Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"dialogues" poems
Kashmir Delirium Oh People Of Earth! Thankful are we, For each act of benevolence shown to us. Your gilded sweet words describing, The beauty of Kasmir, land and people. Mention in books and talks of it's riches, Naming it the Sweet Paradise Of Earth. The Lord has been bountiful to Kashmir, Treasure of resources in every sphere. To elevate each aspect, our wish for life, As every acre of this land is worth millions. Full of treasures and recreational value, Forestry with grandeur and silvery rivers. The outside world's view is so limited, Simple folks living in the lap of rich bounty. Mentioned in world forums and organizations, But what of the goal of giving us freedom? What has The UN established in our name? To measure the pain and anguish we bear, At the hands, of our supposed benefactors. The saviours who has us fractured. But in reality they train their enforcers, In the art of creating oceans of tears. The red blood now hidden in camouflage, The spent shells now gathered and hidden. The leaders we are told to elect in electoral shams, Run publicity kiosks and swell friend lists. Joint conferences to address personal interests Dialogues that never address the root issues. Just the formalities and no sympathy, For the ones burnt in cruel sadistic reprisals. The hypocrisy continues deliriously unabated, More augmentation of the security forces. For a first hand view of deep hypocrisy, Walk this land, you know as beautiful. Religious leaders will teach you political artistry, Sermons full of ambiguity and guile. Waywardness and narrow mindedness on display, Political apologists give great lessons. Religion and religious ethnicity are tools, That keep minds and bodies in total check. Gamesmanship by leaders is the rule of thumb, As promises are forgotten once office is obtained. When writing of this succulent beautiful land, Write of the air, pregnant with sadistic practices. This land is being stripped of worldly treasures, And the greatest treasure is mistreated daily. The best of nation is the inhabitants, Ignored are the real gems of this beautiful paradise.
0
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
perveiz-ali
Kashmir Delirium
Kashmir Delirium Oh People Of Earth! Thankful are we, For each act of benevolence shown to us. Your gilded sweet words describing, The beauty of Kasmir, land and people. Mention in books and talks of it's riches, Naming it the Sweet Paradise Of Earth. The Lord has been bountiful to Kashmir, Treasure of resources in every sphere. To elevate each aspect, our wish for life, As every acre of this land is worth millions. Full of treasures and recreational value, Forestry with grandeur and silvery rivers. The outside world's view is so limited, Simple folks living in the lap of rich bounty. Mentioned in world forums and organizations, But what of the goal of giving us freedom? What has The UN established in our name? To measure the pain and anguish we bear, At the hands, of our supposed benefactors. The saviours who has us fractured. But in reality they train their enforcers, In the art of creating oceans of tears. The red blood now hidden in camouflage, The spent shells now gathered and hidden. The leaders we are told to elect in electoral shams, Run publicity kiosks and swell friend lists. Joint conferences to address personal interests Dialogues that never address the root issues. Just the formalities and no sympathy, For the ones burnt in cruel sadistic reprisals. The hypocrisy continues deliriously unabated, More augmentation of the security forces. For a first hand view of deep hypocrisy, Walk this land, you know as beautiful. Religious leaders will teach you political artistry, Sermons full of ambiguity and guile. Waywardness and narrow mindedness on display, Political apologists give great lessons. Religion and religious ethnicity are tools, That keep minds and bodies in total check. Gamesmanship by leaders is the rule of thumb, As promises are forgotten once office is obtained. When writing of this succulent beautiful land, Write of the air, pregnant with sadistic practices. This land is being stripped of worldly treasures, And the greatest treasure is mistreated daily. The best of nation is the inhabitants, Ignored are the real gems of this beautiful paradise.
Continue reading...
49
Unfinished, unpolished, unfurnished; unpublished. Like us, a draft of what can be called "the both of us." A draft created that's open for change. A change to be better ---better than who we are or what we are in the midst of the conflict that floats around us for the sake of us for the both of us ---for each other. A change to be smoother ---smoother with no mistakes, with everything in order; consistent, and coherent even with the dialogues we say that matter. A change to be clearer ---clearer, meaning it is at least what it is meant to be conveying with no underlying vague wordings when it comes to our feelings ---for one another. But that's there all is: a draft of what could be called the both of us; a product of what we can become if we make it become; a product of the possibilities of what can be us, of what might be us, of what is it between us between the fragments of the words, the lines, and the series of all of them that constantly paint faint descriptions of us, descriptions created [fabricated] in my mind like a work of fiction, of pure imagination. Unfinished, unpolished, unfurnished; unpublished, like the poems I wrote for us; like the poems about us; like us, a draft.
0
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
fnt
[draft]
Unfinished, unpolished, unfurnished; unpublished. Like us, a draft of what can be called "the both of us." A draft created that's open for change. A change to be better ---better than who we are or what we are in the midst of the conflict that floats around us for the sake of us for the both of us ---for each other. A change to be smoother ---smoother with no mistakes, with everything in order; consistent, and coherent even with the dialogues we say that matter. A change to be clearer ---clearer, meaning it is at least what it is meant to be conveying with no underlying vague wordings when it comes to our feelings ---for one another. But that's there all is: a draft of what could be called the both of us; a product of what we can become if we make it become; a product of the possibilities of what can be us, of what might be us, of what is it between us between the fragments of the words, the lines, and the series of all of them that constantly paint faint descriptions of us, descriptions created [fabricated] in my mind like a work of fiction, of pure imagination. Unfinished, unpolished, unfurnished; unpublished, like the poems I wrote for us; like the poems about us; like us, a draft.
Continue reading...
73
I though he carried the light where words would illuminate driving me to a euphoric ****** a man without a face or a trace unhindered in a double live and lies a bubble of psychotic psychic surety his passion was an addiction my reservations moved a notch addicted to a body of ideology the stances of philosophical terms uncovering ancient possibilities the unfelt mysteries of history veiled in icicles of pretence and lies as if a Marxist, a closet bourgeoise The stoicism of present bargains questioning Socrates and morality reasons a fatal dose ,examining the unexamined as colourful as his mind blew my inner glow he was lost in sad and low dialogues afraid to face the earthly shallow shadows yet his spirits moved deep within mine and it paralysed and fed on my energy and his delusion became my seduction but he woke my inner poetic tongue letting it caress all his inner wounds A shadow hiding behind Frankenstein’s a sly monster who lied to my eyes ghosting in with the a pen that weakens romancing with letters of a fiery doom a penpal whom I met within my lowest but whose words lay in a deep unending quarry his warmth I could never ever tell his kiss only a draft on the dewy grass
0
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
SassyJ
2. Declarations on a window sill (series)
I though he carried the light where words would illuminate driving me to a euphoric ****** a man without a face or a trace unhindered in a double live and lies a bubble of psychotic psychic surety his passion was an addiction my reservations moved a notch addicted to a body of ideology the stances of philosophical terms uncovering ancient possibilities the unfelt mysteries of history veiled in icicles of pretence and lies as if a Marxist, a closet bourgeoise The stoicism of present bargains questioning Socrates and morality reasons a fatal dose ,examining the unexamined as colourful as his mind blew my inner glow he was lost in sad and low dialogues afraid to face the earthly shallow shadows yet his spirits moved deep within mine and it paralysed and fed on my energy and his delusion became my seduction but he woke my inner poetic tongue letting it caress all his inner wounds A shadow hiding behind Frankenstein’s a sly monster who lied to my eyes ghosting in with the a pen that weakens romancing with letters of a fiery doom a penpal whom I met within my lowest but whose words lay in a deep unending quarry his warmth I could never ever tell his kiss only a draft on the dewy grass
Continue reading...
33
The first comment I received a **** you" with a smiley face I laughed off wouldn't you? Kind of crazy kind of creepy put it away as some one we all know. The second comment came with the usual language refrain I was a "hack" my words were "dreck". The disparaging words about my dead mother gave me pause to reflect. The third comment and more began to recall information of past faux pas secret affairs one or two personal pecadillos never mentioned beyond the dialogues in my mind. Embarrassing I know. I, of course, went to the home page to see if it was someone known to me. No identifying data but a picture I remembered vaguely from a past I didn't know. The trolling continued relentless I would say pulled the plug put up a block but wouldn't you know The comments continued to come into my dreams brutal criticism of every move I made the day finally arrived when I realized Alter personalities were shedding off of me like psychological psoriasis They were hitting the ground running I was finding poems I didn't remember writing clothes I never bought People kept hugging me I had never met before they knew me far to well called me many names none of which were mine. The silence of my nights were broken when I found myself in my car on Highway 101 returning from where I did not know with a smile on my face illegal drugs in my pocket. How did I get here? How did we get there? Where are we now? Another account opened on Hello Poetry with an anagram of my name. I find my days getting shorter and shorter it became clear I had become the dream The others had become me.
0
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
sjr1000
Dissociative Identity Disorder (Multiple Personality) On Hello Poetry
The first comment I received a **** you" with a smiley face I laughed off wouldn't you? Kind of crazy kind of creepy put it away as some one we all know. The second comment came with the usual language refrain I was a "hack" my words were "dreck". The disparaging words about my dead mother gave me pause to reflect. The third comment and more began to recall information of past faux pas secret affairs one or two personal pecadillos never mentioned beyond the dialogues in my mind. Embarrassing I know. I, of course, went to the home page to see if it was someone known to me. No identifying data but a picture I remembered vaguely from a past I didn't know. The trolling continued relentless I would say pulled the plug put up a block but wouldn't you know The comments continued to come into my dreams brutal criticism of every move I made the day finally arrived when I realized Alter personalities were shedding off of me like psychological psoriasis They were hitting the ground running I was finding poems I didn't remember writing clothes I never bought People kept hugging me I had never met before they knew me far to well called me many names none of which were mine. The silence of my nights were broken when I found myself in my car on Highway 101 returning from where I did not know with a smile on my face illegal drugs in my pocket. How did I get here? How did we get there? Where are we now? Another account opened on Hello Poetry with an anagram of my name. I find my days getting shorter and shorter it became clear I had become the dream The others had become me.
Continue reading...
82
Another gray trip to a small town. At the bus stop: an abandoned bicycle, trembling in the rain, waiting for someone, who never came. The coughing crowd, getting on and off, headed for the unknown. Actors carrying heavy bags of ugly food. Out of the corner of an invisible eye snatches of words drifting into a wrinkled world— not the first, vivid green, but the tired lettuce, expired bananas— a symbol of unreachable luxury. Casual dialogues about angels and demons, atheists and spiritual needs. Random people battered by reality rolling out a red carpet for their thoughts, spoken aloud in the indifferent air, small talk about kicking life— an existential fight to survive. The game downloaded by an unfair fate. Something put him, her, them on this wrong level, an extreme mode the deepest discomfort. Unfair purpose of pain. For many, not being loved is an aching way, for others, the lack of bread. The multiple truths closed in one small drop of a rainy day without a name.
0
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 11:55 AM UTC
Agnes-de-Lodz
The Grey Level
Another gray trip to a small town. At the bus stop: an abandoned bicycle, trembling in the rain, waiting for someone, who never came. The coughing crowd, getting on and off, headed for the unknown. Actors carrying heavy bags of ugly food. Out of the corner of an invisible eye snatches of words drifting into a wrinkled world— not the first, vivid green, but the tired lettuce, expired bananas— a symbol of unreachable luxury. Casual dialogues about angels and demons, atheists and spiritual needs. Random people battered by reality rolling out a red carpet for their thoughts, spoken aloud in the indifferent air, small talk about kicking life— an existential fight to survive. The game downloaded by an unfair fate. Something put him, her, them on this wrong level, an extreme mode the deepest discomfort. Unfair purpose of pain. For many, not being loved is an aching way, for others, the lack of bread. The multiple truths closed in one small drop of a rainy day without a name.
Continue reading...
40
I shake awake in the sleep… The invisible dialogues, unable to distinguish from darkness vexes me... I have heard the sob of the horn bill of the freedom throughout the half broken dreams… you also may blame me like my mother that it’s because not pray to God when I go to bed… For how many ‘freedoms’ I've been kept decorated in the living room? the fishes in aquariums are not the beauty kept in the glass pots but freedom closed in the glass… While the fishes argue that the three quarter of the world has made for them, looking towards the open canopy of freedom, the love birds, quibble me from the cages that what I caged is the word of ‘freedom’ itself. Doubtlessly, creating Auschwitz cells in living rooms how can I speak about the freedom? Having exempted the birds towards canopy of indulgence the fishes to the sea of the rights, I went to fly in the freedom of sleep forgetting to pray to God… then, I know the birds from the canopy of indulgence and the fishes from the sea of the rights, are praying God for the sake of me…
0
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
jafar-sadik
Auschwitz in The Living Room
I shake awake in the sleep… The invisible dialogues, unable to distinguish from darkness vexes me... I have heard the sob of the horn bill of the freedom throughout the half broken dreams… you also may blame me like my mother that it’s because not pray to God when I go to bed… For how many ‘freedoms’ I've been kept decorated in the living room? the fishes in aquariums are not the beauty kept in the glass pots but freedom closed in the glass… While the fishes argue that the three quarter of the world has made for them, looking towards the open canopy of freedom, the love birds, quibble me from the cages that what I caged is the word of ‘freedom’ itself. Doubtlessly, creating Auschwitz cells in living rooms how can I speak about the freedom? Having exempted the birds towards canopy of indulgence the fishes to the sea of the rights, I went to fly in the freedom of sleep forgetting to pray to God… then, I know the birds from the canopy of indulgence and the fishes from the sea of the rights, are praying God for the sake of me…
Continue reading...
29
I had to disassemble it Our world Take it apart Bit by bit Word by word Those words Letters Full of meaning Could no longer exist Anywhere My friend, my lover And my refuge Suddenly turned Traitor Turned foul Deceptive Dangerous My friend, my lover My language So I began the demolition Of clandestine concepts Tearing apart nouns And adversary adjectives violently, I separated verbs And adverbs Thus impairing indecent interjections Until our grammar Finally collapsed Now there is only silence Safety in signs like Minuscule monuments All bereft of meaning And I am in mourning For I have no words To throw into the void Only memories Of distant dialogues Dreams
0
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
patricia-drake
Taking Apart Language
I had to disassemble it Our world Take it apart Bit by bit Word by word Those words Letters Full of meaning Could no longer exist Anywhere My friend, my lover And my refuge Suddenly turned Traitor Turned foul Deceptive Dangerous My friend, my lover My language So I began the demolition Of clandestine concepts Tearing apart nouns And adversary adjectives violently, I separated verbs And adverbs Thus impairing indecent interjections Until our grammar Finally collapsed Now there is only silence Safety in signs like Minuscule monuments All bereft of meaning And I am in mourning For I have no words To throw into the void Only memories Of distant dialogues Dreams
Continue reading...
38
I run through dialogues in my mind as a way to communicate with someone, though imaginary as they may be, my thoughts and feelings on subjects, of which I am lost. "I have no other means, no friends, no families, of which I may defenestrate these ideas through the windows of my soul." "These fires have started and started to spread and started to burn my sanity's thread. My sweater has come off again. Lying naked in conflagration, When will I be saved? When my savior comes, Sweater undone, How should I behave?" I talk to this nobody, this fool on the hill, and smile alone in my empty home.
0
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
stanley-zakyich
Meaningful Conversation.
I run through dialogues in my mind as a way to communicate with someone, though imaginary as they may be, my thoughts and feelings on subjects, of which I am lost. "I have no other means, no friends, no families, of which I may defenestrate these ideas through the windows of my soul." "These fires have started and started to spread and started to burn my sanity's thread. My sweater has come off again. Lying naked in conflagration, When will I be saved? When my savior comes, Sweater undone, How should I behave?" I talk to this nobody, this fool on the hill, and smile alone in my empty home.
Continue reading...
27
My idea of a good night is staying in And technology serves as my friend With a glass of wine or bottle of brew in my hand Talking to a list of favorable foes on the web Where conversations boarder between flirty and scholarly lines And typed dialogues lead way to theoretical thoughts and inspirational designs Pondering ignites a spark that surges in my mind I’ll begin to research the fast array of thoughts that run through my brain Fixated on scientific data, predicted trends and worldly traits Eventually it’s not enough for my thought I’ll try to fight the inevitable feeling that starts to form in my gut Leading way to the breeding ground for butterflies Factual documents begin to get lost in the shuffle As my attentions now caught by an excerpt or rousing photo New tabs are opened over the old And I always find myself ending at the same place Looking up poems about love and images elapsed from past days
0
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
cait
Solitary Successions
My idea of a good night is staying in And technology serves as my friend With a glass of wine or bottle of brew in my hand Talking to a list of favorable foes on the web Where conversations boarder between flirty and scholarly lines And typed dialogues lead way to theoretical thoughts and inspirational designs Pondering ignites a spark that surges in my mind I’ll begin to research the fast array of thoughts that run through my brain Fixated on scientific data, predicted trends and worldly traits Eventually it’s not enough for my thought I’ll try to fight the inevitable feeling that starts to form in my gut Leading way to the breeding ground for butterflies Factual documents begin to get lost in the shuffle As my attentions now caught by an excerpt or rousing photo New tabs are opened over the old And I always find myself ending at the same place Looking up poems about love and images elapsed from past days
Continue reading...
17
Lining up batteries of anti-aircraft anti-everything all anti- something this and that distribution centre for psychological pressure backed by radio, TV presidents staring straight newspapers, journals and dialogues around flash round tables on the whys how’s and who’s sneaky microphone hidden in flower pots, long distance listening devices. Telephones tapped wives tapped, senior diplomats and doormats tapped wives tapped on shoulders whispered to: watch out for Joe blogs he has a roving eye. see me tonight, after dinner. The russians have warship A into Zone B the chinese have shifted anti-missile up the mountains near tibet, near nepal near taiwan, near  the hormuz straits into africa, zimbabwe, fiji, and northern china who cares. Tomorrow they will shift out again. the pressure is building in the ukraine, turkey is on fire The north koreans have no power as seen from satelllites The president has run of tomato sauce so he has asked for a shipload from us of a ship it with some spies dressed as tomatoes god its killing me these acupuncture points three more needles please! Author Notes Relentless. ( an wacky I s'pose). Think about it all. © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
0
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
marshall-gass
Power Posture
Lining up batteries of anti-aircraft anti-everything all anti- something this and that distribution centre for psychological pressure backed by radio, TV presidents staring straight newspapers, journals and dialogues around flash round tables on the whys how’s and who’s sneaky microphone hidden in flower pots, long distance listening devices. Telephones tapped wives tapped, senior diplomats and doormats tapped wives tapped on shoulders whispered to: watch out for Joe blogs he has a roving eye. see me tonight, after dinner. The russians have warship A into Zone B the chinese have shifted anti-missile up the mountains near tibet, near nepal near taiwan, near  the hormuz straits into africa, zimbabwe, fiji, and northern china who cares. Tomorrow they will shift out again. the pressure is building in the ukraine, turkey is on fire The north koreans have no power as seen from satelllites The president has run of tomato sauce so he has asked for a shipload from us of a ship it with some spies dressed as tomatoes god its killing me these acupuncture points three more needles please! Author Notes Relentless. ( an wacky I s'pose). Think about it all. © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Continue reading...
30
Your dialogues are like the Calculus, I don't get it why dx/dy has to be solved. I still don't get it when you say 'it's just okay'. Your behavior is horrible like Rubik's Cube, I don't get it why it has to be disturbed at all. I still don't get it when you kiss me through tears. Your decision-making is as fluid as the Water, I don't get it why it fumes as if nascent sometimes. I still don't get it when you sink into my arms confused.
0
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC
Atul
But I Still Don't Get It
Your dialogues are like the Calculus, I don't get it why dx/dy has to be solved. I still don't get it when you say 'it's just okay'. Your behavior is horrible like Rubik's Cube, I don't get it why it has to be disturbed at all. I still don't get it when you kiss me through tears. Your decision-making is as fluid as the Water, I don't get it why it fumes as if nascent sometimes. I still don't get it when you sink into my arms confused.
Continue reading...
9
All the days are graying and I'm fraying like the sweater my grandfather gave me. It still smells of cigars and old west, I'm ever quested and pressed with emotion. I've become a faded flower fated to the pages of an old almanac in the back of the library. Scents of worn novellas standing solitary on shelves and fragrant wisps of wisteria. Alone to settle and mettle with dust and dialogues full of empty follies and triumphs.
0
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
orbitalmucus
Con Dolcezza (With Sweetness)
All the days are graying and I'm fraying like the sweater my grandfather gave me. It still smells of cigars and old west, I'm ever quested and pressed with emotion. I've become a faded flower fated to the pages of an old almanac in the back of the library. Scents of worn novellas standing solitary on shelves and fragrant wisps of wisteria. Alone to settle and mettle with dust and dialogues full of empty follies and triumphs.
Continue reading...
5
as soon as the banishment in a forest comes to an end all the rain-drops come to the ball-room with unfolded umbrellas over their heads the slumber of the adjourned dialogues also breaks all the blossoms of the cucurbitaceous plant that are supposed to open their petals have gone to the majlis of the aquatic-plants riding on a wrong-minibus then a photograph of the dinner- party is to be found out and brought for the saliva-gland there is no voice of the palms of the open-window of his own even then each and every the air-hostess eagers to listen to the song of boat-rowing from him here the duck of the mid-noon is engaged in pleasure with the flower-vase of class x their drinking-bowl is flying along the flame of the rail-line though it does not bear any grief to the large lake that is wetted with perspiration there is no delta of misspelling as well it has only the smoking of thousand cusec all the day and night
0
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 4:17 AM UTC
murari-sinha
after the end of banishment in a forest
as soon as the banishment in a forest comes to an end all the rain-drops come to the ball-room with unfolded umbrellas over their heads the slumber of the adjourned dialogues also breaks all the blossoms of the cucurbitaceous plant that are supposed to open their petals have gone to the majlis of the aquatic-plants riding on a wrong-minibus then a photograph of the dinner- party is to be found out and brought for the saliva-gland there is no voice of the palms of the open-window of his own even then each and every the air-hostess eagers to listen to the song of boat-rowing from him here the duck of the mid-noon is engaged in pleasure with the flower-vase of class x their drinking-bowl is flying along the flame of the rail-line though it does not bear any grief to the large lake that is wetted with perspiration there is no delta of misspelling as well it has only the smoking of thousand cusec all the day and night
Continue reading...
27
Genuinely a human being is suppose to listen to bees Bees are little bumblebees Dalai Lama is the Cutest of them All Beings Endure good~ness Bye With a mission Working sweetly Wonderfully unselfish Unending For a greater  cause Forgetting about the fame and the flattery laurels Achievements and Archibalds Focusing on liveliness of a recent call n Frivolous flattering sounds Are gentle blessings You'd recon that I adore your Intense passion for Poetry By the looks By shut eyes  eager to be soon open for a glimpse of Outerness The listeners are performing With slightest ****** mimics With crossed legs open Changing a position Scrathes on head Winking Nodding Inwardly borne self dialogues Your soliloquy Is the sea of Love, life Loving Me By the memory Reciting Bits of your heart beats When the tin noise   Of your crying Tears tears Apart Interrupted Rumbles When you dream of the mortal coils descendant As a halflings brought together through Dissolving into the golden Cocoons You've seen two Butterflies I've seen one amongst many Each a divine gift Within wholeness You There's No peace When you dissapear And I yearn to visit a cultural event In total darkness (if i shut my poetic eyelids and cover them with both palms) then maybe only the blood's tiniest brooks within my fingers may start the signal for the motion pictures inside the ideal world The World's Spinning In a Absolutely Poetic Manner Kirchenblau Let me embrace peacfulness Within the secret garden Let me taste of your Nectary thoughts Let me lead you through Thundery waters Silk veils and lyricism Let me lead you through Fire and ice n'all that is Nice Let me . . . oh . . . Let me Suffice
0
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
ImpeccableSpacePoetess
Humble Bumblebee
Genuinely a human being is suppose to listen to bees Bees are little bumblebees Dalai Lama is the Cutest of them All Beings Endure good~ness Bye With a mission Working sweetly Wonderfully unselfish Unending For a greater  cause Forgetting about the fame and the flattery laurels Achievements and Archibalds Focusing on liveliness of a recent call n Frivolous flattering sounds Are gentle blessings You'd recon that I adore your Intense passion for Poetry By the looks By shut eyes  eager to be soon open for a glimpse of Outerness The listeners are performing With slightest ****** mimics With crossed legs open Changing a position Scrathes on head Winking Nodding Inwardly borne self dialogues Your soliloquy Is the sea of Love, life Loving Me By the memory Reciting Bits of your heart beats When the tin noise   Of your crying Tears tears Apart Interrupted Rumbles When you dream of the mortal coils descendant As a halflings brought together through Dissolving into the golden Cocoons You've seen two Butterflies I've seen one amongst many Each a divine gift Within wholeness You There's No peace When you dissapear And I yearn to visit a cultural event In total darkness (if i shut my poetic eyelids and cover them with both palms) then maybe only the blood's tiniest brooks within my fingers may start the signal for the motion pictures inside the ideal world The World's Spinning In a Absolutely Poetic Manner Kirchenblau Let me embrace peacfulness Within the secret garden Let me taste of your Nectary thoughts Let me lead you through Thundery waters Silk veils and lyricism Let me lead you through Fire and ice n'all that is Nice Let me . . . oh . . . Let me Suffice
Continue reading...
78
Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts in old attics reeking with romance. That eternal prayer found in complete silence, begs sinners to break purity. Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips, creating poetry in sacred space. The momentary awareness of another, who craves the absorption of your soul. **** me into your lungs darling. I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom stirring in the temple of my bones. These truths begin a home in our late night dialogues circling around dangerous pasts, all those golden, fatal blades. As we make our way back to the red light of sleep, the attic leans in to touch our skulls. We respond with agony and laughter. I slide into sleep, forgetting all I need to find in your mind. Accepting the fingerprints as you press my identity upon your tongue. The restless goddess within my nature swallows the mortality in tonight's poetry. But this never lasts. Love is a distraction, an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency, a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror and blames the lack of other. Learn to leave the fear behind. You alone are whole. There is poetry sewn into your veins. Underneath that sacred silence there is an original symphony waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.
0
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
katy-laurel
Q. Sobering Up From All That Darkness
Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts in old attics reeking with romance. That eternal prayer found in complete silence, begs sinners to break purity. Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips, creating poetry in sacred space. The momentary awareness of another, who craves the absorption of your soul. **** me into your lungs darling. I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom stirring in the temple of my bones. These truths begin a home in our late night dialogues circling around dangerous pasts, all those golden, fatal blades. As we make our way back to the red light of sleep, the attic leans in to touch our skulls. We respond with agony and laughter. I slide into sleep, forgetting all I need to find in your mind. Accepting the fingerprints as you press my identity upon your tongue. The restless goddess within my nature swallows the mortality in tonight's poetry. But this never lasts. Love is a distraction, an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency, a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror and blames the lack of other. Learn to leave the fear behind. You alone are whole. There is poetry sewn into your veins. Underneath that sacred silence there is an original symphony waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.
Continue reading...
37
By the time we reached the final act our dialogues turned to whispers warmed us the pledge to the silent pact we would be rehearsing under the stars dew would damp the players' cloth all but the two were gone who were tied by the burning oath must shape their roles to perfection owls hooted in the night's shadow world slept behind shut door we were numbed to the time's flow by the sounds of claps encore one the alien had blood thick green that only the ****** revealed when unbeknownst was cut his skin by the other soon to be killed that time now ***** to yellowed page long back fate set him free my skin is now bold in age he's evergreen in memory.
0
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
pradip-chattopadhyay
Green Man
By the time we reached the final act our dialogues turned to whispers warmed us the pledge to the silent pact we would be rehearsing under the stars dew would damp the players' cloth all but the two were gone who were tied by the burning oath must shape their roles to perfection owls hooted in the night's shadow world slept behind shut door we were numbed to the time's flow by the sounds of claps encore one the alien had blood thick green that only the ****** revealed when unbeknownst was cut his skin by the other soon to be killed that time now ***** to yellowed page long back fate set him free my skin is now bold in age he's evergreen in memory.
Continue reading...
20
.. …. …... …..... …........... ….................. …............ …..................... …............ …......................... …................. …..... barometric tendrils psuedo-random and hybrid sets growing like ivy in the clutches of time such a            chocking                    but actualising     grasp ..huh? what? oh yes! sorry, sorry come in, come in,                        ..you know, I too, once, like how you are now, was here too so                    very                                very                                              present. Aha! Oh yes! Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision, 'hee hee hee' aaaaaahhh.. I really was pitiful back then. seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome with ahem sorry. ..dank and musty cellars,     hashish and a can of beans. (baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- ) had it all back then though, didn't we? By which I mean we had nothing, but the conviction that obligation was something that actually meant something rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme, (with a slice of lemon) confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men. Derivative markets oh, so very much so so very derivative idiomatic and ******* asinine.   ..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it? 'detached and disposable.' toothpicks limbs ideals all that goodness! I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I? Interpolate up some mediated conjecture. But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they? So our fiscal policy seems to think; 'I wager we shear up the youth to buy shares in implementing youth wages.' sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint, “think of the children!” , they say? Can't they see, the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens?? we do it all for them the little snots. laissez faire welfare hedge or double down? A shrubbery? Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese? (I just vomited in my mouth a little, (how pastiche)) See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past; the future's got me car sick. and honestly we're just brimming with history (the scourge of post-modernity) like a black moss spewed on the walls Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever tearing up our lovely lovely pacified pay and display psuedo proto posterity …..... …................. …......................... …............ …..................... …............ ….................. …........... …..... …... …. ..
0
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
abloobloobloo
dialogues ii
.. …. …... …..... …........... ….................. …............ …..................... …............ …......................... …................. …..... barometric tendrils psuedo-random and hybrid sets growing like ivy in the clutches of time such a            chocking                    but actualising     grasp ..huh? what? oh yes! sorry, sorry come in, come in,                        ..you know, I too, once, like how you are now, was here too so                    very                                very                                              present. Aha! Oh yes! Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision, 'hee hee hee' aaaaaahhh.. I really was pitiful back then. seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome with ahem sorry. ..dank and musty cellars,     hashish and a can of beans. (baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- ) had it all back then though, didn't we? By which I mean we had nothing, but the conviction that obligation was something that actually meant something rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme, (with a slice of lemon) confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men. Derivative markets oh, so very much so so very derivative idiomatic and ******* asinine.   ..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it? 'detached and disposable.' toothpicks limbs ideals all that goodness! I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I? Interpolate up some mediated conjecture. But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they? So our fiscal policy seems to think; 'I wager we shear up the youth to buy shares in implementing youth wages.' sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint, “think of the children!” , they say? Can't they see, the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens?? we do it all for them the little snots. laissez faire welfare hedge or double down? A shrubbery? Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese? (I just vomited in my mouth a little, (how pastiche)) See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past; the future's got me car sick. and honestly we're just brimming with history (the scourge of post-modernity) like a black moss spewed on the walls Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever tearing up our lovely lovely pacified pay and display psuedo proto posterity …..... …................. …......................... …............ …..................... …............ ….................. …........... …..... …... …. ..
Continue reading...
105
For the days when you feel like, there is nothing left for you to feel. As though the whole universe had come together To conspire against you And take away all that’s left of you. For the nights when you feel Heavy and restless From the weight of your eyelids that has seen too much. Entertaining the repetitive dialogues in your head that never ceases. Unsettled. You live your life with a series of misunderstandings And the concept of happiness has never seem so foreign to you. This is for you. You struggle to find meaning; Any purpose or reasons to live this life for one more day When it hurts most to even breathe. But darling, I promise you that one day The universe will be kinder and You will find so much love that You shall be whole again. Those days you spent in the dark; The nights that consumed you whole And the mornings that arrived late in pieces reflects nothing but your courage to carry on, to travel further. This one is for you. One day, The warm sun will rise and days will no longer seem dull and long. The hurt will be over. And you, will lustre. You will be okay. Eventually.
0
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
shalyn
This is for you.
For the days when you feel like, there is nothing left for you to feel. As though the whole universe had come together To conspire against you And take away all that’s left of you. For the nights when you feel Heavy and restless From the weight of your eyelids that has seen too much. Entertaining the repetitive dialogues in your head that never ceases. Unsettled. You live your life with a series of misunderstandings And the concept of happiness has never seem so foreign to you. This is for you. You struggle to find meaning; Any purpose or reasons to live this life for one more day When it hurts most to even breathe. But darling, I promise you that one day The universe will be kinder and You will find so much love that You shall be whole again. Those days you spent in the dark; The nights that consumed you whole And the mornings that arrived late in pieces reflects nothing but your courage to carry on, to travel further. This one is for you. One day, The warm sun will rise and days will no longer seem dull and long. The hurt will be over. And you, will lustre. You will be okay. Eventually.
Continue reading...
40
I'm a black actor So my monologues are gospel my dialogues are political my blocking is a statment My diction is forgiven I'm a black actor So Shakespeare speaks above my melanin, Avant guarde is a canvas too fresh for color And the urban expierence Is a glove that fits too well to remove I'm a black actor So my casting is guaranteed My bio line is their defense against vulturous social critics circling the audition table They need a black actor I'm a black actor
0
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
branson-rideaux
Black actor
I'm a black actor So my monologues are gospel my dialogues are political my blocking is a statment My diction is forgiven I'm a black actor So Shakespeare speaks above my melanin, Avant guarde is a canvas too fresh for color And the urban expierence Is a glove that fits too well to remove I'm a black actor So my casting is guaranteed My bio line is their defense against vulturous social critics circling the audition table They need a black actor I'm a black actor
Continue reading...
15
I've tried to record The way your name falls out of my mouth When I drop glass onto the floor Like my mothers list of forbidden words In spreadsheets Counting with fingers and letters Every time I pass a red pushpin in a map Of where you told me "You're so young and immature" Like a compliment traced with Sobriety and melatonin I've picked up pencils That end up in pieces After scrawling your dialogues Onto "it's your own fault" paper I've scrubbed myself raw With people who wont Look me in the eyes anymore With your goodbye words With the flashbacks of Your hands manifesting The uncharted areas Of my brittle hips How my ****** syllables were Dinner party jokes There's nothing that can hurt A god of power And business suits Someone who's never told no Holds a child In a way that erases the thought of comfort And now I lack the maturity to refuse requests And you tell me I'd make a good corpse At a funeral catered towards Twenty-nine year old men Who never learned the difference Between property and personality And my promises Tighten around my throat Gratefully Like your hands Fostering the Aurora Borealis of love In a way that Makes me choke on The things you've shown me The things you've ruined for me The words I will never get back And I sit With you surrounding me In and out of every crevice of my body You've claimed for yourself Helpless And defeated Like a child Just how you like me
0
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
scully
child
I've tried to record The way your name falls out of my mouth When I drop glass onto the floor Like my mothers list of forbidden words In spreadsheets Counting with fingers and letters Every time I pass a red pushpin in a map Of where you told me "You're so young and immature" Like a compliment traced with Sobriety and melatonin I've picked up pencils That end up in pieces After scrawling your dialogues Onto "it's your own fault" paper I've scrubbed myself raw With people who wont Look me in the eyes anymore With your goodbye words With the flashbacks of Your hands manifesting The uncharted areas Of my brittle hips How my ****** syllables were Dinner party jokes There's nothing that can hurt A god of power And business suits Someone who's never told no Holds a child In a way that erases the thought of comfort And now I lack the maturity to refuse requests And you tell me I'd make a good corpse At a funeral catered towards Twenty-nine year old men Who never learned the difference Between property and personality And my promises Tighten around my throat Gratefully Like your hands Fostering the Aurora Borealis of love In a way that Makes me choke on The things you've shown me The things you've ruined for me The words I will never get back And I sit With you surrounding me In and out of every crevice of my body You've claimed for yourself Helpless And defeated Like a child Just how you like me
Continue reading...
58
sun and moon stand side-by-side in the great starless sky of this Monday Sunday Tuesday workweek with ambulance stoplight caution I leap from crevice to crack of the ***** cement walkways that tear across snowy fields staring at the world around me - faces as solemn unreserved apathetic mirrors of nothing in their corresponding souls pair them off in dialogues of the triumphs of the fabled GPA - its ********** growling dripping fangs embedded in their minds since sloppy second-hand birth and I cry out and I cry alone for these are the summers winters springs falls etc and so on of my discontent for I am a man among gods gods of capitalism and communism  and social disorder and bureaucracy gods of music and poetry and written spoken words and fashionability and the only false evidence of such godly aspirations remain on my body as fading bitemarks on my wrists from when once I tried so valiantly to tear my technicolor blood from these incontinent arms but even in such times as those there was no salvation but for yellow-staining death sticks clutched between shaking fingers and melting shots fired down raw fleshy throat in rapid secession the gods I hold so dear have left me for whatever come what may in these places of my mind filled with words and thoughts and images of your everything thrashing against nothing
0
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 11:44 AM UTC
harry-gross
Winter Solstice
sun and moon stand side-by-side in the great starless sky of this Monday Sunday Tuesday workweek with ambulance stoplight caution I leap from crevice to crack of the ***** cement walkways that tear across snowy fields staring at the world around me - faces as solemn unreserved apathetic mirrors of nothing in their corresponding souls pair them off in dialogues of the triumphs of the fabled GPA - its ********** growling dripping fangs embedded in their minds since sloppy second-hand birth and I cry out and I cry alone for these are the summers winters springs falls etc and so on of my discontent for I am a man among gods gods of capitalism and communism  and social disorder and bureaucracy gods of music and poetry and written spoken words and fashionability and the only false evidence of such godly aspirations remain on my body as fading bitemarks on my wrists from when once I tried so valiantly to tear my technicolor blood from these incontinent arms but even in such times as those there was no salvation but for yellow-staining death sticks clutched between shaking fingers and melting shots fired down raw fleshy throat in rapid secession the gods I hold so dear have left me for whatever come what may in these places of my mind filled with words and thoughts and images of your everything thrashing against nothing
Continue reading...
11
there's a story on the wind can you hear it? an ode to a classic hero facing enemies at every turn a ballad from a love struck sailor to his land locked dame the lamentation of a tired soul ready to exit stage left epics bound in flesh breathing the same air walking the same earth yet completely unaware of when plot lines intersect one persons sunrise is another sunset riding off to where the sidewalk ends a stunning view of Mars in all his glory from another window an example of an empty vessel hungry for content with each step we act our the script the world's a stage the plays the thing let's pan out and take into view the aspect ratio in conjunction with our soundtrack monologues dialogues analog has less room for falsehood than these digital lives digital lies we lead rewriting the scope and depth of the narrative without changing pace or thinking to replace certain key elements like setting and grace peace comes when the curtain closes don't fret encores are in order but on the b-side of the single we must note with remixed emotion that the stories we live have no sequel so we must trust and ****** ourselves into every opportunity paving the way to success not just for us but for those that read the synopsis and hit rewind
0
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 7:51 AM UTC
barnabassmith
Epics Bound in Flesh
there's a story on the wind can you hear it? an ode to a classic hero facing enemies at every turn a ballad from a love struck sailor to his land locked dame the lamentation of a tired soul ready to exit stage left epics bound in flesh breathing the same air walking the same earth yet completely unaware of when plot lines intersect one persons sunrise is another sunset riding off to where the sidewalk ends a stunning view of Mars in all his glory from another window an example of an empty vessel hungry for content with each step we act our the script the world's a stage the plays the thing let's pan out and take into view the aspect ratio in conjunction with our soundtrack monologues dialogues analog has less room for falsehood than these digital lives digital lies we lead rewriting the scope and depth of the narrative without changing pace or thinking to replace certain key elements like setting and grace peace comes when the curtain closes don't fret encores are in order but on the b-side of the single we must note with remixed emotion that the stories we live have no sequel so we must trust and ****** ourselves into every opportunity paving the way to success not just for us but for those that read the synopsis and hit rewind
Continue reading...
50
A tattered soul journeys. Awaken the sleeping gods. Jaded fragments of the whole. Moonlight trickles down. Smell of burning amber. The night deflowered. A fluorescent bolt. The dismal void crackles. Lightning brands the sky. Supine on porcelain. In a mesmer of cold. Sensations surge. Blankly whispering eyes. Tracing the cracks. A starless ceiling. Music snakes about. A dreary tangle. Rhyme and melody. Sober thoughts clamour. Awash with miasma . Sordid with memories. Slivers of imagination. Mares in the shadow. My dire soul slumbers. Emotions at the gallows. Staircase spirit dialogues. Coffee cup delusions. Jaded fragments of the whole. Awaken the sleeping gods. A tattered soul journeys.
0
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 8:15 PM UTC
JosephYzrael
Forty Winks
A tattered soul journeys. Awaken the sleeping gods. Jaded fragments of the whole. Moonlight trickles down. Smell of burning amber. The night deflowered. A fluorescent bolt. The dismal void crackles. Lightning brands the sky. Supine on porcelain. In a mesmer of cold. Sensations surge. Blankly whispering eyes. Tracing the cracks. A starless ceiling. Music snakes about. A dreary tangle. Rhyme and melody. Sober thoughts clamour. Awash with miasma . Sordid with memories. Slivers of imagination. Mares in the shadow. My dire soul slumbers. Emotions at the gallows. Staircase spirit dialogues. Coffee cup delusions. Jaded fragments of the whole. Awaken the sleeping gods. A tattered soul journeys.
Continue reading...
30
Beautiful moments. Pesky butterflies. Corny dialogues. Happy ever after. Partners made for one another. Could people be more immature? To believe that Prince Charming is waiting, The glass slipper the entry to a new life. How about a tragic love story? where the prince was disowned by his father The peasant a ***** The fairy godmother - a disturbing problem to humanity And the ending is such a tragedy.
0
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
nikkibelle
Before the bell rings
Beautiful moments. Pesky butterflies. Corny dialogues. Happy ever after. Partners made for one another. Could people be more immature? To believe that Prince Charming is waiting, The glass slipper the entry to a new life. How about a tragic love story? where the prince was disowned by his father The peasant a ***** The fairy godmother - a disturbing problem to humanity And the ending is such a tragedy.
Continue reading...
13