I signed the DNR form
And steeled myself
As if this cancer were a battle I could fight with my fists
I felt like a man
Standing before the open mouth of a cave marked midnight
Like grimaced teeth and the desire for life were enough
To withstand the fire the chemo caused my skin
It made my skin crawl some nights

I was sure I would wake just bone
Until I looked just bone
Like an ill fitting skin sheet
Draped over a science project
And enough voice to remind whoever heard me
That I was somehow still human

I felt like a man
Who could do this alone or die trying
That if I were given a scalpel
I could cut this out of me
Pull out whatever caused this
It would look like a gnarled black ball
Humming contently
Like lip shushed fingertips
Begging for silence

I chewed on my pillow
Until my jaw taught me to sleep

I felt like a man
At the end of a road
Who finally realized
The difference between battles you fight with your fists
And battles you fight with caves marked midnight
And battles you fight in a sweat drenched hospital bed
That smells like bleach
And makes you miss home
Battles that remind you
No matter what sort of man you feel like
There is always something
That can make you feel like a child
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
upon the universal statement:
once upon a time...
and subsequently to end with a universal
statement: they lived happily ever after.

well poet ought to shatter the narrator,
he should never allow the narrator
a narrative so well consistent
as to remember a character's standstill
psychology from one writing session
to the next, in between living his very
eventful life (i don't know how irony
is noted, italics or en-dittoed?),
but moving words about is high treason
against materialism, encapsulated by
the merchants' motto: move a stone
make a penny, move a mountain,
make a fortune. so beautifying language
is so horrid? really? we are all going
to be satiated by a dull numbed expression
like adding numbers, while the birds sing?
poetry is just hushed opera, to appreciate
the birds, and on the odd chance,
a raised human verse sung;
so when i give you examples, i wonder,
will you agree or wilt beside me,
from the italicised introduction,
four examples to invoke particularity / chirality
rather than universalism / parallelism:
a. *breakfast at tiffany's (truman capote)

    'i am always drawn back to places where i have lived,
     the houses and their neighbourhoods.
    "african hut or whatever, i hope holly has, too.
b. the catcher in the rye (j. d. salinger)
     'if you really want to hear about it, the first thing
      you'll probably want to know is where i was born,
      and what my lousy childhood was like, and how
      my parents were occupied and all before they had me,
      and all that david copperfield kind of crap, but i don't
      feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
     "don't ever tell anybody anything; if you do, you
       start missing everybody.
c. steppenwolf (hermann hesse)
     'this book contains the records left us by a man whom
      we called the steppenwolf, an expression he often used
      himself.
     "pablo was waiting for me, and mozart too.
d. don quixote (cervantes)
      'somewhere in la mancha, in a place whose name
       i do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago,
       one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on
       a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.
       "vale.
the ninth gate is truly a film about bibliophiles,
and the alley where i popped open a beer bottle
while two lovers kissed waiting for me to
craft a scene as if a forbidden love was revealed to me,
and indeed it was: no dread of jealousy at not
being coupled, but all the same, hatred
invokes apathy, it cannot claim platonic pathologies
of lovers (first), poets (second) and sibyls / prophets
(third)... hatred is tiresome, it walks no thirteenth mile
the same day, and when hatred exposes apathy
it is assured: apathy breeds no pathology,
love on the other hand breeds a lacerated maggot pit
of pathology; whereas atheism just breeds factual
reevaluation and constant reinterpretation
without proofs, theism plagiarises, and wants
to prove... really really prove... and get *******,
or at least roman catholic castrato songs to boot...
pure narration? just now, you spotted it?
poetic digression is the only way a poet can
become akin to a narrator in the medium of fiction,
poets digress... fictional narrators are all bound
to the titanic... on course for unchangeable history...
poets digress to create their own narrative.
so to begin with (need to ***, need to ***, will
i survive the wording to the end?)...
the generic and easily analogous once upon
a time
is akin to an open field... many directions,
much open space, many congregational opportunities...
in the end few books of fiction are finished,
too much inanimate details and symbols,
not enough images, books without pictures
are stupid, as alice would have said...
slowly but surely the readers drop off,
a bound book with a thread of silk that acts
as a bookmark end halfway through the thickening:
undercooked pasta, raw tomatoes...
but the process from the beginning to the end
makes the acre of gold-simmering wheat
turn into a pinhead...
writers forget the element they're writing
parallel to is claustrophobia, i know,
how can a phobia become elemental?
people get killed, that's the foremost proof for me...
narration in grand novels is a bit like
a growing bulging claustrophobia...
the acre of a wheat field becomes a box-room...
and as this happens the paradox emerges:
we all wish to embark upon a and they
lived happily ever after
, but we're given
a once upon a time, in reality we begin
with they lived happily once,
and end with it was once the case...
i figured i did the worded arithmetic better
in my head a few minutes prior...
but then i became bothered by julien torma's
words. who was julien torma,
he was a would-be-poet on the fringes of the Dada
movement: Dada being like black panthers
and big lebowski movements against the war in
vietnam, although more to do with world war i,
let me cite him just so you get a feel...
lyricism: a venereal disease.
             a poet who is preoccupied with
poetry is a shopkeeper.

on the second point... i think he's more of an antique
dealer, but never mind that,
i get the point, and i don't mind what he minds,
i find any if all poetic endeavours a futility,
but i rather write a poem to be discrete and actually
read fully / contently / due course to express
the way a poem is written with ensō fluid
spontaneity: than oblige myself to write a novel:
better a stack of stones dismantled from a pyramid
shape than a mountain never climbed;
as i told you, poets can't narrate, they can digress,
and poets aren't like writers of fiction,
they can't latch themselves to the narrowing
from acre of field to a box, or a room,
they can't grasp claustrophobia as the drive
for that perfected the end, it's impossible...
they're always shrapnel narrators, a free moment,
a guess; as the paradox of writing dramas,
they're written because they're intended
for what the populace expresses: an uneventful
life to the limit of the total of all predictability:
death - dare not tire of boredom, keep it
like a constantly stretching rubber band, and then
death comes... SNAP! cushion cosy on that morphine
are we?
Apachi Ram Fatal Aug 2016
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Time for All or Nothing Forgone
Jon Tobias Jul 2011
I don’t know where the right place is

But if you ever found it

That’s where my heart would be

Pumpin’ contently

Good intentions lookin’ like veins

Stackin’ up like a spiral train track headin’ up and out

It’s the only way they grow

Up and out

Like weeds

They grow from anywhere

I had a friend who’s car was so messy weeds were growin’ in his back seat

Love is synonymous with the way weeds grow

Makes me thankful for the fissures in the foundation that holds me

On days where the money runs out

And I can’t even keep my own head above water

On days where I collapse into the fault lines I’ve made for myself

There’s still love in there

I know I’m not perfect

But the intentions bleedin’ out from the cracks in my skin

Are beggin’ for forgiveness

Like it was all that I ever wanted

I hate the fact that I push people away

And I hate the fact that I can get so obnoxious

That even my laugh sounds like thunder

beggin’ ya to punch me in the face

Go ahead and stop lovin’ me if you have to

Just know

If you ever found the right place

Maybe stumbled upon it like a hole in the ground

That you somehow missed

My heart would be in there

Good intentions

Workin’ up like weeds

Beggin’ you to love me
Elemenohp Feb 2016
Crumpled sheets
from an empty night
of restless comforts.

Contently lying, confined
yet camouflaged, in the ripples
lay every word unsaid,
through years of
  restless comforts...

Sleeping in positions
comfortable or not,
still gets us rest.

As to define a good nights sleep;
     I couldn't tell you.
    I've slept soundly on floors, and in cars,
   But these nights I toss and turn
  Leaving nothing in wake
But these
Crumpled sheets
from an empty night
of restless comforts.
Aisling O'Neill Feb 2014
Sitting in the class...
The sterile, white, quiet, blank classroom...
Somehow it reminds me of home...
The wind;
It blows through the grass transforming it into an endless green sea...
The slow herds of sheep;
They bleat contently grazing and playing, care free under the watchful eyes of their Shepherd...
The river;
It flows through the valley, winding, turning, writhing like a snake, stalking an unsuspecting prey...
The roofs of the small houses;
They pepper the hillside like the ants, who crawl up their dirt mound and disappear into their underground home.
I lay back in the tall grass that hides me from the rest of world,
And it's just me and the never-ending sky...
Until the call for next class. My mind races back to me, I take a deep breath, and sigh,
Home...
Poetic T Aug 2016
Seeing everything around he smiles contently.
Just because we are blind doesn't mean we don't see everything around us as other senses make up for what is missed
Kozarev, thou remindeth me of the other one: thy innocence is just as such authenticity that never decays! Thy simplicity, yes-and oft'times omens of languidity, art indeed genuine! O, thy purity which bears no sin! Twists of daring passion that art so listed in thy eyes-brief and witty, yet calming but never at rest. My another, that disheartening past love back then, in the course of many a year ago-is now but a tiny flickering shadow of battered raindrops that I canst only sing of. Like a handful of worn-out ashes, his fatigue is of no more profoundness to me, and shalt it never findeth any further way to my heart. How he turned me-and my confident passion, down! Abrupt kisses as we had, and ah!-light strokes on my hair-all wert terrific, yes, t'ey wert, in th' first place-but suddenly over! But thou, indolent as thou art-docile and hysterical in some lyrical ways-thy soul is but the forest of an unknown world; what a jolly secret cave! Bathed in crisp mystery, engulfed in shallow pathos; a lump of love, young torpor-yet haunting and irredeemable felicity. Untouched as thou art, like a wordless, newborn infant-whose feet art contently groping in soulless darkness-until thou findeth the smiling light itself! O, be it me-be it me, my dear! Thou art but to me a glimpse of wrathless haze; rolling and dancing about as thou always art-in'a sheepish, childish maze.
terra b Dec 2014
every morning i imagine waking up someplace different-
to be surrounded by the clatter of early morning traffic and blatant conversations,
and to sip coffee from my favorite mug while sitting on a kitchen counter contently breathing in adulterated air
and simply existing

i am in so much pain.

t.b.
late night ramblings
Reza Mahani Jan 2011
In the depth of your eyes
I see the brown of an exhausted river
that once proudly filled its banks
I hear fishermen songs
as they sail contently
and I ask their ghosts
How do you sail back to your lovers
on the shores of a dried river?

A tear blossoms ...
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Amanda Miller Feb 2015
Burgundy tassels sway in June water  
Resting among chartreuse vegetation.  
Ebbing with the current, a crustacean
Advances to pinch tanned toes. My daughter
Thinks nothing of it as she contently
Hovers among the playful fish kissing  
Each passion-fruit patch of sundress, baring
Delicate flesh beneath.  She was lovely  

And mine. Seven years have passed, yet her voice
Resonates in my memories, enshrined.
“Let’s go swimming, Daddy.” Love as my vice,
I gave in. The ocean, blue as star-lined
Nights, beckoned her closer, starfish snuggly
Grabbed her, an infinite bride of the sea.
Maddie Nov 2013
Butterflies kept inside my chest
I'll save them for a less than sunny day.
tucked inside my bed where I lay.
the winged creatures inside me at bay
flipping and flying contently at play.
they move from my chest far
to my brain where they stay,
My mind starts to wander,
these insects are incessant theyre my constant thoughts.
disguised as beautiful winged creatures, but most are not.
my dark thoughts are moths to be swatted away,
some have bright wings.
the beautiful ones just don't seem to stay.
This hidden part of me,
can be quite gray.
I try to drown all my monsters,
Like when Noah built the ark.
Sail away with my beautiful creatures.
The moths swimming like basking sharks.
These are unseen by many
and observed by few.
I gain a moth, and lose a monarch
Every time they're met by someone new,
Or my broken heart.
But who's to say there's no beauty in something dark.

— The End —