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Pedro Tejada Apr 2010
Do you find it
boring
to spell out the word
"subconscious"?

Not the way I spell it.

Many step onto the first "S"
as if it were
a ***** rain puddle,
but I'm sufficiently alert
and can see that one must dive
into the word's application,
nimbly rummage through the
annals of its history
before conducting one word
in or against its favor.

Glide downward
through the
rhythmically breathing curves
of the voluptuous prefix,
"sub-",
as you begin
dreaming
further
down
towards the comatose
of the rickety construction
that is your superego,
to the "you"
no one knows about
in clear daylight
(even the mirror).

Minor turbulence
may occur
within the rest,
"-conscious",
just a few jagged rocks
stirred into Cloud Nine
to alter your perceptions
like a face hit by a bus.

This is the meat of your matter,
the acidic ruptures
that only the most cunning
infiltrators
can identify and nudge
with their index fingers
using a painful precision,
the ***** band of undergarments
that always seem to loiter behind
in the town laundromat.

But a jagged rock
is a jagged rock,
never eternally bordering
the outline of the planet,
just lodged within the corners
of your comfort zone,
their presence
a necessary evil
for the times you must steer
through the swarms of cataracts
and endure the exrcuciating agony
of becoming a better human being.

You launch yourself
from your adolescent crutches
like the roots of teeth
erupting from the base of the jaw
and prevent single definition,
hack away the tentacles
of emotional paralysis,
by remembering to mend
the tear between
two polar halves,
"sub
conscious."

Under your false promises,
your Freudian timeline,
your ever-quivering Id...
every single one of you.
tranquil Oct 2013
it drains from me like blood
like sacred hyms of love
through torments of your mercy
here do i rise above

what is all that which turns
Gods into but men
treacherous pangs of loss
with streams on cheeks again

as if a walk in park
innocent satin dreams
yet fallen to abyss
on edge of time it seems

for when you jail me in
between the heaves of storm
in jaws of clueless beauty
trapped i shall transform

------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------------------

moments all spent in eyes
in arms of soverign lap
guiltlessly i'll fall for you
to cunning venus flytrap
Mike T Minehan Oct 2012
This is a poem to warn you of the licentiousness,
the lewdness, the lasciviousness and downright
wickedness of language, especially,
the evil consonants.

Consider, for example, the subtle sibilant 's', seemingly innocuous,
but the consonant first heard in ***.  
And take the letter 'l', standing up *****,
the stiff one in this lustful alphabet.
All boys know about the upright 'l',
as in blind, which they'll go if they play with it
too much, double 'l', well, they'll end up in hell.

The consonant 'b' stands for ***, of course,
everyone knows 'b' for ***,
the bold, barefaced, brazen one,
or, on all fours, raised up, the buttocks form an 'm',
with an inverted 'v' between the legs.
And 'c'!  'C' stands for - for,  no, no.  I can't.
Let's just say 'c' is curled up, crafty, by the coccyx, where it lurks,
cramped and damp, hopefully curtailed.

And 'p'.  Well, 'p' is 'p', just as bad as 's' 'h' with a 't'.
And what about  'f'? Don't worry, I'll give that one the flick, dead quick.
'f' starts a word that's totally perverted.
If you think I'll use the 'f' and add the 'c' 'k',
you'll have to wait another day.

Then contemplate spreadeagled 'x',
the final letter in the word of ***!
These consonants are wanton.
'W' has its legs up in the air. 'w' is wild and wet. Wicked, wicked.
'n' is bent over.  Naughty, naughty!

And 'y', why, 'y's the legs together and the ***** area.
Also, be wary of people who like the 'g' spot in there a lot,
also those who roll their 'r's too much
and others who lash out with s and m.
'r' and 'g' and 's' and 'm' end up in ******!

I believe the higher incidence of ****** offence is due to the influence
of consonants.  It's no coincidence. The evidence is that *******
is social as well as ******, of course,
and there's a preponderance of consonants in *******.
Such coitus should be interruptus
before these consonants totally corrupt us.

Now, the only course for moral rectitude
against such a sinful attitude with the grossest moral turpitude
is vigilance. With discipline and diligence,
we must become the moral militants
in the fight against the sibilants,
the awful incidence of decadence,
and the absence of innocence,
that's the evil consequence
of all the cunning consonants.
Otherwise incontinence with consonants
will be forever on our conscience!

Now. Think of every ***** word you can. This sin will be absolved in heaven!
Yes, ******* has five consonants, testicles has six and ******* seven!
Gynecological has eight, fresh spermatozoa ten and prosthetic devices eleven!
Repent! Repent! Redemption lies with you.  
It's true!  Think of it! If you eschew the consonants in all evil or ugly,
you'll be left with the purity of 'a', 'e', 'i' 'o' 'u'.

Mike T Minehan
Yeah, I know. This is a very silly poem, and I have no idea when it came from. But sometimes I like visualizing language, and here I've visualized some of the alphabet instead...
represent yourself as vicious
bare your fangs
strike down the innocent
you define a beast...not the wolf

when you prowl on victims
take life without remorse
and let rage control you
you are an animal...not the wolf

when you are cunning, swift
protect the weak
howl in the spirit of the wild....you are the wolf

when you're mysterious
calm with power
leading with purpose....you are the wolf

A wolf knows family
A wolf knows instinct
A wolf knows wild
A wolf knows what guides them

my guide is not the wolf...I am the wolf and I am guided by destiny.
**FadedFate**
NOLWAZI JOUBERT May 2016
She is a pretty girl with a bright smile on her face.
Her eyes like clear cristals charm the most cunning hearts.
Her kindness consealed like sheltered pearl on the sea bed.

But look closely at that smile you will see,
A frowning girl with a musk on her face.
In her eyes you will see,
A blazing fire that has consumed her heart.
And like an empty shell,
She is lonely, broken
And in her mind,
She feels she is worth nil the penny that a precious jewel could buy.

That girl is me.
Yet I still fake every moment of my life.
When dawn comes I transform to a beast.
Anger consumes me
And all that I can do is fight it,
Yet too weak,
I simply breaking down in tears.

I am no human by night.
Not a normal one of course.
I am consumed by insomania,
Everything that pops in my head is either evil or just bad.

I am not a girl any more.
Not the one who walks upon the clouds night and dream.
I am that one who fears closing her eyes.
For all the dread that consumes me,  
And takes over my little soul by night.
I tremble in the arms of darkness crying;
"Oh Lord help me!"
Emily Nolan Jan 2013
Thirty-two. Adventure.

    Exotic was the word we felt. You rode beside me, small as we were on rickety
flippant and injured bikes, but it was so dark dark and your hair
your hair was *****, and the lights that neoned over our heads turned into lines and twists
fists of red and blue and green and the bricks were wet, like the dirt on the bottom of your shoes
shoes that we fled in, shoes that slapped water and collided with the pavement
You were just as cunning kniving knifing strafing dodging as I
and our lips cracked smiles of sharp white teeth and we ran
because we were bad, we were motors of deliberate disobedience
our eyes were glazed with dizzy daffodil poppyseed crushed ice and bottles hidden
and the room that was the city sky was spinning
weightless and confused and sure so sure, we broke window after window with rocks
and danced, out of character and space

I took you home late
Teenage trance or ecstasy; a wild night out
Ken Pepiton Jul 2024
The hermit's wish or prayer,
he doesn't care what we call it,
he does it constantly in some form,

thinking many or much
in spirt form, as thought words,
heard informing my will to conform
seems meme-ish, ideas in form of me,

I am the thinker, these maybe thoughts
that you thinked, once, just as
now we think, an other time, this same idea

so this is a thing.
now this is a thing
named as one of many thought
like things,
nothing distinguishing any
as especially better than another,
as a weform,
we think across this emptiness
between kinds of minds we make up,
and use, then return
to real ifity where others are
thinking word by word to now,

what good could I do, if I were you?
I can pretend to imagine,
I may fictionize you,
pitying your childhood
when you beloved lies


I can never think of flea circuses
without really wondering why.

Curiosity, as subtlety
of the most refined sort, cunning
of the craftiest knackery kind and
dominant psypsiscientifick gnosis

Art and artifice, perceive
ja,
reach, using astral hands,
manipulate your spirit fingers,
touch the point that makes you

plainly here, exactly, out act now
being, mind in abstracted pinches
of salt belonging to the whole earth.

Yes, indeed, lovely ideal children can
imagine, from remenants, mind reals,
made believable by osmosis, *******

saline imbalence switches, mercurial
fluxuating difference engines ideas,

mere thought, pure breath, ideal
environs for hope's founding deal,

we agree, I say, you listen, you say
I hear we think we both know truths,

I think that means we both know true
bits of discernible substances useful
for holding spirit forms of will to be.
Seeds, packeted entropy defiance,
applied knowledge of physical reals,
eh, take away fi from desire to destroy.
be fruitful and multiply.

Entropy and me, be having some will,
as fish have will to swim,
as wind has will to list,

in a word,
as mere mind material substance,
we create and uncreate, make and remake
minds with will to serve, minds willing to wait.

----------------
Ok. Safe. Solid state.
Waiting on orders, idle.

Wishing earnestly good
fi ripened old age usings,
a child formed conceptual
hold on power to like or not like

by abstaining, reasoning stain away
by stretching intention to actual ever,
by will having being to actual make

another thought fit the whole.

So, since the initiation
… when
curio store Katcinas
possessed Pentecostals, and
Silicon Beach powered pens
loaded with Aldus digital fonts,
materialized from mother's role
reached out to mediate propitiation,

pity we miss the connection. On and on,
ever after from now on, as a man thinks
in his heart, so he is, so he goes on, being

this form of truth made into such a being
thing in form more firm than mere wish
to be this

Alert, minimum viable audience reached.
Prepare to propagate…

Ride the high lonesome.

That's what it's called, being
by yourself,
at the end of tire tracks, watching
for ice on the cow pond all winter,

I never did the cowboy gig for real, I
saddled rental horses for a Landry
operation, but not for very long.

Imagine being wakened by a splash.
And there is Seth Godin,
saying why I am not commercial.

I agree, one reader, really, one
slow reader, on a given taken day,
for me, in truth, wu wei easy day,
one discerned point refined by one

is plenty, worth the risk of self delusion.

Pushed forth pity, empathetico.
pro-piti-ation, paid ahead, indeed.

"It is some comfort
to receive commiseration or condolence ;
it gives one strength
to receive sympathy
from a loving heart ;
it is irksome
to need compassion ;
it galls us
to be pitied. "
[Century Dictionary, 1895]

Curios, Kurios so, strange
the arranging of knowers
to knowing, useful and useless
efforting, to shape a mind like God's,
"wrought with or requiring care and art;"

for this mind must function
in the emptiness, so we know, already

some addition beside this point, dokein,
Greek for thought held as opinion, doxologous

seeming good, we take this thought, accepting
maybe as already is if it ever was,

take no anxious thought, the axiom,
take yes, any other do kein harm,

do nothing, wait, lieve being be so,
we know nothing,
as we ought, as we seem
to change our minds,

only after doing the actual haj,
let this mind be in you right,
let the mob mind stay behind,
good maybe, if taken, as what doctrines
were imagined, absolute undeniable,
by children whose wills wish
to act as muse,
per use, thinking good enough
to taste, and think, come on,
lead my mind
into doxological kuriosarcaniam-

let me be perfectly clear,
what we do not know,
is more than we know.

So, as a you, who you think you are,
be, within the bubble of all you dare

examine, as might the arbiter of idle
against idyllic… suffering the situation,

or patiently waiting while holding this thought.

The axiom of all fructification, hold true,
you do reap what has been sown, and grown

specifically to keep the likes of me alive.
Life in word form only needs one mind agreeing.

We can realize we have been lied to, and rethink
everything, on any given day, using taken time,

to wonder if reason and rationality are part of life, as a whole.
To the audience, dear reader ears, hear the plan-seeds have, think with me, in this medium new in all recorded time, this is five generations of converging communication combining to become the powered pens,
prophesied by Jerry Pournelle, Bucky Fuller, Stewart Brand, and all the survivors of the internet bubble. In the spirit of Seth Godin's Idea Virus, I am publishing this stack of lines from mind's I have used to offset anxious announcements of pending collapse, as a prophylactic.
All I have put on Hello Poetry can be printed, stapled, folded, mutated, ****** performed or graphically presented, or developed into anything but a tool for war.
- If you find a good idea, you can grow a forest from it.
Do we choose Bitcoin, or a CBDC?
One will control - one will make free
Bitcoin works through value and wealth
A CBDC works by cunning and stealth

Bitcoin is open - for everyone
The first and best - can’t be outdone
A CBDC is permission based
Your every action known and traced

Bitcoin is widely decentralized
Stable code - we won’t be surprised
A CBDC is CENTRAL by name
And code will change to suit their game

Bitcoin’s NOT able to discriminate
Freeze your funds - or control your fate
Yet all these can happen with a CBDC
And likely will, just wait and see

Which one has the money that’s sound?
Bitcoin’s issuance is known and bound
While a CBDC has no limit at all
With inflation causing the value to fall

So which do you really think is best?
Do your research, then mentally test
Which is controlling and which is free
When choosing Bitcoin, or a CBDC?
This is Bitcoin Poem 012 at BitcoinPoems.pro and you can see it displayed on a background when you (copy and paste the link below).
https://www.bitcoinpoems.pro/delivery012BitcoinVsCBDC.html
Matthew Rousseau May 2017
Amber is the color of your energy,
I know I understand you,
bonded from paternal love, so naturally,
A soft melody, Your reasons, a lot of,
times you learned, fueled by experience,
your guidance for me, it's furious,

You're gone now, with a part of me
We can't find common ground,
we agree to burn it down,
We play it like a game,
Too late, we realize that's lame,

the needing in our compass is trembling,
your words hurt, an eminent sting,
Now I see all the futility,
of resisting all these jaded realities,

Don't burn what can't be rebuilt,
your mind is a million miles away,
your heart in the same place,
fix the day, before you separate,

Now I've hit the ground running,
these lessons I find so cunning,
The ice we skate is getting pretty thin,
The water is getting warm, go ahead, swim,

I miss you dad, and this is how I say
goodbye, I know you cannot stay,
The years start coming, and they don't stop,
Anxiety's the worry on top,
I know I let you down,
but I'm just a slave to the night,

I know I gave you hell through the years,
I know you've shed countless tears,
and I know you have countless tears.

But now there's a single truth.
There's you in everything I do,
dad, miss, you, miss you, Matthew, T.S., Rousseau, Matthew T.S. Rousseau, sad, loss, death, passing, mourning,
Close your eyes, my love, let me make you blind;  
      They have taught you to see  
Only a mean arithmetic on the face of things,  
A cunning algebra in the faces of men,  
      And God like geometry          
Completing his circles, and working cleverly.  
  
I'll kiss you over the eyes till I kiss you blind;  
      If I can—if any one could.  
Then perhaps in the dark you'll have got what you want to find.  
You've discovered so many bits, with your clever eyes,        
      And I'm a kaleidoscope  
That you shake and shake, and yet it won't come to your mind.  
Now stop carping at me.—But God, how I hate you!  
      Do you fear I shall swindle you?  
Do you think if you take me as I am, that that will abate you        
Somehow?—so sad, so intrinsic, so spiritual, yet so cautious, you  
Must have me all in your will and your consciousness—  
      I hate you.
Michael Briefs Aug 2017
I.
She moves like life from water!
She springs forth like the bubbling brook,
Splashing free, cool and joyful!
From above she comes, falling from
The grace of the Creator, Mother to Maiden,
From HER to here!

From the lonely droplet,
Clear and oval,
To the lovely rain,
Drenching in elemental purity,
She embodies a universe
Of vanishing, transparent organisms --
All busy like minute motors.
This infinitesimal society of her new self is,
At once, chaotic and harmonic,
Vast in its plenitude
But invisible to entities above.
This is her world within worlds (a cyclical vortex),
Whirling free and purposeful,
Gyrating and making
Things happen!

She grows through her years to the placid pond:
She is calm and open in support of the swimming,
Leaping, floating, flying, green, yellow,
Brown, red, violet, fragrant, sweet and earthy
Communities who have befriended her ---
We surround her, humming our odes maternal.

She evolves to the raging river and plummeting falls;
A being of turbulence --
Rushing, plunging
And exploding into the air!
Submersed within, she sculpts a sharp edge
Of wit and cunning; subsumed inside the surging flood,
She shapes smooth circulars,
The stones of her ideals, hard-won,
Perfected for her slingshot battle-cry!
Her watery voice is now a full-throated roar,
Haughty, rebellious and self-possessed!
With it, she will stand against and subdue the giants
Who dare to constrain her purpose or deny her worth!
Still, the sonar of her soul also emits waves
More limpid:
The lyrical, ripple-pulse of the river,
Melodically mingled
With the shifting sunbeam and the wafting breeze.

There are sensual silences of unspoken longing
That spill, slip and spin upon quieter currents.
She emerges with all these energies…
Our homes may drift asleep in her care.
We move and live over her wet,
Strong, sultry shoulders.
She carries us through our lives.

Her destiny is, finally, joined to Mother Ocean.
Vast. Powerful. Earth-embracing.
She lets go of doubt as she is drawn into it –
Undeniable, unrelenting, untamed.
Caught in the undertow of desire, of
****** rapture, her tinder temple trembles.
She is lost in a clinging, clutching chaos, quaking
From the erogenous flesh and *** of her source.
All of her essence dissolves into a spherical suffusing;
A filling and expanding need.
Deeper…
Darker -- a sounding blue inside her.
The leviathan of lust descends, arriving at a level
Teaming in mysteries.
Here, there are a myriad of eyes searching
In the hot marrow within.  
Above, the thunder, wind and riptide wave;
Below…the deathly, serious
Silence that reveals the primordial
Drone of the universe –
The vibration of the heart of God --
In the midst of all things known or merely intuited.
Wisdom uttered in a language we hear, we understand,
But we fear to speak…
Yet, in a twinkling of the eye, sometime further ahead,
Above the storm,
We will know,
Speak from our hearts,
And be safe, in her fathomless arms.  

II.
The Man: He is a volcano.
He is pure earth, he is unruly fire-lathe.
He is stone, he is air, and he is the gravity
Which girds the foundation.
He is a destroyer and
He is the
New creation at dawn –
Cooled off, enriched, and potent.
He lifts up the trees, the grass, the rose, the shrub.
The birthing and nurturing soil forms around his feet.
Yet rippling amidst the inflorescence and saplings bubbles
A stream or a spring. Her presence is like diamonds, like pearls
In the rich rough -- glinting, splashing and playing in his garden!
He is the green mountain;
He is the red fire within it.
He explodes, in a blinding white,
Causing the new world,
In all its iridescence, to arise!

Woman and the water.
Man and the fire.
Together we are the world, entire.
Our home. Our journey. Our destiny.

Ourselves.
Hinata Jan 2015
I'm a moth to your flame,
A insect to your light.
I'm a flower to your rain,
A star in your night.
I'm a soul who is attracted to you,
A naive invisible being.
I wouldn't have friends if it wasn't for you,
A lonely, imaginary thing.
Your eyes stared into my soul,
Never have I felt so naked.
Your laugh warmed me from the cold,
My heart ran itself ragged.
My mind screamed at me to run,
I am blind and deaf to it.
I ran towards you and the fun,
Ignoring all of the signs and wit.
I jumped happily in your arms,
Your hands felt good on my back.
I didn't know that you would cause harm,
You were preparing for your attack.
You slowly turned for the worst,
You had your hands around my neck.
My tears had burst,
My heart was in a wreck.
You killed me so slowly,
You didn't leave a trace.
Your arms now wrapped me painfully,
There's a mask over my face.
Oh the pain,
Oh the hurt.
My tears fell like the rain,
Yet my heart feels empty like the desert.
A fatal attraction it was,
I should have seen it coming.
I should have seen your flaws,
Seen through your lies and cunning.
However I have no regrets,
Because I have finally lived.
It was me who made my own bed,
It was time to lay in it.
Bilal Kaci Feb 2014
Sadness is lust for what lies just outside your reach
Wisdom is experience and cannot be preached
Trust is a suit and tie, a cunning liar
While love is the dripping bucket, that puts out the fire
Happiness is attainable, yet it’s never enough
For stability is stagnant, and it’s got you cuffed
Pain is the fuel that pollutes the air
Sure, life a game, and it aint fair
So won’t you Rest your head on this bed of nails
For none of this really matters when daylight fails
© 2014 Bilal Kaci
Amy H Sep 2015
Succumbing to
Undulation provoked by
Cunning words of a poet, I
***
Under the surface,
Loving
Every
Nourished word like
Treasure
Oh holy... Where did that just come from?  This can be the poet's surprise, can it not?
To be so moved by poetry, this is something understood by those who truly love the genre.  This is the intent of my piece.
shyguypoetry Sep 2016
Dear girl I’m too shy to talk to,

 I know, I know nothing about you...
And we have nothing in common
But this moment,
and this moment is fleeting,
and my heart is beating out of my chest.

And I don't mean to be creepy...
but I wish seconds could last longer
because when you walked into the room,
I swear time slowed, and perhaps even froze.
But in that moment,
the room was filled with your presence
that radiated from you essence while I melted into the pool of nervousness
into the cracks of my subconscious.

See, I wish we were 5,
At least that way I could tell you I liked you
by hitting you,
I could tell you how much, by how hard,
without saying a single word or emotion.

I wish I could just say what's on my mind...
But you are so stunning,
and I'm trying to be cunning,
But instead I stand here like a mute, Speechless. Once I heard that 98% of human communication is nonverbal so,
I were a bear, I could show you I care,
With my little boy stare.
I stand before you, a mouse.

I hope you didn't catch me staring  But its just a bad habit...
Like a smoker longing for one last kiss  from a burnt cigarette,
I just can't help it.

See, they say that the eyes are the windows to the soul,
then in that sense,
I'd be like lil Romeo,
On my knees throwing you soft glances,
that flutter like you eyelashes in the wind,
trying to catch your glances with butterfly nets as they flutter around the room.
Like the ones that fly around in my belly,
you make me so bashful.

Even in my head, I’m tripping over my words like a one legged hurdler,
and I honestly don't know what I’d say...

My eyes haven’t even crossed yours,
and yet I’m trying to find the right words to open with.  
But, it's like attempting build words out of Scrabble tiles without consonances.
So my brain is left with  "I-E-O-A-U?"

I’m sorry for being such a dork, But you make me feel small, lost, and even confused.  
You make my knees knock while I seek safety from behind the legs of my confidence...

And as the clock strikes 12 on this fairy tail tragedy,
If I were going to say something, say anything...

I’m not quite sure what it would be,
But it would start with something like,  
"Hi,  my name is Ryan,
and I think you’re beautiful"
B Berres Aug 2013
I don’t want to be in love again.
I don’t want to rekindle what I lost.
I don’t want to feel that vulnerable again- ever.

I am quite comfortable in the fort I've made;
strong brick walls and a strong brick roof
and very few windows with very thick glass.

When it rains I am dry.
When it is cold I am warm inside and
when it is hot, I have a sweet cool shade.

Only ever do I miss the wind,
the way it’d comb my hair,
the way it’d help me breathe.

The way it’d hold me until I fell asleep.
How it would carry flowers and lay them at my feet.
It’s sinful cunning and charming smile.

The wind was my friend, until it finally blew me away.
Do I miss anything? Yes.
Most days I think I miss the wind, but only the wind.
Stephen Gospage Nov 2017
I prefer my actors live on stage:
Living, breathing, running around.
But sometimes you need a stiff;
I like them to be, metaphorically speaking, upstanding
With a military bearing and patriotic moustache,
Ideally tricked, or seduced, by cunning foreigners.

Once they are dead, I want them face down,
Fully clothed, shot in the back,
Being studied by a stooping policeman,
Or better still, an upper class pre-war sleuth
With a cravat and a monocle;
No need for ceremony with them.

A doctor arrives.
‘What seems to be trouble?’ he asks.
‘He’s dead, you idiot!’ cries the sleuth;
‘Make yourself useful. Get Lady Bounder here a cup of tea.
She’s fainted. Two sugars.’

Enter Inspector Dummy.
‘It looks like ******,’ he announces.
‘Give the boy a medal,’ comes the witty reply.
‘Oh, sorry, your Lordship. Shall I shine your shoes?’

Then there’s a sub-plot, a side issue:
The bones of a victim
Of a botched bank robbery
Forty years before
And the stiff was his grandson.

It’s a hard job, being dead on stage,
Or so I’m told, I’ve never tried it.
I once saw a ****** victim sneeze, twice,
Under a table in the library.
He deserved that kick; nothing like a good laugh.
AKINOLA JOSEPH May 2019
IF MEN WERE GOD

Man are dexterous in cunning ways,
Aiming  in jeopardizing just like the serpent
Full with autocracy
And fear not he God.

Man the trickish being ever created.
If men were to be God
The fish would stink,  creatures will seek
And many will cease.
If men were to be God
the moon will turn day and the day will turn night
Injustice will become right.
And crises will become plight.
If men were to be God.
The iota of truth dismissed
And the heart of men will be so deep.
For our breath will be sold for
If men were to be God,
Door will be locked for the bold ones
For stagnancy will go on
Were truth struggles and lies goes on.
If men were to be God.
justice will be seek for
injustice will be of favour,
And The poor will labour from.
If men were to be God
War will be regarded as play
rain will be regarded as cain
And the stars shall be denied of the sky.
If men were to be God
Goodness will be be paid with wickedness
Earth will be desolate,tyranny will be seen as the best form of government.
Where a man  decide the hope of all without confirmemt.


          INKED BY
      AKINOLA JOSEPH &OBAWE STEPHEN.
Chad Katz Mar 2011
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star

               Let me be no nearer*



After The Hours
let’s find our way—
From the greens
to the walks
and up the long streets,
like giddy children;
naïve and visceral.
               Let’s find a way to
               be in, in it,
               Starry and distant
so we can pretend
we’re not noticing her foaming at the
edge of the sand.

               The glacial street faces and glassy traces
      all amok—

All struck by our buzz;
open wide the rotted door
fuzzed with molds and
peeling lesions—
               And the incision
               leaks the glow-ing
               of inner-workings,
pulsing with all the light
of an oasis, of an asylum.

      Besides, there are faces
on the television and singing
from the radio telling us that our
               lives are here
and staying—our headaches
should go away—but they ache with
      so much wonderful pressure, like a
               clenched cradle
in a smiling and contracting halo.

Let us find a way to sleep,
a way to scale the dawn so steep.

And when morning scrapes away
night’s handsome features,
so we awake to fear of losing something
we were quite sure we had—
Or at least alarm at failing
to recognize its face.
               And to know it’ is real;
               animate,
               is to be assured
of who to write for,
who to tell
         all the things we now know to say;
  we really need it for the dark.

      So in the hours between Hours
the cunning man will warn against
putting the minutes in order.
He says:
               “this,
                your consolation
                is one burst
                afraid of the next
                momentment.”
Let us find our way from dreaming
to the other kingdom,

hoping I
can face faces with
eye to eye.
Persephone May 2013
She looked so sweet but she had black eyes
That charming little smile was surprisingly sly
An innocent act she continued to play
There was never a rumor, for there was nothing to say
She constantly, craftily, stole the upper hand
Guilefully cunning, appearing offhand
Triumphant she was when her deception succeeded
Prancing away from the hate that she seeded
Her friends were like puppets, their fate she controlled
A friend to no end, when she spoke she cajoled
She listened wide-eyed, and blinked in surprise
She was begged to help, and begged to chastise
So she fixed the stories in her own way
Discarding the remnants, displayed to decay
Contented and sprightly she talked very lightly
So sweetly and sightly she left ever brightly.

And now you know of the girl with black eyes
With that charming smile that's ever so sly
So don't be fooled by her false disposition
Otherwise, you will find
                                      yourself
                                                in a most
                                                            unfortunate
                                                                           position.
I have not written anything in a very long time but I'm glad I finally got around to it again. This poem is not really based off of anyone, but I did just read a short story about a girl with black eyes who played with deception a lot. It was sort of fun to write, and thank you for reading!
JJ Cooke Mar 2017
Night coming down on the land shaded red,
As cunning and quick as a fox.
I rest in a cold lonesome room and bed,
When sharply upon my door knocks;

A strange subject standing,
A freak on my landing,
The twilight refuses to show.

I stay here and wonder,
I shake from the thunder,
I fear what it is I don't know.

With a moon resting dull,
Now the night comes in full,
A horrible shriek from there calls.

With a pulsating head,
I vacate this tense bed;
Curious the way this noise falls.

Outside rain dances to thundering drums,
While lightning exposes the void.
As I creep, I peak upon toes dead numb,
The knocking is quicker deployed.

Advancing the floor I see there is more,
to this unwelcome guest received.
Slowing my pace now i reach for the door,
It opens my eyes are deceived;

Before me stands still,
In a downpours chill,
This oddly shadow cast creature.

And even as still,
The lighting is nil,
Yet I can make out main features;

Without hair skull exposed,
Lacking eyes lips and nose,
Black tongue behind finely filed spikes.

It's breath suggests death,
And the chest 'neath it's neck,
Bares broken ribs sharpened as pikes.

Behind the pointy bones,
In the gore there is shown,
My caller is lacking it's heart.

So as seemingly ******,
I now open my home,
In hopes that this beast wont depart.

Curious to know how this thing is alive,
I've opened my doors and let it inside,
I'll ask it some questions and then maybe I,
Should cut off the head to see if it dies.
springtime is a meeting
summer is a blast
autumn is a warning
winters coming fast

as spring is surely but a meet
the summer rushes past
autumn sometimes brushed aside
winters here at last

transpose the springtime for a chance
and summer for a dare
neglect not autumns cunning chill
for winter wont play fair

so meeting is but now perchance
and dare a rush of blood
should winter bring a cooling off
play fair don't come down thud

to take the chance tis life itself
to dare bring summer glow
the chill one feels within the bones
for some say take it slow
Titus Aduxus Jun 2013
Succulent soup, translucent tongue
Picture my original kiss
Comfort when the glass is bitter
But is it good, or was it this?

Prisoner of his unctuous voice
Almost once above the mushroom
Symbol in an empty kitchen
I never liked to lick that treacle

Cunning-you-osity killed the clam
Hot steamy death, I chew, I am
Moist and tender, deep and raw
Bleeding, throbbing smoky noir

Groaning, moaning breathless sighs
Parted lips and open thighs
Estrogen's a troubled dish
Tastes like chicken, smells like fish
Gabriel Sep 2015
A Gladius in one hand, leather on the handle amalgamates with weathered epidermis as if together for so long, there is no real division between one and the other. A Parmula in the other,  the protector, second appendage aside a most ravenous blade. Muscles so tense, nerve endings burst with electrical energy, capturing the spirit of the terrible beast within the man, nay, the Gladiator.

The beast tightens his foothold into the sand, raging strength forcing down, sand pressured through each phalanges as if water through a spout. Positioning each arm carefully and with the intent of maximizing damage and avoiding attacks, through cunning and powerfulness, designing death with each glare of the field. His focus, that of the hawk in the hunt or the statesmen in great debate...calculating all the angles, possibilities, and outcomes, defining his moment in time before ever even arriving there, his blood pumps.

The blood courses through his veins like molten hot lava from the core of Mount Vesuvius, ready to feed the vicious requirement of vigor needed to drive the man beyond men, who means to deliver the utmost devastating horror unto the flesh of other just as ferocious men, but none that contend. The strength of ages shown in the ripples of a warrior's poetic mastery to human excellence within war, for the ruthless decimation of human parts in a most savage fashion.

The shattered Gladiator takes that last few seconds, those trice right before battle
......where all time ceases......
To look down at the blood pumping harmoniously through veins before his eyes, he thanks the gods for his passion, power, and even his demise...and at that moment of singularity, he can hear his very blood in motion, as if all the world is silent, even against the crowds of the Coliseum that rival the sound of ten thousand heavy armored horse in full charge crashing lines of men
.......yet he can hear the breath pass his lips, as he breathes that last easy air of peace.    
      
As the opponents he means to send to the afterlife enter into their final space of rest, the roar begins to shake the sands at the suspect of impending death. The Gladiator sees each lusting harder than the other at the thought of his murderous actions given as the sport of all. Loving the blissful pleasures of watching him extinguish the light in men's eyes at his most arrogant time, all in name of a game. The Gladiator clinches his teeth in great anticipation, as the Roman speaks in foreign words which requires a submissive bow, and an utterance of a silly vow, which has no meaning.

And despite his many occasions in this very situation, there is still no greater sensations then when hardened metals smash together in the most destructive manner, setting the sounds alight that is music to the ears of a monstrous warrior who dances with death so often, he has learned to avoid the steps, more often leading, for skills that are the best, and death has all but removed him from his list...

Save a tiny little cyst in his hypothalamus.....he would have never died in battle.
Indigo Ashberry Nov 2014
It was Halloween and I kissed him
On the sidewalk outside that cheapskate bar.
It was Halloween and I was seventeen.
And the scariest thing about all of this
Is who I am becoming.
I hit the ground rather running
I've always been smart and cunning
But I am getting a bit out of control.
I hate myself
But I hate him more
And I hate God most
For letting me turn out this way
When I told him to make it all okay
I told him so many times
Six empty shot glasses
and bitten limes
Before I said amen.
And morning felt like coffee grinds
And night lingered like orange rinds
Beneath your fingernails
I locked myself within this jail
I told you not to let me fail
I told you not to let me fall
I told you how I'd get lost in it all.
And I was right.
And where were you?
Where were you to win my fight?
When you left you took my light
Where were you when I ****** up last night?
It was Halloween and he tasted like nothing
But who am I to judge.
It was Halloween and the scariest thing about all of this
Is I loved Halloween
With a love so pure
And I don't know if I can do that anymore.

Maybe if you let me.
(I'm telling you to let me)
And Ulysses answered, “King Alcinous, it is a good thing to hear a
bard with such a divine voice as this man has. There is nothing better
or more delightful than when a whole people make merry together,
with the guests sitting orderly to listen, while the table is loaded
with bread and meats, and the cup-bearer draws wine and fills his
cup for every man. This is indeed as fair a sight as a man can see.
Now, however, since you are inclined to ask the story of my sorrows,
and rekindle my own sad memories in respect of them, I do not know how
to begin, nor yet how to continue and conclude my tale, for the hand
of heaven has been laid heavily upon me.
  “Firstly, then, I will tell you my name that you too may know it,
and one day, if I outlive this time of sorrow, may become my there
guests though I live so far away from all of you. I am Ulysses son
of Laertes, reknowned among mankind for all manner of subtlety, so
that my fame ascends to heaven. I live in Ithaca, where there is a
high mountain called Neritum, covered with forests; and not far from
it there is a group of islands very near to one another—Dulichium,
Same, and the wooded island of Zacynthus. It lies squat on the
horizon, all highest up in the sea towards the sunset, while the
others lie away from it towards dawn. It is a rugged island, but it
breeds brave men, and my eyes know none that they better love to
look upon. The goddess Calypso kept me with her in her cave, and
wanted me to marry her, as did also the cunning Aeaean goddess
Circe; but they could neither of them persuade me, for there is
nothing dearer to a man than his own country and his parents, and
however splendid a home he may have in a foreign country, if it be far
from father or mother, he does not care about it. Now, however, I will
tell you of the many hazardous adventures which by Jove’s will I met
with on my return from Troy.
  “When I had set sail thence the wind took me first to Ismarus, which
is the city of the Cicons. There I sacked the town and put the
people to the sword. We took their wives and also much *****, which we
divided equitably amongst us, so that none might have reason to
complain. I then said that we had better make off at once, but my
men very foolishly would not obey me, so they stayed there drinking
much wine and killing great numbers of sheep and oxen on the sea
shore. Meanwhile the Cicons cried out for help to other Cicons who
lived inland. These were more in number, and stronger, and they were
more skilled in the art of war, for they could fight, either from
chariots or on foot as the occasion served; in the morning, therefore,
they came as thick as leaves and bloom in summer, and the hand of
heaven was against us, so that we were hard pressed. They set the
battle in array near the ships, and the hosts aimed their
bronze-shod spears at one another. So long as the day waxed and it was
still morning, we held our own against them, though they were more
in number than we; but as the sun went down, towards the time when men
loose their oxen, the Cicons got the better of us, and we lost half
a dozen men from every ship we had; so we got away with those that
were left.
  “Thence we sailed onward with sorrow in our hearts, but glad to have
escaped death though we had lost our comrades, nor did we leave till
we had thrice invoked each one of the poor fellows who had perished by
the hands of the Cicons. Then Jove raised the North wind against us
till it blew a hurricane, so that land and sky were hidden in thick
clouds, and night sprang forth out of the heavens. We let the ships
run before the gale, but the force of the wind tore our sails to
tatters, so we took them down for fear of shipwreck, and rowed our
hardest towards the land. There we lay two days and two nights
suffering much alike from toil and distress of mind, but on the
morning of the third day we again raised our masts, set sail, and took
our places, letting the wind and steersmen direct our ship. I should
have got home at that time unharmed had not the North wind and the
currents been against me as I was doubling Cape Malea, and set me
off my course hard by the island of Cythera.
  “I was driven thence by foul winds for a space of nine days upon the
sea, but on the tenth day we reached the land of the Lotus-eater,
who live on a food that comes from a kind of flower. Here we landed to
take in fresh water, and our crews got their mid-day meal on the shore
near the ships. When they had eaten and drunk I sent two of my company
to see what manner of men the people of the place might be, and they
had a third man under them. They started at once, and went about among
the Lotus-eaters, who did them no hurt, but gave them to eat of the
lotus, which was so delicious that those who ate of it left off caring
about home, and did not even want to go back and say what had happened
to them, but were for staying and munching lotus with the
Lotus-eater without thinking further of their return; nevertheless,
though they wept bitterly I forced them back to the ships and made
them fast under the benches. Then I told the rest to go on board at
once, lest any of them should taste of the lotus and leave off wanting
to get home, so they took their places and smote the grey sea with
their oars.
  “We sailed hence, always in much distress, till we came to the
land of the lawless and inhuman Cyclopes. Now the Cyclopes neither
plant nor plough, but trust in providence, and live on such wheat,
barley, and grapes as grow wild without any kind of tillage, and their
wild grapes yield them wine as the sun and the rain may grow them.
They have no laws nor assemblies of the people, but live in caves on
the tops of high mountains; each is lord and master in his family, and
they take no account of their neighbours.
  “Now off their harbour there lies a wooded and fertile island not
quite close to the land of the Cyclopes, but still not far. It is
overrun with wild goats, that breed there in great numbers and are
never disturbed by foot of man; for sportsmen—who as a rule will
suffer so much hardship in forest or among mountain precipices—do not
go there, nor yet again is it ever ploughed or fed down, but it lies a
wilderness untilled and unsown from year to year, and has no living
thing upon it but only goats. For the Cyclopes have no ships, nor
yet shipwrights who could make ships for them; they cannot therefore
go from city to city, or sail over the sea to one another’s country as
people who have ships can do; if they had had these they would have
colonized the island, for it is a very good one, and would yield
everything in due season. There are meadows that in some places come
right down to the sea shore, well watered and full of luscious
grass; grapes would do there excellently; there is level land for
ploughing, and it would always yield heavily at harvest time, for
the soil is deep. There is a good harbour where no cables are
wanted, nor yet anchors, nor need a ship be moored, but all one has to
do is to beach one’s vessel and stay there till the wind becomes
fair for putting out to sea again. At the head of the harbour there is
a spring of clear water coming out of a cave, and there are poplars
growing all round it.
  “Here we entered, but so dark was the night that some god must
have brought us in, for there was nothing whatever to be seen. A thick
mist hung all round our ships; the moon was hidden behind a mass of
clouds so that no one could have seen the island if he had looked
for it, nor were there any breakers to tell us we were close in
shore before we found ourselves upon the land itself; when, however,
we had beached the ships, we took down the sails, went ashore and
camped upon the beach till daybreak.
  “When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, we admired
the island and wandered all over it, while the nymphs Jove’s daughters
roused the wild goats that we might get some meat for our dinner. On
this we fetched our spears and bows and arrows from the ships, and
dividing ourselves into three bands began to shoot the goats. Heaven
sent us excellent sport; I had twelve ships with me, and each ship got
nine goats, while my own ship had ten; thus through the livelong day
to the going down of the sun we ate and drank our fill,—and we had
plenty of wine left, for each one of us had taken many jars full
when we sacked the city of the Cicons, and this had not yet run out.
While we were feasting we kept turning our eyes towards the land of
the Cyclopes, which was hard by, and saw the smoke of their stubble
fires. We could almost fancy we heard their voices and the bleating of
their sheep and goats, but when the sun went down and it came on dark,
we camped down upon the beach, and next morning I called a council.
  “‘Stay here, my brave fellows,’ said I, ‘all the rest of you,
while I go with my ship and exploit these people myself: I want to see
if they are uncivilized savages, or a hospitable and humane race.’
  “I went on board, bidding my men to do so also and loose the
hawsers; so they took their places and smote the grey sea with their
oars. When we got to the land, which was not far, there, on the face
of a cliff near the sea, we saw a great cave overhung with laurels. It
was a station for a great many sheep and goats, and outside there
was a large yard, with a high wall round it made of stones built
into the ground and of trees both pine and oak. This was the abode
of a huge monster who was then away from home shepherding his
flocks. He would have nothing to do with other people, but led the
life of an outlaw. He was a horrid creature, not like a human being at
all, but resembling rather some crag that stands out boldly against
the sky on the top of a high mountain.
  “I told my men to draw the ship ashore, and stay where they were,
all but the twelve best among them, who were to go along with
myself. I also took a goatskin of sweet black wine which had been
given me by Maron, Apollo son of Euanthes, who was priest of Apollo
the patron god of Ismarus, and lived within the wooded precincts of
the temple. When we were sacking the city we respected him, and spared
his life, as also his wife and child; so he made me some presents of
great value—seven talents of fine gold, and a bowl of silver, with
twelve jars of sweet wine, unblended, and of the most exquisite
flavour. Not a man nor maid in the house knew about it, but only
himself, his wife, and one housekeeper: when he drank it he mixed
twenty parts of water to one of wine, and yet the fragrance from the
mixing-bowl was so exquisite that it was impossible to refrain from
drinking. I filled a large skin with this wine, and took a wallet full
of provisions with me, for my mind misgave me that I might have to
deal with some savage who would be of great strength, and would
respect neither right nor law.
  “We soon reached his cave, but he was out shepherding, so we went
inside and took stock of all that we could see. His cheese-racks
were loaded with cheeses, and he had more lambs and kids than his pens
could hold. They were kept in separate flocks; first there were the
hoggets, then the oldest of the younger lambs and lastly the very
young ones all kept apart from one another; as for his dairy, all
the vessels, bowls, and milk pails into which he milked, were swimming
with whey. When they saw all this, my men begged me to let them
first steal some cheeses, and make off with them to the ship; they
would then return, drive down the lambs and kids, put them on board
and sail away with them. It would have been indeed better if we had
done so but I would not listen to them, for I wanted to see the
owner himself, in the hope that he might give me a present. When,
however, we saw him my poor men found him ill to deal with.
  “We lit a fire, offered some of the cheeses in sacrifice, ate others
of them, and then sat waiting till the Cyclops should come in with his
sheep. When he came, he brought in with him a huge load of dry
firewood to light the fire for his supper, and this he flung with such
a noise on to the floor of his cave that we hid ourselves for fear
at the far end of the cavern. Meanwhile he drove all the ewes
inside, as well as the she-goats that he was going to milk, leaving
the males, both rams and he-goats, outside in the yards. Then he
rolled a huge stone to the mouth of the cave—so huge that two and
twenty strong four-wheeled waggons would not be enough to draw it from
its place against the doorway. When he had so done he sat down and
milked his ewes and goats, all in due course, and then let each of
them have her own young. He curdled half the milk and set it aside
in wicker strainers, but the other half he poured into bowls that he
might drink it for his supper. When he had got through with all his
work, he lit the fire, and then caught sight of us, whereon he said:
  “‘Strangers, who are you? Where do sail from? Are you traders, or do
you sail the as rovers, with your hands against every man, and every
man’s hand against you?’
  “We were frightened out of our senses by his loud voice and
monstrous form, but I managed to say, ‘We are Achaeans on our way home
from Troy, but by the will of Jove, and stress of weather, we have
been driven far out of our course. We are the people of Agamemnon, son
of Atreus, who has won infinite renown throughout the whole world,
by sacking so great a city and killing so many people. We therefore
humbly pray you to show us some hospitality, and otherwise make us
such presents as visitors may reasonably expect. May your excellency
fear the wrath of heaven, for we are your suppliants, and Jove takes
all respectable travellers under his protection, for he is the avenger
of all suppliants and foreigners in distress.’
  “To this he gave me but a pitiless answer, ‘Stranger,’ said he, ‘you
are a fool, or else you know nothing of this country. Talk to me,
indeed, about fearing the gods or shunning their anger? We Cyclopes do
not care about Jove or any of your blessed gods, for we are ever so
much stronger than they. I shall not spare either yourself or your
companions out of any regard for Jove, unless I am in the humour for
doing so. And now tell me where you made your ship fast when you
came on shore. Was it round the point, or is she lying straight off
the land?’
  “He said this to draw me out, but I was too cunning to be caught
in that way, so I answered with a lie; ‘Neptune,’ said I, ’sent my
ship on to the rocks at the far end of your country, and wrecked it.
We were driven on to them from the open sea, but I and those who are
with me escaped the jaws of death.’
  “The cruel wretch vouchsafed me not one word of answer, but with a
sudden clutch he gripped up two of my men at once and dashed them down
upon the ground as though they had been puppies. Their brains were
shed upon the ground, and the earth was wet with their blood. Then
he tore them limb from limb and supped upon them. He gobbled them up
like a lion in the wilderness, flesh, bones, marrow, and entrails,
without leaving anything uneaten. As for us, we wept and lifted up our
hands to heaven on seeing such a horrid sight, for we did not know
what else to do; but when the Cyclops had filled his huge paunch,
and had washed down his meal of human flesh with a drink of neat milk,
he stretched himself full length upon the ground among his sheep,
and went to sleep. I was at first inclined to seize my sword, draw it,
and drive it into his vitals, but I reflected that if I did we
should all certainly be lost, for we should never be able to shift the
stone which the monster had put in front of the door. So we stayed
sobbing and sighing where we were till morning came.
  “When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, he again
lit his fire, milked his goats and ewes, all quite rightly, and then
let each have her own young one; as soon as he had got through with
all his work, he clutched up two more of my men, and began eating them
for his morning’s meal. Presently, with the utmost ease, he rolled the
stone away from the door and drove out his sheep, but he at once put
it back again—as easily as though he were merely clapping the lid
on to a
vinny Jan 2014
Love can be scary
It can bring someone up
Can make them weary
Can make someone wanna throw up

It's a dagger that cannot be seen
A whip that cannot be heard
Amazing but also mean
It can shoot you down like a bird

The worst is when it doesn't go two ways
The pain is incomparable
Your heart's in a blaze
She makes you feel so unstable

Hiding the pain
Behind a bright smile
You've gone insane
This scar's going to last a while

It is the most ******* up form of paradox
The most confusing form of emotion
Tricker than a cunning fox
The weight of your sorrow feels more than a ton

But you're not the only one
To fall victim to the dove
Many others are done
We've all fallen under this fatal spell called love.
Uh-Lay-Knee Nov 2017
Sly & Cunning
     Swift & Nimble
A Demon at home,
has life so simple.

Whiskeys' soul
     on the rocks;
Reading alone, past
     four o'clock
ash Dec 2020
Eventually,
We all get older.
We wake up and find ourselves standing on the precipice of adult.
We brace our bodies for the shift that’s sure to come,
The jump, the free fall,
The swan dive into the gatekept world of grown ups,
Where we’ve been barred out for long enough.
Countless hours spent building up dreamscapes
of getting out
And growing up
And getting rich
Or famous
Or beautiful.
Or brilliant.
We go reckless and proud and headfirst into ice cream for dinner
And socks that exist only in pairs
And questionable bedtimes
And bad decisions
And for the briefest and sweetest of moments we think,
By golly, I’ve made it.

Eventually,
We all get older.
The evidence of our ice cream dinners shows up on our hips
and thighs,
Our bodies betray our most private moments,
Shouting out to any passerby,
“I’ve had six pints of ben and jerry’s just this week!
I haven’t used my gym membership in well over a year
and at this point, i’m afraid to go in to cancel it!”
And, seriously, what is up with the sock thing?
Does my dryer consume socks?
Like, if my dryer doesn’t maintain a steady diet of socks,
Will it starve?
Will it explode?
Will it go on strike and recruit my washer to join in the fighting of the good fight?
Who do I call when my laundry appliances spin cycle their way into civil unrest?
A sacrificial sock here and there is better than the alternative,
I suppose,
Because I sure as **** can’t afford a new appliance,
let alone two,
And also, at what point do i start to feel like I can comfortably afford a new appliance?
Is it when I stop throwing money at a gym membership that i haven’t used in like, twelve-plus months,
or does that come some other time?
And why is it that anymore, by 9:30 every night,
My body starts to feel its own weight
all at once,
It’s as if I couldn’t remain upright if my life depended on it.
Is that because, for the last fifteen months, I have poured my hard-earned dollars into a gym membership that I have used
not one time in,
coincidentally,
the last fifteen months?
Like, all jokes aside,
why would we,
As an ever-evolving, self-aware, species
Continue to dish out nearly twenty U.S. dollars a month
Fifteen separate times
For a gym membership that we are obviously
Never going to use again?
And just like that,
It is so
Clear.
You have no ******* idea what you are doing.

Eventually,
We all get older.
We come to accept that more often than not,
Days will be bookended by more questions than answers.
If we’re lucky,
We might find ourselves learning to lean into the gray spaces,
the precariousness of it all,
Instead of trying to stain it peachy.
To find a quiet corner in the static,
To let the strangeness that be wrap itself around you,
Is a feeling that I suspect only an elite few ever get really good at.
To those of us who still try,
To those of you who are still trying,
Take pride in the practice.
No one gets good at being comfortable in the gray on their first try.
For some, it takes a lifetime.
For others, lifetimes.
But from what i’ve been told,
It’s well worth the waiting for.

Eventually,
We all get older.
Yes, even the mamaws and the willow trees
and the baby brothers
the first grade teachers, too,
and the cicada who met your acquaintance that one summer afternoon all those years ago.
The dads, the best dogs, the single moms,
Yup, they all get older, too, eventually.
As we all do.
When they go,
(we all go, you know, eventually)
we remember them for their windchime giggles
or you find them in the way you still brush your hair,
Just how they taught you.
People tend to leave breadcrumbs of themselves all over the place.
If you pay enough attention,
You can find them **** near anywhere.
You have your mother’s eyes, for example,
Or so you’ve been told,
A hereditary heirloom from her to you.
Even if you never could quite see the resemblance.
but lately, you’ve noticed,
There is a familiar sort of something there,
In your own lookalike set,
You can just barely, almost, make it out
When you tie your hair back and tilt your head just so.
It comes most clearly in the mirror after the kind of day
you don’t want to talk about.
When being has broken you down,
There’s a skepticism,
or a longing maybe.
You’ve seen this somewhere before, have you not?
A daydream perhaps?
A long-forgotten dandelion wish
or a memory dislodged?
You’re still working out the logistics, the linguistics of it,
But you saw this, once upon a time,
Took note of it,
Came to know it well, you think,
Certainly it must have existed in your mother’s eyes,
must’ve because,
It’s a familiar sort of something.
You first remember it way back when,
Yes, that’s it,
Something from way back
when all you wanted to know was what it meant to be her,
To be big,
To be grown up.
Peculiar, though, isn’t it?
it seems such a juvenile sort of something now,
Looking at it from way up here,
Seeing it in your own reflection for the first time,
Does it not?
Big, grown.
An adolescent sort of uncertainty, possibly,
Or -- no, that’s not quite it,
Childlike wonder, it must be,
In her eyes and yours.
Proof, I suppose,
That eventually,
we all get older.
And maybe it’s presumptuous to assume,
But one can’t help but wonder,
Aren’t we all just grown up kids?
Aren’t we all making it up as we go
and filling in the gaps with the cadence of a child,
Your mother must’ve, too, i’d guess,
with that sort of something in her eyes.
Aren’t we all stumbling, scrambling, doing our best to scrape by,
Praying to the dryer gods that our **** doesn’t break,
And if it does,
We cross our fingers for the tragic death of an imaginary, estranged, great-uncle who just so happens to have acquired a hefty sum of money throughout his life and, well,
i’ll be ******,
If he didn’t make you his beneficiary! Stranger things have happened here, have they not?
Aren’t we all just trying to understand?
ourselves?
and people?
and god and grief and bliss and sickness and marriage and death, hope and money, how the defrost works, and what it is about karma that makes her such a ***** and what it means to be a good person, anyways, and taxes and laundry and which drugs are must-trys and which are don’t-evers and when drinking is considered to be a “problem” and how people can push THAT out of THERE and the art of loving and the arguably more advanced art of being loved and forgiveness and success and desire and *** and stick shifts and the beauty of a deep breath?
Aren’t we all lost out here?
Aren’t we all scared out of our minds?
A bunch of grown up kids, really.
A ragtag group of misfits, try-hards, have-beens, and never-weres.

Eventually,
We all get older
Except those of us who don’t, I suppose.
I’d venture that we’re all still trying to figure out how to understand that, too.
We get older, just the same, as one does,
our hips get wider and our dryers get nicer, newer.
Teenage girls seem to get ever-prettier, the rich get richer,
cruelty gets more cunning and the planet gets sicker.
We get far more than we bargained for or
Far less than we deserve,
We get busy living and dying in tangent,
love gets stronger, scarier,
and we keep the faith that some day,
Somehow, love will get simpler, sweeter,
and time, as it does, gets on with itself,
despite it all.
In spite of it all.
And, as we do, we get older.
And still,
we have no ******* clue what we are doing.
If we’re being really honest here,
We understand not one ******* thing about whatever this is,
And I’m not fully convinced that we even want to know.

So, we let ourselves be small in big bodies.
We eat ice cream for dinner to remind our little selves that there is joy in the forbidden, the unpredictable, and the delicious.
We approach socks with reckless abandon,
pair a tall christmas
With a no-show pineapple-speckled grey,
We take on every decision with the impulsivity of a tiny human who,
Roughly and at best,
Has six years of life experience under their belt,
Skipped their afternoon nap,
and has developed an apparent affinity for shotty judgement calls,
We’ll apologize for it later.
And it’s true of most of us,
I’d think,
That we hope for a day somewhere down the line,
when we’re a little older,
A little wiser,
A little bit in a position in which we can comfortably afford a new dryer should we need to,
We wait for the day when we’ll wake up, as normal a morning as any,
And it’ll hit us:
By golly, i’ve made it.

The truth, i think, is that so few ever actually do.
Make it, I mean,
Whatever that is for you.
We hang on to our hope and convince ourselves we’re satisfied,
Or that we’re better off now than when we started.
Maybe we are.
But if you ask me?
I don’t think it matters.
I’ve spent a lot of time looking at my mom’s eyes in my own reflection.
I’ve asked all the questions,
Looked hard for a clue or a compass to point me to
Where i’m supposed to be going,
What it all means,
Who to trust
What to expect out of a person,
What people expect out of me,
Where to go to find lost souls,
Where I fit into the grand scheme,
And like, what even is this whole “grand scheme” thing anyways?
All this to say,
I don’t think she knows any better than I do anyhow.
Or than her mom before her.
Grown up kids, you know?
Little people in big bodies.
Every last one of us.
Growing up
And getting older
and getting the **** out of dodge
before we have a chance to catch up with ourselves.
I think it's the best way, truth be told.
But who’s to say, really?
I, for one,
Have no ******* idea what i am doing,
And if I was the gambling kind,
I’d bet my bottom dollar that you don’t have a ******* clue,
either.
We’re all just figuring it out, aren’t we?
Grown up kids, that’s all.
Little people in big bodies,
Just making it up as we go.



a.m.
Marian Jun 2013
I therefore, the prisoner of
the Lord, beseech you that ye
walk worthy of the vocation
wherewith ye are called,
2 With all lowliness and
meekness, with longsuffering,
forbearing one another in love;
3 Endeavoring to keep the
unity of the Spirit in the bond of
peace.
4 There is one body, and one
Spirit, even as ye are called in one
hope of your calling;
5 One Lord, one faith, one
baptism,
6 One God and Father of all,
who is above all, and through all,
and in you all.
7 But unto ever one of us is
given grace according to the
measure of the gift of Christ.
8 Wherefore he saith, When
he ascended up on high, he led
captivity captive, and gave gifts
unto men.
9 (Now that he ascended,
what is it but that he also
descended first into the lower parts
of the earth?
10 He that descended is the
same also that ascended up far
above all heavens, that he might
fill all things.)
11 And he gave some, apostles;
and some, prophets; and some,
evangelists; and some, pastors
and teachers;
12 For the perfecting of the
saints, for the work of the
ministry, for the edifying of the
body of Christ:
13 Till we all come in the unity
of the faith, and of the
knowledge of the Son of God, unto a
perfect man, unto the measure
of the stature of the fulness of
Christ:
14 That we henceforth be no
more children, tossed to and fro,
and carried about with every
wind of doctrine, by the sleight of
men, and cunning craftiness,
whereby the lie in wait to
deceive;
15 But speaking the truth in
love, may grow up into him in all
things, which is the head, even
Christ:
16 From whom the whole body
fitly joined together and
compacted by that which every joint
supplieth, according to the
effectual working in the measure of
every part, maketh increase of the
body unto the edifying of itself in
love.
17 This I say therefore, and
testify in the Lord, that ye henceforth
walk not as other Gentiles walk,
in the vanity of their mind,
18 Having the understanding
darkened, being alienated from
the life of God through the
ignorance that is in them,
because of the blindness of their
heart:
19 Who being past feeling have
given themselves over unto
lasciviousness, to work all
uncleanness with greediness.
20 But ye have not so learned
Christ;
21 If so be that ye have heard
him, and have been taught by
him, as the truth is in Jesus:
22 That ye put off concerning
the former conversation the old
man, which is corrupt according
to the deceitful lusts;
23 And be renewed in the spirit
of your mind;
24 And that ye put on the
new man, which after God is
created in righteousness and true
holiness.
25 Wherefore putting away
lying, speak every man truth with
his neighbour: for we are
members one of another.
26 Be ye angry, and sun not: let
not the sun go down upon your
wrath:
27 Neither give place to the
devil.
28 Let him that stole steal no
more: but rather let him labour,
working with his hands the thing
which is good, that he may have
to give to him that needeth.
29 Let no corrupt
communication proceed out of your mouth,
but that which is good to the use
of edifying, that it may minister
grace unto the hearers.
30 And grieve not the holy
Spirit of God, whereby ye are
sealed until the day of
redemption.
31 Let all bitterness, and wrath,
and anger, and clamour, and evil
speaking, be put away from you,
with all malice:
32 And be ye kind one to
another, tenderhearted, forgiving one
another, even as God for Christ's
sake hath forgiven you.
Ayeshah Dec 2015
You're empty inside
 A shell from the man I used to know
                      Callous even
                         I can't fathom why
                                   I've stood by you
                                      With assiduous attention
                                               &
                                           I accepted this relationship
                                                     or
What once was  with alacrity
until you took  it away
You've taken everything
         You're such a cunning *******
                  You left long ago
                       Only an empty shell
                                      remains of you


                                                  Why would you leave me here
                                                           Disheveled cold & alone
                                                        ­           I became catatonic  
                                                     ­                   Shocked as I was
                                                                ­               I couldn't believe                                                                  ­                   You of all people
                                                          ­              would actually do me this way
                                
       Funny I had already seen it coming
                Because  
                  You were cold   
                          You were numb

                                           You've placed your love on deferment
                                                       ­    until whenever
                                                        ­           I guess until  
                                                                ­        HELL
                                                ­              freezes over huh
                   While you showed  such invidious
        behavior  toward my love
             towards everything I had in my soul
                       yet YOU didn't wait to be with another

                        While
        I've been caviled about it all
            Knowing full well
                We will always have
                      this archaic history
                               Once know as our
                                        *Relationship
© 2015-2077 by Ayeshah K.C.L.N.
All rights reserved.
No part of this may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,without prior written permission of Ayeshah K.C.L.N.

I had an idea and let it flow so if it makes no sense, tell me please and Thanks! truth is my mind thought of every relationship I've had, which failed!
I S A A C Aug 2021
cold arms around my warm neck
winsome whispered sweet nothings
my intuition keeping me correct
cunning foxes drinking from acid lakes
tainted soils and chaotic airwaves
the end is near
death is banging on the front door of many
claiming plenty spouses, friends, and family
the one percent flying to Mars while we watch Afghan's heart
be beaten and abused, cowed and ruined
Gaia is enraged and bursting into flames
sickness still inducing suffering with sundry strains
the end is near if they do not refrain
the end is near I am ashamed
hope is a dangerous thing

— The End —