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Conor Letham Apr 2014
Coming home from a fair,
cusped between your lap
a globe of darting eyes,
your hands rested atop
the thin film of a world
as you endlessly peer in.
Are you scrying over
your future career?

Here a tungsten bulbous
body, a chunk of flame,
swills itself in spins
and mindless dances,
as you think you could
be so careless like them
to live hazily in a framed
bubble of treasured youth,

fed by some divine fate
looking over you. Golden
scales make your skin,
binds you as if you were
a chocolate in a wrapper
for people to circus over–
every flicker being edible.
Or maybe you're like

those tinned peach slices,
posing in a cage for all  
as a marvel to feast with
until you end up rotting,
there in your tomb-space,
muttering an open mouth,
“help me” before they serve
you up on a silver-lined dish.

I assure you, you'll forget
these childish thoughts
of aspirations and dreams
sooner than you think:
no matter how much
you think they want you,
I'll bet they'll let yourself
drown in coming weeks.
This one's a long one, and I apologise in advance for the kind of depressing topic.
What went from the subject of children getting goldfish from a fair (that, as everyone knows, don't last very long) became a critique about the aspect of female sexualization that some girls may grow up to want to employ the use of.
Àŧùl May 2015
You gave in to my courtship,
I cusped your face in my hands,
That was when we met in Amritsar,
I had clutched your cute fingers,
Nervous you seemed while smiling.


I can never forget that luckiest day,
Whatever anybody might bray,
Your eyes are truthful darling love,
I am very thankful to the dove,
Thankful to the **dove of love.
My HP Poem #872
©Atul Kaushal
Liam C Calhoun Jan 2016
For each and every other,
There's something to be said.

There’s something to be said for –
The security guards
With coke nails.

There something to be said for –
The alcoholics
That moonlight as bartenders.

There’s something to be said for –
The huddled mother,
Cradled child and cusped copper.

There’s something to said for –
The recluse with word,
Broken atop a glass of wine.

For each and every other,
There’s something to be said,

But one knows not another word.
This is what I see when I walk down the street, "bop-bop-bah-do-bop!"
Julian Delia Aug 2018
Sumer, the people of ancient Mesopotamia.
Known to us as nascent humanity;
Spreading across the world quickly,
Like news of a calamity.
They existed thousands of years ago,
A civilisation truly gifted,
Knowledge of whom many of us forgo.

They were but one shade in a kaleidoscope of human presence.
Kings of the Fertile Crescent –
Establishing empires or mastering commerce,
Starting fires or learning to converse.
Mankind in its infancy,
A bloom of activity and artistry.
In our attempts at deciphering our history,
We turn to the relics of their poetry,
Discoveries that are a historian’s ultimate victory.

‘The love song of Shu-Sin’ –
The world’s oldest, known reference to love.
Written thousands of years ago,
Possibly older than we do know.
It is a rite of marriage, a recital;
In it lies a passage, one that needs a revival.
It is about a vow that we have now twisted,
An exquisite message that leaves one’s spirit lifted.

The bride promises the following to the groom;
To act as a refuge when all that seems to loom is doom and gloom.
To caress, love, and soothe.
To savour beauty and intimacy,
To be like honey, sweet and smooth.

The king - a man who was thought divine,
A man whose life was valued more than yours or mine,
A man who could eternally wine and dine –
That man was still no sultan to love.
His heart was still in the palms of his beloved,
Their naked frames intertwining, arched and cusped.
His hold on her is not one of force,
Nor a promise of power,
But rather earned in due course,
Like the development of a beautiful flower.

I grieve beyond words when I think
Of how love, nowadays, is on the brink.
The glue that holds life itself together,
Discarded by many, like an ex’s letter.
I look at the eyes of people I’d love to be with,
And in their expression, I discover a graveyard of sad memories.
Scars that feel indelible, past histories -
Souls that look like war-torn territories.

I look at my own eyes in the mirror,
And see a starving spirit, growing thinner.
I see a window for restoration, becoming slimmer.
Sometimes I hopefully wonder – is there a glimmer?
Is there another hungry apparition,
On a desperate search for heavenly admission?
I seem to have forgotten how to love,
And do not know how to rid myself of this condition.
Original poem I am referring to -> https://www.ancient.eu/article/750/the-worlds-oldest-love-poem/
I  know  the  world    has only    space
      for    a woman   and  her  heart,   her  ******* emblazoned in  the trees,
her  depths  in voluminous   books – let only   the   saltine  water
   touch   her brindled   body   atilt   amongst  the lilies   in the  silver  dawn

         and   that her    cusped   hands  demand  a softer  hue of  love    whereas
the   salacious  wind  continues   its   grasp  championing  things   both  fragile
      and   sturdy:  the   world  slides  in the  coloured  curve of   a woman
         and  the men dare  too,  follow  the road  where they meet first  with
  death   sitting   still with  the  roses  like   a    splendid   fragrance   stilled in the mind
      leading     you   to a  garden  which   thorns   are ensconced
          in  a smoothness   that  sings    salutations    to love – as  I   remain  to be
nose-deep   sheath   after    sheath,  ****   after   ****,   stalking   the
           perfume   of   the  world  a  woman   owns.
Anand Acharya Sep 2014
Spinning around
the revolting door.
Floated pauper
casting ashore.

Rainbow shadows
on fields of ****.
Drowned delusion
and fleets of drop.

Highway hymns
held on leaves.
forgotten smiles
for haloed thieves.

Cusped cup
over escaping steams.
Misty morning.
Disappearing dreams.
emma joy Dec 2012
I'm beating myself up today with regret
I woke up suddenly realizing that I never noticed
In the moments I had and the time I spent with her
I never noticed her shirt

I never noticed the way it clung to her like sad sultry poem
Or the way it slipped off her arms like cold raindrops
And the way it cusped to her neck as I wish I could

During the time that I spent crying to her
And speaking to her soul and feeling her eyes
Praying that the time between us wouldn't end
I let that giant piece of her slip right through my mind and my fingers

I never noticed that shirt she wore on that day in that moment of time
And now I will never see it the way it needed to be seen like it did then
Slur pee May 2016
I don't care
About all the other jewels you hold in cusped hands,
You make me feel as valuable as each and every one of them.
I want to adorn your skin, just to leave a subtle hint
To make you feel beautiful with the way I complement,
Throwing compliments to your feet, on my knees
Begging you, please, just one
Chance to release these feelings.
A day of your love. A second of your touch,
I just want to say that I've had the experience.
I crave your kiss, I crave your tongue.
Your body is where my fingers long to run,
Across every flawless inch of skin
Every rise, every dip
Let me burn you with fingertips
And scorching lips,
Whispering promises of rhythmic hips.

I just want one day.
One measly minute.
One tiny, insignificant
Miniscule second;
To taste your heaven.

To etch every detail
Into my brainstem.

-SLuR
Thibaut V Jul 2014
I want shut eye
And to shut off
Making it worth the wait
Laying in the double duvet
There will be nothing done today
- starting from the early AM
Of course when
In apathetic stance
Which sounds so concerned
I asked and answered,
So repulsed and sure
And then again in collaboration
So what?

If there is itch tangle or sore
Nothing lasting or making sense because of it, and then wishing off to shut
Asking and then answering again
So what.

Given your hands in the benevolent shadows gloom
I grasped the deep, and true colors bloom
In fire-lit hindsight
The ways that bodies exhausted temporal efforts
Through and over
Christmas warmth and holidays alike
Wishing for repetitive cuts
Lines thick and robust
Yet to bend above the high bar
Living in exorbitant envy and simultaneous lust
I wished for words to keep a man up
As Edgar Allen Poe to return
And Onto nightmares haunt
And in profuse soliloquy I discussed
Addressed and caressed the audience and applauded with further praise and *** laude the asked answer of so what.

Carefully to plot
With a protractor and fingers
Then put - in holes all around problems and solutions-
No hole without end instead whole in my hands cusped
I repeat my concern and eternal quest of lines so crossed -
In-absolute and aloof and lost
Returned the question of so what?
27/4/2014
it was raining that morning – so much the effloresce of colors
making their way back into the sky; there were the strangest forms of
clouds, their bodies assuming shapes and geometries, obscured angles
like that of two coiled lovers on a bed, whose bones ache the septuagenarian
but still at ease when it comes to building fire; no birds were out that day
and the busy binatog vendor blared into the streets like an unwanted nuisance,
it was already afternoon when you had your eyes wake up to mine,
your simian jaw curved to a hook of the C in crescendo, your voice the twilight
and the familiar passing of birds, the gush of blood inside of you;
there are such speeds that ultimate a crash, or a fragment – the semantics
of motion do not appeal to both of us, but we ceaselessly exist in those
moments when all of your movements summon, say, the sea, but that is a metaphor
used overtime, overwrought and taken out of its blue – say, your grandfather’s pendulum
watch impaled to the wall on a heady standstill, face to face with a linoleumed wall
that shouted its age – its superficial maquillage falling out of its slenderness
fashioned to secretive ******: something both you and I know, something that does not
come well with age, something that only some shadows choose to eschew in light.
  in a faraway place, there might be parakeets but this time, underneath the cusped sky
and the parasol that was drenched by drizzle that we let dry by the doorstep,
there is something about the gnash of rusting metal-work that tells me time has its own
way of claiming things, renaming them, and bringing them back in awry stances nestled
in tight, wrestling nooks of space, dark and dust on ground – keeping us leaping in place,
    swift with dreams of wings and aviaries, be it elocutionary with farce
or just keeping it real by the unreal of our imaginations – like birds swell in the sheen
  of the sky’s flayed bone, sliding in and out of the fringes of the aureole until such gardens
  are flustered with monochrome: this perfect dagguerotype of day.
1 Method:

Witness nothing but the body
    hurtling at best, if not dilapidated.

Cusped in space, never held.
Behead the music,

    if not the conductor.

It will happen when everything has
  expired in the threshing.

Wring me pure, make me delicate,
  chain me in the wrongness.

    Embody this figurine pierce it with stem
  break it gossamer as petals imperiled ad infinitum
       sleek as a metaphor rising from rinsed perfume.

2 Chance Operation:

  Say when she caresses / this mired  setting:
  it is   of  preparation.

  Seize this mean when preparatory.

 Turn you as inside-out cleared from veiling.
  In a vitrine you wish to be freed from,
  examined, never granted meaning;

  Mundane the discovery.
  A throb of fever gone from tepid bath
  walking into space, abled.        

  Acute blunder is study, wash me with theory.
  Sullen is the word for it, entitled to acute error.

  Say when    it  ceases,
   tranquilized. Never waking up, fastens to

3 Dreamwork:

  Always still is the heart.
  I envy the water midstream. Fingers partition
 
   when infiltration is sure of. A conscious removal
   merits the continual of lobotomies.

  Augur this dim presence, make it raw again
      infallibly, make it my body. Forge my skin out of
   and  listen to  it. Feel the drone   of  this machine

   making space less tolerable. This begins
      an end, but of what pursuit is this here

   always  a  vision Blinded  by   definition
         away    from   here?
The wit just drips off your words
But I'm not really there
My palms are wet and cusped and filled with the liquid formation of what I'm given
Advice I grip onto and try to let absorb into me
Try to taste it, to feel it, to see it
Trying to know if it applies
Something that lets me know that there is direction to this life
Signs and signals I've been purposefully missing for so long
Avoiding all the warning signs that leave me exhausted beyond amount
Maybe they're speaking to me
Desperation is all my body language has became at times like these
Desperate for the period at the end in the midst of all the question marks I don't have enough words or connecting brain signals to give adequate responses to
Long run and ever going
An object in motion will stay in motion until stopped
But all my tactics to work around things have succeeded until all the sudden everything meets in a forced crash
It always meets somewhere and when it does I'm left in the rubble and aftermath
Trying to sort through all of the connecting parts left unconnected that I could have kept together if only I had
But I never do
It all crumbles and compacts until more things are adding up that I keep apart until they eventually meet
And they're all sharp
Biting and unavoidable
But I don't stop
Focusing all of my attention on sawing one down instead of stopping the making of others but because instant gratification has always been my favorite forte
I've only ever succeeded in getting nowhere but lost
Sheela Jul 2020
Rumbling thunders but wounded voices were more distinctly heard… Pouring wonders for my eyes flutter more than that beautiful bird….

Innocence blinded me to see hidden malice…Building Avenues for hope is the only solace… Well, this hope also doesn’t hold any promise!!


All that’s Lurking my mind uninformed about the time… Life isn’t a meritocracy of counting days it has got meaning even if there is no joy with the loved ones all uncertain in its own ways !…..
Like a cusped dandelion spores are blown… I choose to stay away for it’s okay to feel alone rather to be felt thrown….though I mourn and mourn…

Time is passing, days are crawling…. Life is moving… But the sand in the hour glass isn’t falling…
levi eden r Aug 2018
the sky is melting and all i could see was your face.
your hands cusped my cheeks,
your eyes are mesmerizing..
the world around us didn't matter anymore for right now,
i believe i was meant to live solely for these moments i'm having with you.
these are the best days of my life.
how can someone have that much an impact on someone that they literally feel like the world was created for them?
this,
us,
was meant to happen.
out of all the ******* i've been through and every night i spent trying to fix myself,
was for these moments with you.
the warm feeling in my chest makes me want this to never end.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
the only maxims you'll ever have to
"learn": are the books you've read,
and be left unable to mark a citation...
then again:
       i suppose the reason why
english is not equipped with diacritical
marks, stresses spelling
   instead of marking orthography
is the same reason why the japanese
have the "simple" and the "complex"
version of script,
e.g. why you have
                     you'll and you will...
why you have * and you've:
            which implies: owning something
in the "past"...
                   you've: U V HAD...
        i have? in the present sense,
i had? in the past sense:
                       crux on the matter:
will...
              i will have....
              like the word slav...
           swovo: or słowianin...
meaning word...
                              miecz:
                ­          i.e. word;
pismem czy szeptem?
           in writing or in whispers?
pontius pilate
   made much more sense than
jesus...
               the whole antics of:
i wash my hands clean...
                      surer than merely
a gravitation
               toward arms out-streched;
na budjed...
                        czyli dupa?
          o huj w to,
                       warunkiem
na stos!
                        huja pana!
                      a co?
                              gawaree gniev?
prócz sie żegnać:
    an ability to
     make-the-sign-of-the-cross...

because what made more sense?
         jesus christ
                        or pontius pilate?
    i'm about to keep praying,
but i'm itching to wash my hands
clean in the matters at hand...
rather than spread my arms
     like a bird in flight....
  and not like a bird armed
"coweing" dressed
                 in cusped "lungs"...
           sure: like any bird:
i too am shy of having limbs...
          
                      pismem czy szeptem?
Mars Jun 2022
Thrashing, clawing,
I drank the salt milk of the Earth
I learned long ago that if i try to breathe you in I
choke instead

Throat on fire and a head full of flowers, your name cusped my wrists like champagne grips the glass it drips from
Cold and sticky
Smelling like the soul of an old forgotten farmhouse
thousands of baby's breath swaying, the vapor is in the floor boards
just like I am in you

Dark, envy green stems thorn the tissue of my temple
and when they get out,
the blood drips so long and hard that it
carries its own longing
are you afraid?
noi Jan 2022
I have touched an angels unfettered wings.
No face by divination is as heavenly as hers.
Her body is a sacred temple my hands cusped  
I drink in her beauty.
Of mud and clay my love burns like a metal lamp filled with camphor oil.
She is my center.
upon the 'free man' meeting the 'gift of god':
mind you, not gift off,
but gift of... of pertaining to: in relation to:
in the orbit of god...
not off god: implication of away from...

when Charles met Matthew
and did a little psy-op collaboration...

ᚲᚨᚱᛁᛚᚨᛉ
Κάρολος
                KAROLOS

Ματθαίος

in ******: CH - german Z for C
but also H          cha cha laughter
in Lviv
            JA JA          in Madrid
while XA XA in Mexico City....

   C'H....           cecha - should the vowels be
summoned: cecha: characteristic...

the Runes of Norway, Saxony,
Sweden Denmark became Latin...
Latin became Italian
became Spanish...
    remains of the Greek...

ᛗᚨᛏᛏᛖᚢᛋ

ᛗᚨᛏᛖᛟ

        i can venture further, into old church
Slavonic and Turkic -
since we're all similar in the Caucasian sense
of: not the origins of Africa...
the Polynesians originated from
the little island of Taiwan
circa 3000 B.C.

       and did the opposite of Alexander
the Great and Genghis Khan
crossing the great Pacific by oar and in similarity
to the Norsemen...
settled on fertile plots of land born
from volcanic disgruntlement of:
not enough land... too much sea...

salt and water... NaCl-H₂O

later cauliflower salt ships in the sky
reimagining swans and castles in clouds...
clouds by extension are the "dry" residue
of the waters of the seas...
like daughters of the Moon who governs
the tides...
the clouds are ******* up and
mitigating: purifying the waters for plants
to grow...

         such is the claim of the Hebrews:
that they are proud, too proud...
having overcome the preservation of their tongue
having quenched cuneiform
of the Babylonians,
having overcome Latin...

kind reminder: the letters are still intact...
why am i using Latin letters
but not speaking Latin?
the grammar of the Latin men
is still intact in me...
should i switch to speaking ******...
i will do as the Latin men did:
disuse or glide over the use of pronouns:
since pronouns will become incorporated
into nouns and verbs
i will glide over the shrapnel that's English...
i will sexualise words
and avoid the gender neutrality of nouns

i will call the moon a HE
and will call the sun a SHE
thus paying a compliment to the Hebrew deity...
HA-SHEM...

Ματθαῖος... (yos - mat-fa-yos... explanation
   of the ~ diacritical mark above the iota,
morphing it into a y)

         i find that people are embarrassed
about their names...
some people don't live up to them...
they would rather be called "it" or "that" or "them"
or "they" or            "chair"?

SIT... said the chair?
        while the knife said cut, make an incision
while the spoon imitated the cusped hand
and implored "you" to slurp a mouthful of soup?
i don't believe anyone ever drank water
using a spoon... seems rather suspicious
to think a spoon would be invented to make
drinking water somehow... "civilised"?

ש ᚨ ᚱ        ᚠ

it would seem that shin grew a leg
and stood up like fehu...
O the days when letters had names
like the Greek alphas
   and omegas
rather than this Latin sing-song-along
and dental: when asked with mouth open
and someone inspecting the bones that grind
the letter A... not alpha but AH... sigh AH
regurgitate A for me with a sigh
like a youngling seagull being force-fed
regurgitated fish...

regardless: my translation skills are...
although it is true:
i am yet to ingest chatGPT any mention
of Greek or Hebrew...
perhaps i can be aided...

      such that the past few days culminated
in an evening of summoning
a body-mind duality in the framework
of IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) -
or rather... congested cognitive "bias"-*******
of a disruptive class
and me feeding evidence to the programme
provider... blah blah...
in a classroom where i'm the 2nd eldest...
with "men" in their 40s...
a peer... in his 36...
either *** mad or *** starved...
siding with girls... girls... scarlett o'hara
types... horrible girly women...
femme fatales...

the trouble started when the classroom was
rearranged... Oana
came in late and saw me sitting at a table
alone so she sat down next to me...
major ******* flirt...
"innocently" rubbed against me...
touched my hand... flicked her hair onto me...

yes: i did ask for her number:
FOR NETWORKING FOR NETWORKING...
she complained about Andy not buying
her something sweet...
so i went out of my way to go for lunch
and buy her a piece of Romanian cake...
unknown to me was her relationship status...
a day later i learned that she has a boyfriend...
but i'm not yet a zombie or a half-baked
resurrection: yes... i'm taken...
but play is play when you're in an educational
environment...
i can play a flirt...
                    i can flirt... if the game is a game
of reciprocation... done covertly...
on a transcendental / unconscious level...

and then the other girls on the course:
hot catches? not exactly...
it's hardly racist to say that i'm not attracted to
black girls... tell a homosexual to like women
is like telling certain white boys to like black
girls: and i don't even care what the white girls
want or like...

i'm into Raj girls, Latino girls,
Turkic girls... sorry... that's just my inbuilt
discriminatory: ***...
    i will not be forced into liking black girls...
i actually find black men attractive...
sorry... not the women...
on the rare occasion yes:
have i ****** a black girl before: yes...
but...                              the psychology is just not aligned...

Holly and her neck tattoo and a Medusa
tattoo on her hand...
a heart on her face...
oh yeah: painfully 20 / 21 with Kelsey
all ****** out single mums ready catches
with so little life experience
devolving the teaching environment into
a ****-life let's all call for a mass-walkout
go for unregulated cigarette breaks,
let's drag this SIA course for almost: forever
like i haven't already wasted 3 weeks of my life...

or at least that's how i'm reading the situation:
girls just wanna have fun
then a Matthew and a Charles come along
and the boys are taken
they talk candidly about *** with their partners
like boys ought to do
and about life and society
and Stoicism... oh yeah: we talked about Stoicism
and manhood and dietary requirements
and testosterone...

because a stoic is not a cynic is not a sceptic...
a stoic is not a cynic is not a sceptic...
just like my history is entwined with etymology
rather than... Darwinism...
i have an etymological reading of history...
anything that happened outside of the realm
of the use of communication via words
doesn't really bother me...
this grand architecture of form of ape
and beyond this grand genesis out of Africa:
i just look toward Polynesia and:
out of ******* Taiwan...                       mate...

talk about being in the same room
with a bunch of ***-mad 20 year old girls
being the 37 year old man that i am: taken...
it's like they completely forgot to realise
that i might have had some brothel education...
the higher end... with older women than me...
am i suddenly going to use my age as
an advantage on them to groom?!
oh i'm pretty sure those men exist...
but here's me going on a "hunch" with what
Socrates said:

by all means marry; if you get a good wife,
you'll become happy; if you get a bad one,
you'll become a philosopher;

well then: don't marry... but at least to gravitate
toward being with a woman...
i could never appreciate
the state empowering a woman
to the point of based biases...
    i can give a formal allegiance...
i can ask a woman for a ring to put on my finger
to keep me in check...
but a signed off arrangement...
with fealty to a state to interfere?!
no... if separating... on amicable terms...
on personal intuition...
on not giving a **** ****'s sake **** is an OATH
word...
mind you: i was thinking about solipsism last
night when falling asleep...

the ego... construct... doesn't the ego "think"
of itself as a... solipsist?
i suspect my ego like anyone else's ego
is a naturally inclined solipsist...
this whole 19th century psychiatric
impolision gravitating to the schematised man
with the secular trinity of Freud's
conjuring simply justified the ego's withdraw
into more solipsistic antics...
this lack of accountability in modern people,
their lack of judgement...
their obliviousness...
non-responsive empathy stressors...

                  it's becoming... slightly worrying.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
what's the "real'' difference between pedagogy and ideology? don't know, but it's probably equivalent to: a bunch of dwarfs among a bunch of children... spot the ******* rottweiler.

the "problem" with individuation
     on a level of pedagogy -
it's all fun & games to be attired
in a catholic school uniform -
rebelling against the "suggested"
attire by wearing a black
shirt, when otherwise expected
to attire yourself with either
a white, or blue shirt...
          and so you can breed a sort
of people that don't really have
a high school narrative
               akin to the h'americans...
who cling to high school fueds
without engrossing themselves
in the years as if: they ought to be prized...
yet there is a problem...
   at school a mantra hovered over me...
the mantra was ushered in like
a ghost, and it clinged to me like
a spectral mushroom...
          
you are different,
   just like everyone else!*
it's hard to craft an individuation process
with this mantra hovering over you...
simply because there's a question:
different to / from what?
     where's the that that i'm supposed
to align myself to,
while simultaneously
            not aligning myself to that?
i honestly can't be bothered
to play a second game of pedagogy...
because ideology is just that...
    i have to be ******* myself silly
in thinking that this requires an
oversimplification...
        you are different...
just like everyone else
...
               which is a quirky paradox
that hovers over you
  when you're supposed to wear
a school uniform...
          because: how can i?
          well, at least i can escape the hell
of having to cite high school
"dramas" in my later life...
            is there anything memorable
about it, prior to infusing myself
with delusions?
   not really...
                  the ontological basis for
the existence of memory is
bewildering: no wonder it needs
   the surrealism of an "education"...
        seems more pardonable to watch
rust form on a shipwreck...
       because what can i actually "keep"?
it would be a natural answer to
amass a large number of things
  to counter the fact that:
           i'm trying to hold a handful of water
in cusped hands, when it
comes to remembering something;
but i do retain my list of riches
  in terms of a: past experience...
      and i cling to these artefacts like a tyrant...
         but i am not fortunate in
that i have been given a debilitating mantra -
i guess:
   the point when you stop blaming
yourself is when you curl out of the egg
that the "guiltless" people like to shove the jack
back into a box of solipsism...
oh yeah: they're also real...
        i hate the gimmick:
   the only person you can blame is yourself...
tell that to the Auschwitz survivors:
           'cos i'm also not buying;
not having to blame yourself
is the most liberating act of punk;
ah, but to mind: the misnomerism
         of narcissism -
            and the general ambivalence
regarding "immaturity"...
    trust really is,
  far harder to fathom than truth...
because there's no abstract to hide it in...
back to:
   what the ideologue doesn't understand
is that: there's no second (attempt at)
                                        pedagogy.
why on earth would i rob a person of
   their moral duty merely question?
   a person without a moral sensibility is
               also a person without a question:
morality - a guideline worth
  the abstinence with respect to
                                    having a choice;
versus the regret of not having it in the first
place.
Silence as you gasp and before you scream

Silence

A sigh is another place in which one can find the quiet residence of a lexicon

In complete silence women pray;
some do so in the zealous quietude of their rooms
where the silence is like a mime
sending only signs

Silence comes while the musicians wait attentively on their condutor to count them off

Silence is what we endure
when we believe we do not have a tongue


Silence

When a moment is full of beauty our mouths and minds lay cusped in that second’s ineffable existence

Silence

The great friend of fools and the great companion of the wise.

We looked at the state of our nation and there was only silence

what followed was drowned out by all the noise in a place
where there was no room for silence
silence belonged to everyone on impeachment day regardless of sides or perspectives
Debra in Silence Aug 2019
cusped in hands as i sit alone without the paranoia of you and yours



alone


.....

— The End —