"defining" poems
•helping the kids with homework•
no one told you,
was part of the job description
paycheck earner a-ok,
gruff but tender lover,
knowing her special places,
building a tree swing,
a tree house safe and satisfactory,
one the neighbors envy
taking them to the hospital for
broken arms and chemotherapy,
part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable,
going to school to give that principal a look
that will make him think twice before suspending
one of his for defending himself
you remember your daddy doing the same for you,
forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later
the tucking in, the pretense ouch
when your end of day
scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies,
carrying tissues in a toolbox,
never heard of, nevertheless done,
tho not a memory defining the future inclusive,
definitely a learning ability, a likeability
doing homework, nuh uh,
no way jose, don’t dare let them
know how you never got a gold star,
always sat in the back row, outta sight,
all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery,
and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary
which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much
ain’t exactly his strong suit
sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him,
know where the on/off computer button hides,
the rest is up to them;
got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am,
how to address humans with respect,
i’ll promise them anything
but not doing any homework,
unless it the kind that that makes
“a home work”
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
Depression is hard to understand. The dictionary naively refers to it as, "feelings of severe despondency and dejection." But what does the dictionary know about depression? I think depression is more complicated than that. But I don't quite know what that consists of. I've been trying to figure it out for months now, and I just can't seem to understand. I don't know what depression is, but I can tell you what it's not.
Depression is not polite. Depression doesn't knock before he barges in. He just lets himself in, unannounced and unexpected, and leaves me gasping for what little air is left in the room.
Depression isn't clean. He doesn't tidy up after he makes a mess. He comes into my life like a hurricane, and leaves me to pick up the crumbled pieces of my rubbled life.
Depression isn't moral. He steals my happiness and kills my spirit. He doesn't abide by any common rules or laws, he makes his own rules and I have to play by them.
Depression isn't popular. The only "friends" he has are his victims. He drags me away from everyone who used to love me, and leaves me isolated in a cold, dark place.
Depression isn't respectful. He claws his way into the lives of so many genuine people and drives them to the brink of insanity. He has no regard for my thoughts or my feelings, stomping all over me until there's nothing decent left to salvage.
Depression isn't creative. He tells you everything as it is and makes you see all of the terrible things poisoning the world. He doesn't sugarcoat the truth, no matter how much it hurts, and he helped me clearly see even my smallest of flaws.
Depression isn't nice. He calls me ugly and tells me I'm worthless. The words he whispers ring in my ears: **** yourself, **** yourself, **** yourself."
It's hard to define depression. It doesn't fit into a small box. I've practically driven myself crazy trying to figure out what it is and why this is happening to me. I don't understand depression, and no matter how hard I try to define it, I always fall short. I don't know if depression can ever be defined. While I try aimlessly to define the undefinable, depression ruthlessly takes advantage of me. I can try as much as I'd like, but I don't define depression, depression defines me.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
oh the joys of time travel
to be able to flit between moments of perfection
defining moments, inspiring reflection
and thought
nothing overwhelming
just joyous and sweet
and everlasting
oh the joys of time travel
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn line
Ousts mistier peers and thrives, murderous,
In establishments which imagined lines
Can only haunt. Sturdy as potatoes,
Stones, without conscience, word and line endure,
Given an inch. Not that they're gross (although
Afterthought often would have them alter
To delicacy, to poise) but that they
Shortchange me continuously: whether
More or other, they still dissatisfy.
Unpoemed, unpictured, the potato
Bunches its knobby browns on a vastly
Superior page; the blunt stone also.
17.8k
Handsome is not your dancing eyes
when you smiles
Handsome is not your sunny face
or your well built muscle
I have never been wrong..
in defining handsome
handsome is not your flesh
not your looks
but a little bit lower than your abdomen
Look down...
Its your fat wallet
in your pocket...
Thats handsome...
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
Defeating the power of pain by resilience,
and defining themselves
by the number of times they
get back up ,
they are making a head towards
cherishing the every moment
they still have in their own life.
Mistaken for being numb,
They not even feel
the intensity of pain
that comes with life,
Socially detached ,
they feel nothing .
Oh but they do feel something ,
In fact they feel everything,
The feeling of loss ,
disappointments and regrets
with heavy heart .
But the power of resilience
does not let their pain to define them ,
Instead it defines their tenacity and strength !
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 8:12 AM UTC
We find multiple ways to disconnect
Where business and technology intersect
We kick one another for cash
When we need equilibrium for our economy
Our morals disintegrate to ash
And we trade away our autonomy
But we don't dare reflect
Instead we disconnect
We turn people into symbols and numbers
So we can more comfortably slumber
After causing heartbreaking pain
Through bureaucratic chains
Because face to face
Our heart will race
And we'll examine our submerged morals
That lie in the depths with the coral
But our reflection is too much to bear
So we cowardly choose not to care
The only way we can feel ecstatic
Is to turn people into demographics
The Internet connects us
But also satisfies lust
And imitates human contact
Which has a negative impact
The feeling leaves us sated
And we don't feel the need to change
Our armor becomes plated
And we shoot arrows from long range
Because we don't like the idea of being one another
We get used to the idea of not seeing one another
We disconnect so we don't have to try
We disconnect so we can slowly die
The ****** disconnection continues
As we find more violent avenues
We utilize fatal instruments
To ****** without the sense
Of physically feeling
The life we're stealing
We stabbed one another with swords
Until the bullets soared
But we still needed more
So we disconnected further
And became satellite searchers
Studying people through actions
Defining them by faction
We don't have any interest in their personality or flaws
All we're concerned with is if they're breaking the law
The law we wrote to tip the scales
The law that makes us too big to fail
A husband leaves his wife
Disconnecting from her life
She's left with a child
To raise in the wild
Until a drone drops a bomb
On the struggling single mom
She's not an investor
So we'll just harvest her worthless life
Who'll be her protector
When she's near someone we don't like?
We **** her from our computer
That's the way we casually mute her
We carefully cultivated a disconnect
To treat one another like insects
This mentality will infect
Until we interject
Once we finally reflect
Love will connect
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 6:09 AM UTC
Nothing quite makes sense
Try defining this
Why calculators
are only encouraged
after high school
So "they" can say
In America
we know trigonometry, calculus
Or algebra
all in order to
pump gas
work at Lowe's,
Walmart or a restaurant
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
Overlook the fragile hourglass figure
Beyond corsets and pseudo-beauty rules,
Endorse thy curves and stretch marks strewn,
The dusky skin and frizzy curls,
Braille like pimples on the face
Discoloration, bumps and pores;
This Body shaming, I shall pass.
Writhing in pain and humiliation,
Drenching in rage and insecurity
While I lie,
Society curses me
Defining and redefining my chastity;
'T was the crop top, the alcohol and the sly behavior.
You set the monster free and blame the ****
This Victim shaming, I shall pass.
Beige and ebony;
They call me names blatantly
Betwixt skin color and bleached smiles.
Laugh and scoff all you want.
Harass the Black, detain them,
Prejudiced minds rule your dystopian world.
This Black shaming, I shall pass.
Without creating a labyrinth of stigma,
And seeking refugee in collective blame,
Let's construct our utopian world
Acknowledging all freaks and flaws
This Shaming, we shall pass.
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 8:05 AM UTC
#*What is true joy?
It's delight which flows without measure from the assurance
that through every circumstance and detail of my life
God is ever beckoning and drawing me into deeper intimacy
with Himself, ever whispering to my heart, “Come closer still.”*#
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
Frozen in the darkness silence peacefully shrouds me
hoping that I am breathless, praying he wont see,
this sublime sorrow I am gasping in the pain
swallowing bitter tears seconds from insane.
Defining the emotion each and every time
trying not to echo, balancing on the line,
silence is a killer but not my reason to die
hearing in this deafness will always make me cry.
The shadows over take me, speak the unspoken curse
just as well I am dying can't bear to smell this hearse.
Weighed down by lost tomorrows my memory finally broke,
why is it always my own hands gripped to make me choke?
His hug comforts my stomach blindly in his sleep
not knowing in this darkness my eyes can't help but weep,
obscurity plays around me tries to steal my breath
every time I close my eyes I know I’m close to death.
Panic underestimates the power the black withholds
carving me so gently, painless as it moulds
I sweat out my reaction cause words can't find a voice,
helplessly devoted to lay I have no choice.
Everything suffocates can't bear to close my eyes
repeated optimism as I see how everyone dies,
my mind is there to haunt me it never gives me peace
all the pills digested at will, still wont make it cease.
Night is a blur now confused by chemical reaction
convulsions rage as death excels performing its extraction,
in the mix I see his face traumatised by my choice, it's made
but time has gone his actions futile as sight begins to fade,
regret stabs flesh repentantly too late to change effect
I know he’ll cry forever at his failure to correct.
My selfish, vengeful actions will speak louder than my word
he never seen the suicide…do you think he finally heard?
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 7:07 AM UTC
Nov 2016 - The Fall Line
~
*all the lines of man-made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting,
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution,
remaining hopelessly empty,
defining the watery soluble
inequality of null*
~~
The Fall Line
first heard the phrase months ago in Argentina,
standing before the c-shaped Iguazu Falls
the fall line
where the crystalline basement rock
erodes away the oncoming soft sedimentary,
there, where,
a waterfall is nature-gifted
so intuitive, so obvious,
what else to call the water's owned edge,
line of demarcation,
where we grow captivated,
mesmerized, knee weak,
traumatized and tantalized
knew that instant when spoken,
The Fall Line,
saw inarguable symmetry to so many lives,
would be a someday poem
selective service phrases stored and
someday up recalled,
a thousand, maybe more,
waiting for the confluence of
time and place,
to be a mother
letting my fluid sac burst,
giving birth to a concoction symphonic,
the emotions waterfalling, cascading,
the precision, vision seconds,
when words
pour, gush, surge, spill,
stream, flow, issue, spurt
~~~
silently crafted in the weeks and months prior,
the unconscious drowning in ache and pain
of suffocating drudge sludge of everyday living
*all the lines of man made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution remaining empty, defining the inequality of null*
the vision infection of the majestic fall line,
so accessible in an instance of overwhelm,
cornea implanted, the sounding call of sweet blissful
whatever
one more additional addiction unshakeable,
jumping from fall line to fall line,
it's the game I am played,
but the controller
is not in my possess
**for the joy stick that drives my actions,
toys with me,
the human fool jumping
from fall line to fall line,
unsure of what he desires,**
salvation or saving
11/26/16
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
Features, my reflection—
subtle hints stare back offering wordless reply,
their evidence a betrayal of age.
A wrinkle looking deeper,
mane of face, of head—hairs
fresh lacking pigment.
Vain attempts made to mend heart,
to sooth soul's dread.
Testimony of experience
of wisdom, persistence, perception,
an impotent contraceptive, the argument
aberrant.
Regret to cloud memory, my youth
seeming a flesh and blood cliche.
Tiny footnotes heavy with prose,
words in bold
to distract mind's eye—a demand of attention.
Edging out tomb's more beautiful weight
of love and heartache
of passion's attempt failing,
to try again, sinking before succeeding.
An era's dusk and dawn anew, life's advent
unpredictable—without cause changing.
Notion hanging lingering, poisoning future,
the venom of defeat an insidious invasion.
This new age creeping toward night
in this stage my life's sun less bright.
Maturity's introduced responsibility,
some enjoyable while others to own hostility.
A brigand mugging freedom—time for leisure.
Spurring combat for what remains of youth,
fingers wrapping air in futile seizure.
The inevitable to command subservience,
presuming ownership of life, though the mature
demonstrate the defiance of the immature.
Objects, activities, music assaulting ear,
their manner,
symbols of strict adherence to who once was—
a spiteful surrender refusal.
A piece of me defining me until no more,
years holding power—threatening
to change who I am at very core.
Canvas construction the colour of murre,
rubber toe caps the shade of pure.
Design worn since youth, dead and resurrected;
a million mile shoe of valorous resistance—insurrection,
a Converse rebellion.
In torment of age's scars,
I'll never be too old to wear my All Stars.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Tar-dark world. The defining color is black, the inky night of her nocturnal hunts and the deep, bottomless dark of her alien retreat.
A watcher of men, she is everything and nothing. She might be too much of something, or too little of something else. Time will sort out the particulars.
There are no simple entry points – she demands engagement, and to be taken as a whole. Her discomfort is over her own allure, her undisturbed surface. It’s more about intuition and gesture than dialogue. They remain as echoes. They’ve made her beautiful in a real way, with hips and blemishes and dimples in her skin.
The imprint of the lives she begins to grapple with as her time on Earth extends, leads her to stop seeing herself as a mere conduit for her mission, and to start developing a sense of subjectivity.
Her life force is overlapping, shaping itself into a pattern of rings that simultaneously suggests a birth canal dilating, the stages of a rocket separating, and a lunar eclipse as seen through a telescope’s lens.
She's a life-form you can’t quite understand, but it’s carrying on relentlessly, like a beehive, moving backward through the constellations at first approach.
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
I dream of a day
When "coming out of the closet"
Isn't even a thing anymore.
When "straight" is just a direction,
"Gay" just means cheery,
And "bisexual"
Isn't even a word anymore.
When people look at someone
And see a human,
Instead of a stigmatized word
Defining that person's way
Of loving other people.
I dream of a day
When a man
Can hold another man's hand,
Without the people around them
Whispering "Oh my god, is he gay?"
When a girl can kiss another girl
Without being called *****
Or attention ******
Or "barsexuals."
I dream of a day
When love is simply that,
LOVE.
Not something political,
Or religious, or controversial,
But just something beautiful
Between two beautiful
Human hearts.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
I’m Biracial.
Which did you notice first?
The me that looks like you or the me that looks like other?
There is no denying what I am—
from my last name to the shape of eyes,
you’ll know I’m not white.
But you’ll also immediately notice
I’m not quite not white.
I’m not quite not white enough.
White-passing.
“extremely” white passing until:
someone sees my last name
takes longer than five seconds to look at me
notices something “other” about me.
Other...
not one box to check on your
“optional” choose one diversity survey
Can’t check White. Can’t check Asian.
other...“Decline to Answer”
I’m Biracial. White-passing—
but not enough to stop ignorance
ignorance in the form of
questions and comments
meant to be “harmless” or “curious”
but ones that strip me of defining my own identity
“So are you a math Asian or a **** Asian?”
“You don’t look Asian enough for your last name.”
“Why are you trying to whitewash yourself for them?”
“Diversity quota”
And in comparison, those aren’t the worst things to hear.
By age ten I knew which words were meant to hurt
and which were meant out of ignorance.
Which racial slur applied to me.
I’m Biracial.
The same system that builds up half of me tears down the other half.
But— The model minority myth means something to you.
So you’ll build my other half up at the expense of someone else.
You’ll make me feel uncomfortable in my own identity
to fit what you need in the circumstances
Statistics to fit your workplace diversity quota
But still white passing so you can use micro aggressions as a joke
because I’m “white enough” that they should be funny.
I’m Biracial. Not other.
Not part you and part not you.
Not “missing” something.
I am wholly biracial.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:50 AM UTC
I remember when MTV was in its prime,
A new voice to represent the new boom
Babies growing up since the 80s
Louder still through the troubling decades
(Maxed out credit no head room)
After —the punks in nirvana and rapping clergy
It was the only channel on
Youthful rebel yell —honest news
I remember it pretty well
Shaping us generation x y and Personal Jesus
New wave good bye to when
Childhood then without pain of malnourished
Africa or nukes threatening our
Cruel summers
Were we happier then?
So what happens to the music
Rockstars rip van wrinkle
Geriatric hall of fame
(No one lives forever
Reruns with the ****** & mr. Ed
Now that old neighbor’s dead)
Television
Nowadays
Seem more gangster
School shootings terrorists
On the train, kamikaze planes,
It’s all the same ole
Bling kablam oh bits
******* please
Redirecting our attention
To WMD
***
Where the hells are we?
I remember back then
On MTV —Nicki Minaj says
Between the hysterics of police brutality
She said Happiness is living your life
Without struggle,
That stuck with me
Because we all watch the tube
We all search for meaning
Sadly defining what happiness
May look like
Real World and paradoxical reality
TV
Para socially defunct
Clarity
Conditioned to continuously
Stay tuned
Brief message of empty
Hypnosis a pure form of business
Wall Street
Boulevard of broken dreams
I want my
Happy. What do I mean
To be?
Life ***** lately
The human condition
Talking too much
Refusing to see
No more talking heads too much
Bla bla ********
I want my
MTV . Happy .
My generation
We are the world
freedom And yes, Peace.
Man kindly as one
Symphony
And street, a melting ***
Of diversity
I remember the music
The future
I had hope to see
Behind the shades
Circa 80s 90s
(Fossils)
What time is it then?
When will we
Begin
Again
Don’t worry be happy
Run Forest run!
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 11:55 PM UTC
This is for you.
My body is scarred.
It has been for years now.
They are still as fresh as the day they formed.
Each one showing.
How to survive a little longer in the world.
They’re worn daily, just to show you’re alive
Every time you look down.
The scars, those battle scars
Flare up, like diamonds in the light
Showing all dimensions of perfection.
Fresh on the skin.
The human being without scars is a heart without a beat.
It’s our statement piece.
Defining us into being the warrior we must become.
Yet, we wallow in self pity, craving attention.
To heal the wounds.
Our scars stand by us when all else fails.
Showing the darkness behind each soul.
Giving light to a person we thought we knew.
They're all over my face.
Screaming the words; nightmare.
Pleading for pride.
Each sting, like the wasp's fear.
They hurt to remind you they haven't gone.
Never will they settle down beside your soul.
In peace.
Battle scars, those battle scars.
Bleed out, shirek out, wail out for acceptance.
Which is denied by our lives.
Make a soldier out of me, wear my battle scars with courage.
Let them taunt my name in disgust.
They can shine whenever they want too.
But it won't stop me.
Let them be my soul companion for life.
This life is now mine.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 10:19 AM UTC
Fifty years, a lifetime for some, but for me,
a blink of an eye, as true love is the ripe fruit
of a lifetime, and the years have seemed to
me but a few days for the love I have had
for her, like great love, lives on, and on
I love you more today than yesterday and
our love, forever warm, and still to be enjoyed,
forever panting and forever young and in the
light and warmth of love, our life grows strong
and comely, a better dwelling, nor a sweeter
I never found, knowing that the heart that
has truly loved never forgets and loves on to
the close.
No matter what beauties I saw on my way
back to you; they are but visits, but you are
my home and chance cannot change my love,
nor time impair, knowing that love beyond
the world cannot be separated by it, as great
love lives on, and on.
Let us tend love's fire until the end knowing
that youth is but an hour, beauty a flower,
but love is the jewel that wins the world, and
as age enriches true love, these five words I
swear to you; I'll be there for you, and know
that I'd live and die for you, but my words
can't say what love can do, and as you breathe,
I want to be the air for you.
Somewhere there waits in this world of ours
the crowning glory of loving and being loved
and what is earth, with all its art, poetry, and
music worth---compared with love found and
kept, and defining love as two souls in one,
two hearts into one heart, and saying that he
is not a lover who does not love forever.
Jon York 2017
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
"Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly" (2)
who needs challenges, commissions.
kicks~in~le butte~
when heaven heaves rains, one downs tall orders in
short shot glass verses, which glossed over at its
first communion(cation,
come back
months later
to subtract - another
poem from where it lay dormant
on the doormat
of my sub~sub~terranes
of my diluted subconscious au natured dry & rugged terrain
a favored poet,
a secretive admirer,
whoa~whose~her truthful name, I've yet to uncover,
but whose one true soul inspires me repeatedly,
ana~lyrically licks me into
dredging from me
un begrudgingly
and yet,
another love poem,
she herself wrote when elixiring (commentating (3))
'pon one of mine,
a long long time ago
Alas! Alack!
unnaturally immodest,
one concedes,
when obviously a Super~Woman!-cedes,
seeds in three verses, what I could never unknot
nor uncover
so I requite & requote with
unlabored pleasure
miz patty m's
primary terse verse,
neither secondary & never tertiary,
her absolut perfect mixed drink
defining, summarizing,
the essences of love
*"(Love) Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly"*
I concede, in deed,
and in writing,
I know nothing,
of writing
of only love poetry
and all the great predecessors,
elsewhere lyricized, named and tabulated,
by yet another women, (1)
I will take my weary words elsewhere,
and if
perhaps,
disguised as a woman,
(Natalie, Natasha, Natali
see note below)
perhaps my verbal herbal insides,
my turgid insights,
will be shorter, sweeter,
but never more completer
than those of,
who can syncopate it
in rhyme
and the naming of my
predilection,
by mid~initial,
will give a measuring
of solace, and
a kiss and hug from my mirrored selfie,
having been unsuccessful at
my one chosen endeavor,
only love poetry,
adieu,
I, due,
utter
Nevermore
M>
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 3:38 PM UTC
Crazy, dumd, ugly
Give me another word to through in this poem
This **** describes me
This **** defines me
Don't you know?
Haven't you heard?!
Disappointing, unworthy, AND useless!?!?
Okay....
(Schizophrenia, learning disability, drug use etc.)
**** I guess I found an excuss for almost every defining, outlining, "description" about me!!!
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
She may not have been your prototype teen or hiree.
Or of the masses. Or herd.
However, she did walk into a McDonald's
approach the counter
emit an esoteric exchange for help with the cashier
and with knowing eyes
the cashier directed her to the starting gate.
Now
with application in hand
and blue ribbons in her eyes
she was off to the horse races,
nervousness riding on her shoulders.
In my eyes, she was a longshot to win,
where I could see her shoes falling off
before the race started.
And her imaginary jockey falling off her horse
from laughing so hard,
for she presented herself through the restaurant
and a job interview with a Starbucks frappe,
totally oblivious of her unwrapping.
It would be like turning up for a Yankee's job
in a Red Sox outfit.
Who would do this?
As the rubberneckers, I looked on.
Incredulous.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
complimentary.
But those jeans, high risers, with holes in the knees
with a white Bebe shirt that hugged her shape
shouted trendy but not job interview.
Oh, my.
She continued the procession
extracting info from her phone
and filling out her application.
No doubt with votive candles at her side
and prayers on her lips.
And perhaps blue ribbons awaiting.
After all, this was her foot in the door.
It was at this time
I had an epiphany moment
tears welling in my eyes
as I slipped on hamburger choices
and sipped on past life on a teether,
totally oblivious, too.
It was like looking in the mirror.
Her youth and awkwardness and my growing decadence
towards the light.
When the manager came in and summoned her
to the interview table,
which was located in the dining room,
I saw a little kitten purr inside of her,
where her eyes nervously checked her surroundings.
At first introduction,
the reddening blush on her face and Adam's apple
stood pronounced
but her low voice was choked.
Almost inaudible.
As the manager put her calming hands
into hers
the light turned on
all foreboding escaping.
All misplaces and tense faces replaced with aces.
This was a defining moment for her,
as the golden arches braced her feet,
making all the rubberneckers, me, proud.
Logan Robertson
6/6/2018
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
Electromagnetic Motion Ocean Of Pure Focal Emo-tion.
The Very Sound Of The Creators Verse And Rhythm In Loving Notion Pouring Through The Crystalline Endocrine Indoctrinated Shock Ra Of Shocking Unblocking Colorful Tones In Unmolested Focus And Definition.
To Flow Your Emo-tions Through Your Core And Manifest In Your Intended Notion All Without The Misidentified Horror Of The Wrongfully And Negatively Defined Emotions, One Finds That The Mere Act Of William Tell And That Apple Upon The Head Must Have Been One Hell Of An Interesting Interaction, Yet Instead Of The Reassuring Smiles And Calm Demeanor Of The Archer As They Lock Eyes, What Pray Tell You Think The Eyes Of The Archer Looked Like On That Very Frozen In Time Moment As He Released The Arrow To Guided Love Of Perfected Intent And Delivery Of Safe And Demanding Fortitude Of Action To Defeat All Possible Variable , As If To Need To Bend The Very Laws Of Nature If They Were To Cause An Number Of Odd And Unpredictable Events To Derail The Intent Of The Man Shooting The Apple Off The Head Of His Dear Child's Head, For Not A Bird May Pass Between, Not A Gust Of Wind Be Seen, Not An Earthquake Be Fabled To Accrue, Not A Single Action But The Undeterred Focus Of Absolute Might In Will, His Fee Will In Flight. What Might His Eyes Be Relaying In That Frozen Moment? Reassurance, Pity, Fear, Confidence, Or The Electric Fire Of Electromagnetic Motion Ocean Of Pure Focal Emo-tion To Get The **** Thing Done And Without Foolish ******** Reactions To The Real And True Focus Of Emotion, And Pray Tell, What If The Child Mistook This Look In A Moments Notice And Flinched Out Of Concern That The Father Was Angry With Him? Or Is It Best To Realize The Real Importance Of This Story As It Is The Trust In The Definitions Of Intended Focus And Not Of Simple Trust.? ,... Yes, Intended Focus Of Emotions Being Trusted As True And Not Negative In Nature, Dear Friend, Yes. So Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot, Let The Flow Of Emotion Be Free And Not Dictated By The Restraints Of Control And Be Seen And Used In Negative Ways, For These Are The Crimes Against All Mankind And The Bigger Part Of Why Spoken Word Is The Very Spell That Binds The Psyche, For The Focus Of Or The Lack Of Focus Of Emotions True Meaning And Purpose Is The Crime Against All Life Indeed. Live Free And Pilot This Love Ship Successfully By No Longer Defining Self By The Ways And Means That Have Caused Us To Fear Our Own Power To Move Mountains, And Kept Us All Mustard Seeds When We Are Truly Far More Than You Can Believe. Feel Free, Yes, By All Means Feel Free.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Speechless thoughts on site
Objective strictly unknown
Defining subjects involved
Choose double meanings
Mood swings to decipher
Flourishes seek entry
Results don't matter
Engaging makes us think
Nov 17, 2009
Nov 17, 2009 at 7:53 AM UTC
I wonder what it is that I will love the most. Maybe it’s the way you say a certain word, or that one defining feature; your one crooked tooth when the rest are straight, or the fact your eyes cross every time you cough after a draw. Maybe it’s because your mouth tastes like rice milk and your hands smell like lavender, maybe it’s the way you hold me and keep me still when the entire world is spinning. Maybe it’s because you sing all the songs you know keep me calm, or maybe it’s the way your laugh seems to roll around in your mouth and then hit everyone in the room like it’s the bowling ball and we’re the pins. I wonder what you have been through. I wonder what walls you have hit in your life, and which of those you battered through and which you sat and waiting for the bricks to crumble and fall. I wonder what you will think about when we sit in silence, is it about me? Is it about the ocean, or our dinner?
I wonder about a lot of things to do with you, but I do not wonder, nor doubt that I will be uncontrollably and unfaltering-ly in love with you.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC