"delude" poems
The man of life upright, whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds and thoughts of vanity:
The man whose silent days in harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude, nor fortune discontent;
That man needs neither towers nor armor for defense,
Nor secret vaults to fly from thunder's violence:
He only can behold with unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep and terrors of the skies;
Thus scorning all the care that fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book, his wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends, his wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn and quiet pilgrimage.
13.7k
OCD is not all about remembering the freckles on her cheeks or telling her I love you repetitively
OCD is waking up at 2 in the morning after you have spent hours trying to delude yourself into thinking that your hands are clean only to end up in your washroom trying to rub your skin off.
(all because a stranger touched me on the sidewalk a month ago)
OCD is being in an abusive relationship with yourself. Your logic won't let you give in, but like a desperate lover, your OCD won't let you go. So you keep swinging, tick tock, to and fro, like the broken clock in the store room you can't get yourself to throw out because it belonged to your nana.
OCD is not finally finding a peace of moment when he looks at you but it is biting your teeth into your lips trying to hold in the cringe when he carelessly wipes his greasy hands on the napkin. "Don't complain, don't complain" you mutter to yourself as you throw a hand sanitiser his way.
(please don't leave me)
OCD is rearranging the pictures frame on the shelf for the fifteenth time a day because last time your brother interrupted you and so you might as well start again. OCD is the worry in your mum's eyes as she invites the guests to show them your room while she keeps throwing you cautious glances as someone touches your books.
(I'm sorry, ma. I can't help it)
OCD is reading the same line again and again, a part of your brain asks you why since you got it right the first time. You don't know why, but you keep doing it just to be sure. Check the door if it's locked properly before sleeping. Once, twice, thrice till it's morning already and it's time to wake up.
(another sleepless night, God **** it)
OCD is all these fuzzy voices mixed around with the signals from your brain telling you that your life will fall apart, if, just for this once, you do anything different.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 3:34 AM UTC
Snip
Cut
Bang
Simmer
I want a transit, a travel against my skin, that keeps going until I command it to stop.
My mouth begged for light, to feel warmth on my face
Heat oven to 450
You laughed and tossed me, a rag, away from the mahogany scent of your chest to the cold, hard floor that I am stuck to.
I miss you
I try to imagine you so that I can delude myself into continuing, but my mind strangely has already forgotten you.
I cannot remember your eyes, or even your favorite color anymore.
Some wish for that type of amnesia, but I am solemn.
I wanted a piece of you to carry with me always.
Cook for fifteen minutes or until dark
I hear my other side in my head; She is the evil within me.
I am brunbrunette, she is red.
I wear flats--her long legs are attracted to heels.
She smiles and with a curvy, smooth voice, much like a fiery dame from 1920:
"He has a piece of you though; you gave him your whole heart, and he only took a bite! That's alright, you don't need him or anything like him! You are a woman.... "
I drown her out with recipes,
4 cups of music and 1 cup chardonnay
(okay maybe MORE than one)--
therapy that I have made many appointments for.
Adding bits and pieces of me that I share, and some I don't
One thing I know, if a new one comes along, he is going to have to be patient,
I learned my lesson from burning out on the first batch
Take out--let cool
Don't eat all at once--savor.
Enjoy a slice at a time.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Anxious
Dull, a boy is he
names he would not plea
eyes like baby blue-
lips a crimson hue
Feelings like me and you
Reclusive
Outsiders he'd not choose
In his mansions he bore
luring himself-
with enchanting lore's
drifting away, loosing woes
A Xenos
Traveling in his hallways
unknown, ominous
a wretched life he portrays
even in his heart, he'd say-
"Loneliness, such a Cliché"
Forsaken
Befriended, unseen
though he's not a devil
-for I believe
tortured, battered on thee
delude by his mistress' skim
He Left
portals out from misery
gone himself eagerly
then comes back, with such
-A Victory
for now, a statured man is he
Knights & Kings
upon bended knees
and everything he please
from a man to a boy
-in a dream
A Castle, now he redeems
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC
“where time is the fly and age the fisher of men”
<>
*”until I fell forward
into fall where time is
the fly and age the fisher
of men, then when winter
begins all will be forgotten,
where time is the fly and
age the fisher of men”*
excerpt from “The Fall” by Rick Richardson
<>
that words from a different ionic state, jump as embodied ions from screen to the throat, evicting a guttural current of exclamation, you believe even with the half-heartedly palpitations from remainder of my damaged pumping heart, that these words were always intended, just for me…
boy and old man coexist, the pottage of memories stirred,
and the time is fly, and I drown in the miracle of greenest grass of
Yankee Stadium at age eight,
oasis, heaven, a child reborn in a sea of Bronx concrete,
and the swallowing up of my boyhood is forever marked henceforth, the hook has caught me, and I am of the age
once and forever
not a fisherman, but a fisher of men’s souls,
mine own is my best bait,
hooked line and sinker, and
wisdom and words
elude and delude always,
like summer is perpetual and aging a construct,
time does not fly, but slowly laps and waves
eroding our myths and ourselves upon a continuum with
no ends
~postscript~
<>
*yet I believe,
in miracles of
fish and loaves,
and that our individual continuums
will exist beyond the artifice of constraints
of
mortal time and that poems are
the forever chemicals within
our
bloodstreams,
even when our blood no longer spills*
yet I believe!
Sep 6, 2023
Sep 6, 2023 at 7:57 AM UTC
I realize I am too compassionate;
I feel everything at a 100% rate,
and I loathe it so much.
Why do they come on so strong all the time;
it mentally drains me.
I am destined to die early;
I can't see myself living past my mid-thirties.
I learn how to accept death as it is,
and I am slowly learning how to let go.
I want to cry, I want to scream;
I want to voice out this indecipherable torment inside of me.
But no one will understand,
and no one will know;
this mask of mine can't be taken off.
It is what I desire,
yet I want to scream the truth out to the world;
my alternating flow of thoughts,
my constant battle;
it goes down with me to the grave.
This happiness is an illusion;
There's a second mind that takes over,
and blocks away all of the hopelessness.
It brings forth a temporary elation,
a nonchalance,
a pretentious ease.
Is this better?
Does it make me better?
Or does this delude me to the point
where I become more destructive
and cause more harm than cure?
Why does my mind run so much?
Why does this version of me exist?
Because I am born empathetic.
Because I am human.
Because I hold a great understanding of myself,
and a greater awareness of how I am.
But not behind in the how it came to be.
No one holds the answer, and I am forever left with questioning all these endless why's and how's.
Everything else is left unanswered
perhaps until the day I die.
— Y.H.
the end of the tunnel,
gentle fervor.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
A sparkling key shimmers in the haze beyond my nightmares,
A key to life made of light sets off a conquest,
Mirroring it is the key of the dark,
Which allows my red eyes of illusion,
to haunt someones death or life.
I have been looking for an answer,
Some truth that determines my paths, my ways,
While wandering about aimlessly,
I can sense the trillion elements
Getting entangled within my thoughts.
This silver city of my thoughts,
In in a chaotic state of order,
Spiritual pain breaches its walls,
Guilt and sorrow rain down, corroding the structures I so proudly built.
Where would I be, I wonder,
When this city finally falls?
Unknown, misunderstood,
Book of life, to which I hold the key,
What is the price of a soap bubble?
What is the cost of the first rain drop on the barren earth?
What is the joy in a newborn's smile?
Key to life,
These hands which are weapons which wield weapons,
Can you transmit my sorrow beyond the walls of my heart?
Unknown to life, ignorant of death,
Would you delude me with hope?
And then there is you.
With what reason do you smile,
with such gentle eyes,
Drawing me closer in the web of your love?
I think I can now unlock the door which was always locked.
Because you are the spirit I need,
The demon of pain encased within the angel of love,
You can provide my soul the element of pain and warmth,
Listen to my heart, o Goddess,
Transmutate what I was.
The hand of the Goddess echoes out,
Your love changing my past, present and future,
The burden of my sins replaced with joy,
Which key do I deserve to hold now,
Now that the heartbeat of destinies untold, beat within your womb.
The key to both life and death is slowly being born,
Growing its wings in the loving glow of your flesh.
Developing, as our bond reaches its peaks.
Key to life, I thank thee for this,
For invoking desire and passion in me/
Light and darkness consort eternally,
Angels flirting with demons,
The keys to both life and death hide now in the complex codes,
In the memory of DNA, surpassing time.
It is there sons of Adam and Eve, where my truth lies.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?
Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."
But that's not true!
Look at Trostky and Lenin,
Michael Myers and Lennon,
The other Lennon.
It's hard to differentiate in name and legacy,
Because both Lennon's were revolutionaries,
Marching around like the freshman from heaven.
But neither believed they were the result of divine intervention in the affairs of man,
Because this convention would threaten their worldview and beckon away their sanity...
In the same way that the Pope or ****** let their divine vanity commit greater blasphemy and bring them future agony.
Now neither Lennon nor Lenin came anywhere close to being men from Galilee,
In fact they were more the men of the galaxy,
Or at least, John was, with his peach fuzz beard and his belief that love is greater than fear.
The other Lenin implemented the New Economic Policy, to starve the proletariat and start his revolution on an already hypocritical trend that would continue quite the same until the very end.
And it proves something, does it not?
Violence sends a message to no one but the instigator,
Changing them to justify, and claim is wasn't misbehavior;
But that's a lie, no idea of mine is worth the death of a human mind,
And to pretend otherwise makes one delude themselves that they aren't an instigator, but an illustrator,
Painting in the blood as if ****** makes an innovator.
And for ****** there is no vindicator,
Violence is an image breaker,
Indulged in by poor imitators who think they're right, and the world is wrong.
Unaware this makes them weak, not strong.
Now John Lennon was the true revolutionary;
Although he succumbed to violence, he veered away from it, even when it was necessary.
He fought the war, and yes, the war did win,
But at least he didn't cover his scars with artificial skin,
Or deny his implicit wrongs as a result of all original sin.
John Lennon used the word 'nigger' to the opposite effect.
He used the word to trigger something bigger and correct,
The wrong that seemed so propagated by the last colonial tide,
Of which the other Lenin defected and took colonialism's side.
John Lennon was Utopian and told us of a better world;
He interjected definition, and caused old thoughts to curl away in fright,
And bite the dust despite their might and past dominion of industrialism,
It was a schism, and it still plagues us to this day.
John Lennon understood we over-complicate way
To
Often.
Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?
Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."
"Some body" is something,
And some body can change the world.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
You broke me...
& I allowed it because I so loved the moment before you uttered how I meant nothing. The moment when you could be redeemed.
The moment in which my breathe would catch in my throat.
The moment in which I desperately wanted to be inlove with you again. The moment in which I wanted to delude myself just one more time into believing you might love me.
Believing that you could value me in my human form.
The form in which my exhale became reminiscent of your name.
You were absorbed into the essence of my very being.
You were everything. & now you are nothing.
This is neither good nor bad.
It simply is.
Because you were poisonous and I loved every second of it ; basking in your presence.
I was a wilting flower and oh how your kiss felt so much like rain.
You were incomparably beautiful to me, but beautiful in the destructive sense.
Beautiful like a forest fire.
But you are not a forest fire.
You were the moon- deeply inconsistent.
You could not be redeemed.
Not by your smile or the way my name tasted leaving your lips or by the rare tears you would spill whispering a belated apology.
You were lost to me.
in all your cruelty- completely lost.
Except for when i would stand lonely in a crowded room- your voice sounding like the insecurities in my mind.
In those moments I'd choked back tears and pretended that the ***** was to blame and not you.
I'd Spend the night hurling insults at the stars whose usually beautiful form seemed a grotesque witness to my aching heart.
And then I'd want to hurt you how you hurt me,
scar your soul repeatedly but then I realised you don't have one.
You never did.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
they talk down through
the centuries to us,
and this we need more and more,
the statues and paintings
in midnight age
as we go along
holding dead hands.
and we would say
rather than delude the knowing:
a **** good show,
but hardly enough for a horse to eat,
and out on the sunshine street where
eyes are dabbled in metazoan faces
i decide again
that in theses centuries
they have done very well
considering the nature of their
brothers:
it's more than good
that some of them,
(closer really to the field-mouse than
falcon)
have been bold enough to try.
4k
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
But I remain a believer in my ancestral religion
Whose God is wele but not the Germany world, it is a religion,
Like most of universal ancestral ones,
With appalling moral threshold,
When Elijah Masinde of dini ya Misambwa
Despised those who condemned man as notoriously religious
He meant human religious approach to life is absolute in nature
However diverse religions compete for human ears
Rich ones glorified in the luring away of modal ears
But all are devoid of spiritual impetus
Disappointing the progenitors of religious imperialism
These short-cutters in matters of sanctimony
Will not come to our heaven
They will get me sharing a cup of tea
With my sister- in-law; Mary, the mother of Jesus
And I will shun them, I will not know them
I will not invite them to a heavenly cup of tea
They will be suffocated by cadaverous appetite,
For we honor our religion with ancestral regard;
The Faith of Our Ancestors
But in ridicule they call us kaffirs, pagans, christo-pagans,
Animists, atheists, gentiles, non-believers, mediumists,
Rebellious rebels or whatsoever they call us;
The anti-muhamedan-mis-christologists,
Let them delude themselves,
If they disparage us with sick contumely
Abreast the dumbfounding development in sciences
Plus so fortuitous humanistic awareness,
Humanity in Religion has to adjust optimally
Religious masters have to help
Interpret the religious Books, bible, gita, quran
All Written or verbalistically in the glory of epical orality
In tandem with the best centered
Life extant,
Otherwise selfish religions becomes an old wine bag
With its old and stale wine,
You will persuade Russian carousers to drink
But to your chagrin, none will condone, your stale wine
Do not seek to sell your faith
Because every human community
Has an ancestral faith
Respect them all for that is gods in their accolade of
Omonipresecence,
Any man or woman without religion is dangerous
But do not advantagize yourselves
At the expense of people of other faiths
It is good you reciprocated
Planet earth is our only sure and known abode
If we lived well here, and there is another world
For those who will be good, we hope the conclave of Gods
Would all sit in judgment for their credit
And reward those who helped humble humanity
Of their religions as well as those of other religions
As for all the Gods love humanists.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
Imagine waking up on a filthy, uneven floor -
light coming solely through the flimsy wooden wall.
Imagine trudging through the mud barefoot -
mud merged with remnants of God knows who.
Imagine breathing in thick layers of sooty dust -
the colors sullen, lifeless and dull.
Imagine smelling the scent of faeces and decay,
of diseases and of death every single day.
Imagine your belly gurgling with hunger and distraught,
sniffing glue - the only way to delude.
Imagine walking on rickety bridges -
a step amiss and drown you will in these murky watery ditches.
Imagine wearing the same old rags - all tattered and torn,
being beaten and battered, no rights of which to call your own.
Imagine having silly daydreams of going to school
but there's not a penny to spare - not even for a worn-out book.
But alas, imagine no more for such children exist,
with ghosts clouding their starry dreams
And death hanging heavy upon their tiny, little feet.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 4:49 AM UTC
I learned to play with my emotions,
Mock that which makes us human
At a young age I had already turned the page to the next chapter in my life,
I was above the status quo.
At 11 I learned that you have to die for something to live with nothing.
And I have killed myself more times than I care to put in words.
Lonely cries of my tarnished soul that I **** piece by piece
Some days I wish that my soul was whole.
Some days I wish I had died some more.
Don't want to..... hurt any more
More living equates to more emotions I must cast off
Why must I yearn for another's touch?
Why must I delude my honed sense and reason with false realities.
"You see what you want to see,
You shall never be the ONE"
You pay testament to others stories
You don't have you own,
Must have flipped through your pages to quick
Because now you're left without a book.
No pen, no pad, no paper
You were to far above the status quo.
You will forever be forgotten,
You shall never be remembered
But rejoice for you shall never die,
For you have never lived.
You are son of man
Slain by woman
Slain in the spirit
A slap in gods face.
The forgiven disgrace eternally given a second chance
But sometimes it's a worthwhile to forsake,
To be forsaken,
In order to **** off your emotions.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
Today is knowing
that the night before
was only a feeble attempt
to delude myself
into thinking
that the world spins around
me and my ideals.
Today I know better.
Today I am sober.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
They dart with illusioned purpose,
I alone, am distant and far.
They speak on trivial affairs,
I alone, speak not of the obvious.
They delude intelligence,
I alone, can say no more.
What it is I feel,
Never could be construed.
I can offer no consolation
for those tied and unwilling.
This blind expansion of
unnamable multiverse
weighs heavy, might I say.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
merely breadcrums of cognitions produced during *realities open ended coma
a world full of never ending twisted visions, imagine, imaginations experience constant states of nonexistence.
would letters rejoice with one another,
would they celebrate the specifics of the meanings re veiled by their gatherings?
or would each become a victim? could each have a new home, found sixfeet deep, causing the destruction or any bit of lingering sanity left lurking..
would colors be conceivable? would delusions actually delude, if no trace of reality or its oppisite was remaining to place firmly in ones grasp?
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 10:25 AM UTC
In times of clarity, or perhaps
Moments of weakness
(Depending on one's perspective)
My greatest fear, I think,
Is that of dying without achieving
Anything worthy of mention.
The idea of being so ordinary
That your death
(or rather, your life)
Will be rapidly evaporated
from the earth's memory
Like light rain on a molten tarmac afternoon.
But you, at least on a mentally strong day,
Delude yourself with bursts of creativity:
Poetry, film, ideas of grandeur,
All of which persuade you that either
You will not die for a long time,
Or you will someday soon achieve.
This thought is comforting
And all is well.
Until one day you are having
A particularly busy teaching day,
And you rush to the usual spot
To grab a regular taste of Dublin life,
And order your chicken fillet roll:
Lifeblood of an Irish working-man's lunch,
And you eat while you walk -
Both briskly to save time before
Rejoining the rich children.
And the slobbering mouthful of
Delightful chicken baguette
Casts taco sauce from its grasp,
And dribbles down your pubey beard.
You stop and take a finger to it,
Knowing full well that the damage is
Done and that those hairs will grip
To the smell of taco sauce until
The drain tastes their defeat after
A particularly overzealous shower.
And it is in that moment,
With finger and beard stained with
The orange-tinged blood of a chicken fillet roll,
That your ordinariness and worthlessness become apparent
And it destroys you...
Because you always thought taco sauce was spicy.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
The tales we weave
seem to only breathe.
They become the
moments of bittersweet
bliss and change.
They are meant to hide
our lies and
our deceits
And they work.
On anyone we seek to
delude.
Until the moment when
the teeth gnash,
the hands clench,
and our tales give way
to consequence
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
To live is to research happiness
and homes for the pleasure of ending.
People, through illusions, can shape
happy possibilities from speech and position.
Don't write it out.
A life more useful than tragic
is original in a moment,
can transcend as well as
fall into mistakes and experiences.
To get your body to lean
as far forward over the
insurmountable bubble as possible,
Is to create magic that consists of gateways
and actions -- the outcome of which
can place a thinker with only few
leaps stranger than your enemies.
Always forgive.
Magic sometimes longer than a pause
between morality and naked minds
influences the two ways a relapse synapse will run.
The true temptation of safety can be
carpeted by play dough and play grounds.
It's better to not sustain interfering manufactors,
to not pirate the lies a man historically risks
on quality of thoughts,
But instead depend the nature of your virture
on exploration at the heart of echoes.
Why should you quit?
A human's greatest obstacle is finding the principles
we don't discover with the jailer listening and
men afraid to rock the boat.
Give better than you dare have.
Reset the age of the mind and give parallel
truths at the point of sweeping tides.
To understand the laws of popular drifting,
compromise the art of part establishing,
occupy an ambitious ideal;
You will lose an elevation over not being, not remembering.
Sometimes treading water becomes a nuisance,
and you'll lose a choice in the dungeon.
Don't abandon your force.
Don't regret the pursuit of circumstances.
Don't delude a reputation of bridges and evidence.
Empathy is traveling the world for imagination and salvation.
We are here for a spell; one equality
shreds the ears ready to get you in trouble.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
**I believe in myself
More than luck could delude me
More than fate and destiny could play me**
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
If you don't afford me the same respect
That I afford you
How dare you expect me to hold my tongue
Keep my silence
Look down, look away, so as not to offend
your darling pride
How dare you pretend that you're all
Supreme
Though you are almost hypocritical
You might delude
Yourself into believing yourself fair
But you're anything
But fair in your dealings, anything
but respectful
How dare you tell us that we have to keep
Shut and follow
When you barely set the brightest example
No one expects
You to be a perfect idol, but you're just vile
In your treatment
We might be below you for now, but one
Day we'll go on
To become the future generation, the leaders,
The pioneers
So lady, please talk nicely because even though
I avert my eyes
Try and keep my tone flat, even I have a threshold
When I break
And look at you finally, with the eyes that scream
'Anger! Hate!'
Be careful. I might not make the best grades, and I
Certainly don't
Believe I do. It isn't even my first priority but I am
Still your student
Still obliged to you but even I won't back off if you
Start talking down
Like I am a pesky bug that needs wiping away
I am not
Going to simply avert my eyes then and look away
I will stand
Scream out the truth I believe, I see, the truth of you
Being totally unfit
For such a holy profession as teaching
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 5:02 AM UTC
Ah, summer!
Summertime is ever my favourite, indeed;
with charms t'at are inadequate,
with promises not rich enough,
for my love is even wealthier t'an which!
Oh! But still, a summer garden
is a warming delight to my sights;
it is a living soul to me,
it pats my shoulder and smiles at me,
it sings to me and write me-
a delicate night-time lullaby!
Ah, so sweet and enigmatic
is our beloved summertime,
as it for ever always is;
With leaves t'at canst talk,
flowers t'at canst think,
and clever blossoms
that canst charm
and sway about so prettily
Back and forth,
Beneath and behind me;
O, and perhaps lips
t'at canst promise
Some surge of happiness;
Yes, happiness-vacant happiness,
Happiness t'at is our abode,
and for us only-to dwell in;
Though whose self is still beyond thought
and canst be delicately seen
only from a thousand miles away
from 'ere; o, dear happiness!
Wherefore be thou-come 'ere!
Come 'ere-o, light of my dim light,
fire of my shy fire!
Come 'ere, o dearest!
Flirt with and tease me;
touch and taunt me;
'Till I am but immersed
in thy evil charm, thy evil charm;
Whilst soaked in thy greedy eyes,
Consummate and make me whole,
delude and corrupt me,
but make me forget not
my very own intimate voice;
With a love that I want to kiss,
within a glory I should rejoice.
Stab and ****** me!
Make things blissful a tragedy;
but a glossy tragedy-as thy soul may be;
And be I, the happiest ghost in th' world;
roses are my tongue, lilies are my mouth;
cherries my breath, berries my death;
But on top of all, my dear,
Their blooms my satiation,
Frivolous, ye' stupendous as it is,
Ah, my salvation, health, and incarnation!
And comest to me once more;
Love me and care for me
Like never before;
just like I hath cared and be cared for,
make my feelings sure,
find a cure to my foul longing,
And be my sole angel of bliss
Like when I am lost again today;
Tend to me with thy singing so sweet-
As when I love; as I hath ever dreamed.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 6:44 AM UTC
My dreams elude my reach.
Do these illusions delude or lead?
A ruse or a path unseen?
With hidden meaning or does my soul randomly seek
from cognition's depth to spirit's peak
a time and space where I believe
that my world and life will be complete.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
Breathing in, I dwell
deeply in this moment
Breathing out, I know,
it is the perfect moment
Breathing in, I see
it is an only moment
Breathing out, a moment
that's truly one of a kind
For appearances may
delude one into thinking
"This is nothing new
it has all happened before"
But the discrete events of THIS "now"
have never happened before
in precisely the same way
and they never will again
and though a moment may
be filled with pain or anger or despair
Just like the moment itself
these will also disappear
So too, a moment may
be filled with rapture, bliss, and joy
but as with the moment again
these will also disappear
Breathing in with this in mind
to what is there to cling?
Breathing out with this in mind
from what am I repelled?
Breathing in with this awareness,
I see each moment is a miracle
Breathing out with this awareness
a smile sweeps across the face
Breathing in, I'm here
Breathing out, I'm now
Breathing in I don't desire
Breathing out I'm free
Feb 24, 2022
Feb 24, 2022 at 3:16 AM UTC
Trying to feel fulfilled
Trying to be fulfilled
Thinking of a to-do list
seems so easy
but they're always too ambitious
Nothing fills
Trying to clean up after myself
cannot keep up with the slob I am
before I storm out the house
after picking up some kind of purpose
from the oblivion
after licking the wounds of being lost in infinity
Finding a way to embrace
the superficial beyond tongue-in-cheek
Lost in dharma
sick
I don't live the truth I know
in my heart
Nothing here is permanent
Should you chase after delusions?
We consciously delude ourselves
past the intellectual epiphanies
where we admitted how little we know
Or do you just sit and enjoy the show
limit you exposure to negative experiences
and chase after ones which end up positive?
Even that's too ideological
But how do you stand without any ground
even for just a moment?
God's been dead
but what have you replaced him with?
May is
may well be
what ought
Because what else do we have
besides what is anymore?
But should our perceptions of what is
become our argument for what ought?
There, the shadow of a god still looms
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 9:32 PM UTC