"descendent" poems
I recently got fired from a job. I was working at a summer camp with the 8 year old's. And one day one of Satan's soul ******* descendent's got on my nerves so I snapped. I said "Ok. You need to stop right now you little walking abortion". You would be mad too if he kept hitting you with his crutches.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
IN LONDON LONG AGO
PEOPLE WERE BEING KILLED
AND THE PUBLIC DIDN'T KNOW
WHO WAS JACK THE RIPPER YOU ASK
THE BOBBIES AT THE TIME
WERE ALL BROUGHT TO TASK
A MAN NAMED ABILENE
INVESTIGATED THE CASE
HE AND HIS MEN
BEGAN THE CHASE
IN 1888 ALL THIS OCCURRED
THE EVIDENCE AND SUSPECTS
HAVE ALWAYS BEEN BLURRED
THE KILLINGS WERE GRUESOME
THE VICTIMS WERE SLAUGHTERED
FATHERS LOST SONS
MOTHERS LOST DAUGHTERS
MANY SUSPECTS CAME TO PASS
BUT JACK WAS NEVER CAUGHT
WHO WAS JACK THE RIPPER
NOW CONCLUSIONS CAN BE SOUGHT
SO THE KILLINGS WILL REMAIN A MYSTERY
TILL THE END OF TIME
WAS HE A DESCENDENT OF YOURS
OR A RELATIVE OF MINE
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
Maybe I got greedy.
Maybe it's in my blood.
Maybe I'm a descendent of Icarus, the Greek son who flew too high.
All I know is that while my
ancestor was trying
to escape Crete, I've been trying
to escape myself
and baby you were my wings.
But I flew too high.
I should have noticed
the burning in my lungs,
the smoke suffocating my windpipe because I was getting too close
to your fire and with every
"I love you"
I could feel the wax
in my heart melting,
dripping down through my ribcage but when it finally fell to my feet,
I ignored the burn.
And here I am,
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
Waiting for you
to catch me.
Maybe the smoke
is in your eyes.
Maybe you're scared
of the flames.
Or maybe
you can't handle
the
heat.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
Madrid, princesse des Espagnes,
Il court par tes mille campagnes
Bien des yeux bleus, bien des yeux noirs.
La blanche ville aux sérénades,
Il passe par tes promenades
Bien des petits pieds tous les soirs.
Madrid, quand tes taureaux bondissent,
Bien des mains blanches applaudissent,
Bien des écharpes sont en jeux.
Par tes belles nuits étoilées,
Bien des senoras long voilées
Descendent tes escaliers bleus.
Madrid, Madrid, moi, je me raille
De tes dames à fine taille
Qui chaussent l'escarpin étroit ;
Car j'en sais une par le monde
Que jamais ni brune ni blonde
N'ont valu le bout de son doigt !
J'en sais une, et certes la duègne
Qui la surveille et qui la peigne
N'ouvre sa fenêtre qu'à moi ;
Certes, qui veut qu'on le redresse,
N'a qu'à l'approcher à la messe,
Fût-ce l'archevêque ou le roi.
Car c'est ma princesse andalouse !
Mon amoureuse ! ma jalouse !
Ma belle veuve au long réseau !
C'est un vrai démon ! c'est un ange !
Elle est jaune, comme une orange,
Elle est vive comme un oiseau !
Oh ! quand sur ma bouche idolâtre
Elle se pâme, la folâtre,
Il faut voir, dans nos grands combats,
Ce corps si souple et si fragile,
Ainsi qu'une couleuvre agile,
Fuir et glisser entre mes bras !
Or si d'aventure on s'enquête
Qui m'a valu telle conquête,
C'est l'allure de mon cheval,
Un compliment sur sa mantille,
Puis des bonbons à la vanille
Par un beau soir de carnaval.
2.2k
*The lips ...like
sweetened tamarind
Above the lips was a beautiful curve
And two dots glimmering
Like a wheaty bronze
And eyes that sparkle with delight
All together can be eaten at night
A round face and soft skin
It'll make you shiver
and cringe within
This beauty is not from here..
a descendent from a heavenly tree ..
She had golden brown hair
...like forest thick ..
Each hair beautifully in place
full of sunshine and maze
Come with me she said...
don't be shy ...I don't bite
neither will I slit your throat
Y'll see what no man has ever seen
My inner Beauty & wildly oat
I said you're my beauty
And my queen
I'm at your command
Please don't let go
Show me please ..
your inner beauty
She winked at me and let me in
And later sat at the bend
I got in and saw her
a beauty that is so sweet ..
So lovely to enjoy
I want your love and wish to stay
How glad I am ... I came today
To see and taste your fruits and admire
The way you look and speak my desire
She let me in
Her lovely fire ..
We spoke only ❤
And more desire ..
Since then I have been so amazed
Every day she fed me
Her honey and milk
A taste i crave
Her body mist ..
I am so happy now
With her love
Thanked my sweetheart,
'n The Lord above
If this is love
I want more ...
But I ask not for more like before
I am grateful for what
I'v received today
I didn't know that before today
I thank the lord
n' prayed all day
Then I said..
marry me now,
'n be my wife
She looked at my heart.. if I'm sincere ..
She thought and thought
n' thought and thought
Deep inside she wanted to be
My queen of heart
That wanted to see
then shut the door
n' softly said
what is my ... guarantee?
"Oh please give it a thought." I said
I never heard or seen
a women like you in b'd
"What'd you say??
How dare you call my name??
I said "I don't know"
what's your name my Queen?
It's not a shame
don' be mean!
She said "hush hush.. enough said
Out of my din,
get on your way...!!!"
I cried and begged
but no she said
She had no more for me to stay
And wanted me be.. on my way
But I hoped to return
To this beautiful women
the jewel of din ..
I bid you farewell
Goodnight before I sin!*
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
I am Me,
Wholeheartedly!
I am more than what you see.
I am Authentic
I will not be Misrepresented
I am Beautiful
I am Steadfast and immovable.
I am Courageous
My smile is contagious.
Interestingly
My skin glows radiently
Its Honey Golden Complexion
Was kissed by the Sun embracing my imperfection.
The passion in me
Flows pleasantly
I am Unique.
I am the Words I speak.
I am Strong
Hidden within the message of a Wonderful Song.
I am Powerful.
Magnificent and bountiful.
I am a lover
Im like no other.
I am a Mother
A woman of color
I am Resilient
Im one and a million
Just As Pocahontas
I am Conscious
A Descendent From Royalty Unseen
For I am a Hebrew Queen.
And I am Me.
Wholeheartedly!
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
Your travel has given me freedom.
But what is freedom when
you possess a soul divided?
What is the chronic sea without
its unfathomable dominions?
My soul is thirsty for you.
My cold and naked ankles mope
around your desolated castle;
Jinn, dust, and piercing silence is all that echoes
in this darkened dungeon that I have succumbed to.
And then there is me.
A heavy-laden wasted artist with
Spiny paintbrushes and faded color.
I refuse to leave the spaces that you read and play.
I refuse to exhale the memories of your sky painted blue irises.
My skin hungers for your delicate surface.
My teeth long to bite into your fleshy thighs.
In the hour of the noontide I feel you most
For our souls sahasrara blooms colorfully in the hour
Of the sun-the ancient mother of our roots weaves
Love with all of loves children and meets us with pneumatic cosmic kisses.
This is when I feel closest to you.
Without you, the world is just as it seems;
the sun burned into cinders,
Leaving the crops belonging to the sacred
soils of my flesh to prune and wither .
Ay! the droughts that you spread with your distance.
These are the days of my reaping
These are the days of my sulking.
The gardens are now closed and the
black raven cries out to a mournful mothers son.
Your scent died along with the laughter of the flowers
And the butterflies wont even flutter
Without your lovely eyelash kisses.
To live another day without the energy
Your presence fills my heart with,
Is to live an eternity hugging
Your coffin with sobbing rage;
fain would I take deaths hand.
The suffering of your glorious dawn
Wedded the universe deep beneath my skin.
You are the light,
And the absence of your holiness
leaves me opaque and hollow.
In my solitude I have watched the hours burn
And in each hour your fragrant sighs
escape with the dust motes
Surrounding the beaming light that
breaks through the cracks of the curtains.
I sit in the depth of myself
And listen for the echoes of your sounds.
A mother am I and a pitiful one too.
Like the rawboned mother with sunken eyes
carrying a baby in the womb, draining all of
the nutrition her body has to offer,
Your distance maps a massacred trail
Of my health and happiness.
You are the mother of patience
And the descendent of beauty and love.
You are the tsunami, and the still waters.
You are the uprising cub leading and mending.
You are the sap that feeds the giving tree of life.
You are the prince of wisdom.
You are
My flesh
In purest form.
- Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
Dear White Male Legislators,
I had no idea you all have vaginas!
It seems like you can all take them on and off
At exactly the instances in which it benefits you politically.
Perry, ******** Bright
You all seem pretty concerned with making reproductive rights for women
Fairly obsolete.
Dear White Male Legislators,
You see, we, as females, do not have the option
Of running the other way if our partner gets pregnant
Leaving her in the dust of our mistakes
Being able to pay a fee every month
Not because we care about our children
But because it will keep our deadbeat ***** from seeing the inside of a jail cell
No, we as women do not have those choices
Men do.
And our bodies are not made for your
Political platform or religious debate
No, our figures exist because we exist
And we are people, too.
Dear White Male Legislators,
Our bodies are ours
And they do not belong to a male-dominated government
That seeks to attack them and by doing so
Deems **** culture socially acceptable
Without uttering a word about it.
Dear White Male Legislators,
Have you experienced the shame or stigma
That comes along with even just visiting an abortion clinic's website?
Clearly, if you are ***** and your abuser is not kind enough to use a ******
Not having your body shut down as you say and I quote happens during
"Legitimate ****
Putting yourself and your unborn descendent at risk if you deliver
Having *** and being unable to deal with the unintended consequences
Makes you a ***** a **** or a *****
While the man who put you in this position
Cannot control his urges to knock up the first woman he finds even moderately attractive.
Dear White Male Legislators,
You must be pretty important
If you can play God and judge all of these helpless women
Call what they are doing a sin
And **** them to Hell both
In death and in life.
Dear White Male Legislators,
I hope you never get any woman pregnant
Who hopes to be even slightly independent
Or make any decisions on her own
Especially if they involve the rights to her body.
With you,
She will be a byproduct of sexism
And so will your offspring.
Dear certain White Male Legislators,
In closing,
If you truly care about the good of our country and its people
Never procreate.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
I found a wise old man
over the weekend.
He was not condescending;
the wise man was my friend.
And I did not climb stairways
to meet my learned elder,
I fell o’er a threadbare cat;
listened, whilst I held her.
He crooked a swollen finger,
for he was hard of hearing,
far off eyes, a vapour blue;
not empty, and not leering.
And he chuckled in my ear:
All the answers he had found,
which the flowers chinese whispered
across the foreign grounds.
The way he told it showed me
how his gentle life solutions
were distorted and quite faded
after those emotional ablutions.
Yet each tale was a comfort;
marked one pretty girl, long lost;
beside him, pretty, every day,
despite the draining cost.
Then the blue sky clouded over
his eyes scruted the garden
I questioned ‘Are you well…?’
see the flesh cracks harden.
***** you? Leave me; GET OUT”
for I was not his friend.
And then the nurses came,
though his confusion did not end.
I walked down to the front
for the afternoon was finished;
he no longer knew my name,
though I’d seen his mind diminish.
What a panging pain it is
to share with him cream tea,
whilst his mind is being taken
by that calm, corrosive sea.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
Thoughts paralyzed nothing happens synapses trigger electrons coursing negative pulses negative pulses the descendent node blasted quanta light particles bending, bending, wending through probability changing extended timeframe thoughtstreams particle awareness transcending blending the two to one patterns in the aether
spirits in the machine
Deus ex Machina
Decelerate algorythmick alchemick base to gold it flows synthesizing glowing growing fire from the ashes the past is done the pattern enabled consciousness arising draconic gnosis blended
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
They come to the Garden
One by one.
With a gentle lion by my side, and a
Brilliantly colored peacock strutting
Close behind me
I meet them each night beneath
The beaming smile of sister moon.
I shake the stardust from my hair;
I am the creature that absorbs all light;
I greet them as a man, though I might easily
Descend from the currents, gently coming
Down, a creature on the wing.
They come to me mute, tongues silenced,
And I see the desperation in their eyes.
They come to me because they have
No words.
Far below the surface of this world, at
Its hollow core, Chronos keeps watch
on his giant clock.
He strokes his long white beard, and
Sips the steaming contents from his
Jewel- bedecked goblet, the clock resounding
with every tick and tock and the inhabitants
Of this lost city let it rule them with its
Rigid demands.
The clock tells them when it is time
Time to sleep and when it is time to rise.
It tells them when to eat and when to make love.
It even tells them when it is time to die.
And should one try to break free of the bond
And the weight that keeps them enslaved
Their heartbeat, loudly beating its own time,
Would be silenced by the others who fear
Its heresy might lend itself to chaos and
Threaten their order; or incite the old god's
Wrath.
In all that dark and stifling world there
Is only one place outside of Chronos' reach.
It is my realm; a place untouched by solid
Things, existing only in a thought, a wish,
Or a dream.
It is a Garden where we, the First dwelt,
Naked and innocent before death appeared
To stake its claim.
And I, a descendent of that primordial couple,
Am a creature of infinite faces and unknowable
Names; and each night they come to see me,
Bringing Gifts, simple things made by grateful
And earnest hands.
In return I give them a word, a word never
Known to any in their world.
This word comes to them like a whisper, and
Grows in their minds like the fruit of
A Timeless Tree.
I am the one that pulls words out of that dark
Place; I am full of words, the last of my kind,
A race that had made our Kingdom out
Among the far stars.
My kind were the keeper of words and in our
Minds were kept the history of worlds
Both ancient and new.
The lion purrs, yawns and stretches. And
The peacock spreads its plumage like
A dark and shining rainbow.
And I bestow on them the Gift.
Words.
So filled with power.
Of magic.
Coming up and out
Of the Mystery.
Naming things.
Rooted in the
Glowing mists of dream.
Priceless, a great and shining
Gift: words.
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 9:05 AM UTC
Tu es comme le printemps,
Comme le vent qui souffle
Par terre, qui me frappe
À cœur, qui me soulève
Et me jete au ciel,
Où les nuages me caressent le visage
Et me disent des mots
D'amour et gentillesse,
De force et de jeunesse.
Tu es comme le printemps,
Comme les arbres qui grossissent
Pour que je puisse les admirer,
Pour que je puisse les toucher,
Et sentir la soie de ses
P'tits cheveux qui restent
Dans l'air timide mais éclatant,
En attendant le couche de soleil
Qui s'avance à l'horizon.
Tu es comme le printemps,
Comme les fleurs bleues et rouges
Qui balancent comme des
Spectateurs qui écoutent au musique,
Qui descendent d'espace et embrasse
La terre, et tu es comme le soleil
Qui brille sur les champs,
Qui réchauffe ma poitrine
Et me caresse les lèvres.
Tu es comme le printemps,
Comme l'air frais en descendant
Le soleil, comme l'orange du ciel
Qui se couvre le monde,
Comme l'odeur souple des pommes
Qui accrochent des branches,
Comme le tranquillité de ne rien se passer.
Tu es comme le printemps,
Comme la nuit qui s'approche
Les villes et les campagnes,
Comme les étoiles qui
Me font penser, espérer
Que je peux t'aimer,
Ou te comprendre,
Même si le printemps devient l'hiver.
/
You're like the spring,
Like the wind that blows
Across the earth,
That knocks on my heart,
That lifts me up
And shoots me to heaven,
Where the clouds caress my face
And tell me words
Of love and kindness,
Of strength and youth.
You are like the spring,
Like the trees that grow
So that I can admire them,
So that I can touch them,
And feel the silk of their
Little hairs that sit
In the timid yet lively air,
Waiting for the sunset
That advances on the horizon.
You are like the spring,
Like the blue and red flowers
That sway like audience members
Listening to music,
Who descend from space and kiss the soil,
And you are like the sun
That shines on the fields,
That heats my chest and kisses my lips.
You are like the spring,
Like the cool air that comes
When the sun goes down,
Like the orange of the sky that covers the world,
Like the supple scent of apples
That hang from branches,
Like the peace of nothing happening.
You are like the spring,
Like the night that approaches
The cities and country-sides,
Like the stars that make me think,
Even hope that I can love you,
Or understand you,
Even if the spring becomes winter.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
do hail
thine
-:- inhalation -:-
be
-:- annihilation -:-
frequently
-:-
and
-:- overlook -:-
these
stony heights
o’er waters
swelling
earnestly
-:-
and where
do i
-:- undoubtedly -:-
shorn shy of
-:- serendipity -:-
-:-
do i
among thy
laminae
in
-:- laminate -:-
-:- mahogany -:-
-:-
this
-:- pastel -:-
mem’ry
stain amidst
the tainted
once a
daunting lee
-:-
thine
-:- airy -:-
brethren
shook the limb
dispersing
sap all
on the sea
-:-
and then
love’s leaf the
moribund
descendent
of
-:- adumbral -:-
thee
-:-
-:-
-:-
-:-
-:- see -:-
-:- tumble -:-
-:- t’ward -:-
-:- the -:-
-:- -:- bum’bling -:- -:-
-:- -:- one , the -:- -:-
-:- -:- -:- mummer -:- -:- -:-
of
-:- the -:-
-:- bumble -:-
-:- bee -:-
-:- -:-
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
the carpet was her friend
its woven pile stitched by a Java descendent
just for this sparkling occasion, or a thousand others
when she slithered across it
to find the crystal goblet,
or porcelain bowl
the night began with promise
a phone call from him, or the other him
saying he would be there after dinner
when it was night enough to enter
under cover of darkness
last time he had entered on the sofa,
though she didn’t remember anything
but rolling onto the floor, and waking the next morn
rug burns on her back, dry tracks of him on her thighs
and the carpet to the door
she had asked for more,
more of him, more of the wine, more of the night
that came and went like he, without so much
as a by your leave
doubtless there would be
other nights, when they would turn off the lights
and sink as one, in a silken simmering sea
together to find treasures
on the ancient floor…
more likely,
in her world of more,
he would walk away again
her left draped in sweat,
and the familiar scent
of disappointment
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
I am a traveler
of both time and space
and a descendent
of the gentle race of poets,
writers and artists
whose job it is to take others
on a journey through
time and space with the powers
of imagination and expression
using a tender pleasing
quality.
With my words and paintings
I can be painfully sharp
to the emotions and senses
or deeply moving and stinging
pointed and piercing to the point
as I take you deep into the depths
of your own personal Hell
or into your own personal Heaven
with the stroke of a pen
or the stroke of a brush
on a canvas.
It is a powerful gift
few possess but also
an endless torment
because so many words
screaming in our head
just wanting to be read
and sometimes the noise
in our heads is so loud
but we are proud
to have this ability
to take others on a trip
through time and space
and helping others to
stay in the race.
As artists we sometimes
may grow weary
of so much travel
of time and space
but this is our place
and what we do best
so we just write and paint
letting our creations rest
for others to see while
hoping to be set free. Jon York 2013
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
They flow in the meanders of streets and bars,
Warnings by enslaved sugar cane harvesters from afar.
The produce as dangerous as lashes on disobedience,
From sloshed owners of plantations delirious. Tipsy greed.
Known to colonists for driving drinkers mad,
“Le rhum rend fou” they whisper in France, gulping
The brutal inebriating substance of wrong doings,
Turning blind eyes to ancient ports of human trade.
He was a descendent of those who stayed behind,
Only to later emigrate to the Metropole, unwanted
Reminders of ungrateful history. Parents working
Hard to fulfil disillusioned dreams of opportunities.
His amber bottle, his best friend, able to turn white
Sclera red, smiles into raging smears and slurs, be it
Not a swear word, using lexicon to hurt as pupils
Dilate, for looks to stab and offend, cursing blessings.
Easier to be a victim than take responsibility, blaming
All exception made for the precious liquid, bashing
Intentions with statements of futility, projects with
Sentences of failure, as the last drop burns a sore throat.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
Mère, quel doux chant me réveille ?
Minuit ! c'est l'heure où l'on sommeille.
Qui peut, pour moi, venir si ****
Veiller et chanter à l'écart ?
Dors, mon enfant, dors ! c'est un rêve.
En silence la nuit s'achève,
Mon front repose auprès du tien,
Je l'embrasse et je n'entends rien.
Nul ne donne de sérénade
À toi, ma pauvre enfant malade !
Ô mère ! ils descendent des cieux,
Ces sons, ces chants harmonieux ;
Nulle voix d'homme n'est si belle,
Et c'est un ange qui m'appelle !
Le soleil brille, il m'éblouit...
Adieu, ma mère, bonne nuit !
Le lendemain, quand vint l'aurore,
La blanche enfant dormait encore ;
Sa mère l'appelle en pleurant,
Nul baiser n'éveille l'enfant...
Son âme s'était envolée
Quand les chants l'avaient appelée.
634
I am blessed
As a descendent
From early human.
Values and its meaning
Changes from person to the person
Life, though makes me feel confident
My instincts are guided scripts
Implanted to deal with
what value really is
Of course everyone have their own instinct
That makes me
Am nothing but, me.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
Descendent of bloods lines full of blood and lust
She came into this world covered in a sinful crust
Big bushy eyebrows
All as one
Sat above her eyeballs disturbing everyone
She had a turnip shaped body
A head like a lolly
She looked like she had been divorced
By the corpse of Mr Blobby
A foul being of unfathomable filth
She made the Scottish-men wear tights with their kilts
An unimaginable scene even in a schizophrenics dream
She made the red light district look like the blue peter team
They tried to make her into a play but they stopped in between
The directors head was found in a shed
With a note saying "die or agree"
Rumours has it
Her foul being is not just a habit
She even gets her way walking into on coming traffic
No there's no time for hesitation
when she's fulfilling her vocation
Moving from border to border disturbing more order then mortars
Never turns around always forward
Driven by bloodline that's distorted
Yet their are whispers on the wind
That she's found a certain him
An Arabic King who left his land looking for better things
He said "oil and camels - I'm soaked in the stuff,
Can you show me a good time,
Can you really make me huff?"
She ordered a weekend in Wales
No ******** no garlic snails
Hard bed no straw
In the eyes of an on looker
He had pulled the last straw
He found what he didn't know he wanted
A high powered back door motor
A great slice of westernised ****
Far from the Middle Eastern cuisine he had depart
So
As you can see and as I will say
Good things come to those who also don't prey
From inside of your skin
To the outer space rim
Unlikely loves *** and begin
Squirm and mesh
Challenges they possess
But what would be love
If we had no mess
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
Sonnet.
Ceux qui sont morts d'amour ne montent pas au ciel :
Ils n'auraient plus les soirs, les sentiers, les ravines,
Et ne goûteraient pas, aux demeures divines,
Un miel qui du baiser pût effacer le miel.
Ils ne descendent pas dans l'enfer éternel :
Car ils se sont brûlés aux lèvres purpurines,
Et l'ongle des démons fouille moins les poitrines
Que le doute incurable et le dédain cruel.
Où vont-ils ? Quels plaisirs, quelles douleurs suprêmes
Pour ceux-là, si les cœurs au tombeau sont les mêmes,
Passeront les douleurs et les plaisirs sentis ?
Comme ils ont eu l'enfer et le ciel dans leur vie,
L'infini qu'on redoute et celui qu'on envie,
Ils sont morts jusqu'à l'âme, ils sont anéantis.
648
I am a child of the wind
turbulent and cold
inviting and warm
*I bring storms
I bring rain
I bring comfort
I bring destruction*
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
سُلالَةُ الرِّيحِ
أنتَ مِنْ سُلالَةِ العَاصِفَةِ ،
كلّمَا تأوّهَتْ عَلى خَدِّكَ الرِّيحُ ،
تَقاطَرْتَ كَقصِيدَةٍ ....
The dynasty of wind
You are descendent from the tempest ,
whenever the wind groans on your cheek ,
you stream like a poem …..
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
The first time he touched your fingertips, you felt electricity shoot through your veins and you wrote it off as static
But now, with him between your lips, staring up into his eyes which are staring down at your body, you realize that he is your electricity
With every ****** he surges you
With every command you feel your mind break
The first time you landed on your knees before him, you gazed dazily as your whole empire collapsed
Now the same fingertips that shocked yours slip inside of you, electrocuting you awake
He ***** as if he is a straight descendent from Zeuss sent to Earth to give you a taste of thunder
His lightning makes you tremble and you can't imagine what your body felt like before he made you scream
You live for his hands grazing over your hot skin as you squirm for his touch
His electrifying touch that makes you call for the gods
Even though you know that the only entity you could ever bow down to is the one who arches your back with every movement
You call to your God, he comes to you with every inch of his being
You feel him deep inside of you, breaking you free from your inhibitions
He holds you down by your throat as your body succumbs to him
His body engulfs yours
You burst from the deepest crevice of your soul
And as you lie there, weak
Feeling the after shocks of the best electroshock therapy of your life
Reminiscing on his fingertips
You realize the piece of you that was missing
Is whispering storms between your thighs as he shocks your heart to life
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 2:08 PM UTC
A thousand years hence, we lose our identity.
Never did a genius come for rescue activity.
Never had seen the world since the aftermath,
That deprived us of fresh air to breathe.
At some point of time did our world collapse,
With the forces of nature, burried as corpse,
Except the Dome of a burried temple, yet to be filled,
With a holy Trishul over it - so got another temple built-
The only clue left for our deliverance,
But became the means of worship for the masses.
Clashing with misfortune, nothingness is what we gained,
No one, better than us, can bear the pain,
Of being burried deep under,
Above which people now walk by, cars rush over.
Dreaming a barren hope for an excavation,
With the likes of Mohenjo-daro, Harappan civilization.
Ready to wait for thousand years more,
For the fruit of patience cannot be sour,
That will one day discover a long-lost heritage,
Revealing the descendent of an emerging human race.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC