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Richard Barnes Aug 2018
In one hand time’s pencil, the other hand time’s eraser
and line by line, written events are  erased, forgotten in
history;  Read what love dictates, sweet thoughts of love
before time’s eraser turns words into forgotten dust.
Kewayne Wadley Jan 2017
You've crossed my mind many nights.
Sometimes I just lay there, holding you tight in mind.
Wandering your body with my hands.
Filling my fingers with the skin I've dreamt so much about.
The things you keep hidden. unraveled in empty sheets, blankets.
Your warmth becoming the only comforter that dictates whether or not I'll have sweet dreams.
What justifies the stain our breath has left on one another's.
The press of your face against my neck.
The marks left on each other in anticipation. Refusing to pull ourselves away.
Clinging tight to the ****** of being beside ourselves.
Deliberately keeping each other awake in the promise of sleeping wild moments later.
To watch your face scrunch up as it breaks your gasp. Bringing a halt to anticipation,
The comfort of bodies becoming pillows harboring us into a deep sleep. Soft, still.
My head laying on your shoulder.
As we ourselves become lost in the sheets
Traveler Apr 2014
Nobody seems to listen
And nobody seems to care
All these words I’ve written
This nakedness I've bared

Still I continue to write
Like a scribe whose kingdom’s come
The words of a poet
Are never said and done

To live with bitter madness
To reconcile with past
To dodge the angry arrow
Is a poets unconscious task...

Still these words keep coming
Like a fool without a cause
An annual case of writer’s block
Dictates my only pause

Perfect is the world we seek
On the wings of trust we embrace the flight
Dark are the waters we drown in
As we hold on to love with all our might

Perhaps I’m but a beacon
In a storm that will never cease
Anchored to this ocean
By a soul that’s never free
Traveler Tim
Re Po 04=19
in this age of vanishing dreams
and crying ghosts
I find myself drawn again and again
an undying connection
to this work of art
so out of time upon its creation
as to be an endless fascination for me
so unlike the artist
this suffering soul
who's immense love and anguish
for the less fortunate
coupled with a talent too immense
for one man
created a burden that weighed upon his shoulders
and his heart like a million captured tears
then once upon a beautiful dream
or perhaps just a clever thought or a baby's smile
a brief respite from the pain
he created the contradiction of his lifetime
as if to say to all that may come to know him
through what history dictates
'You see...I was not crazy!'
and The Smoking Skull
was born
I have some connection to this painting that I cannot explain...perhaps that is my skeleton in a past life...(grin)
Andrew Rueter Jun 2017
Somewhere in the forest
There is a paradise
Hidden in a circus tent
Blocked by a bramble thicket

There are ways we want to live
And ways we must live
But a spectrum is discovered
When the way we must live
Diminishes the way we want to live
And the way we want to live
Dictates the way we must live

We eat and then ****
Life tastes adequate when we're dining
So we keep feeding
Our appetite becomes insatiable
We devour what opportunity grants us
Ignoring the rumbling in our stomachs
Until we must face the unpleasantness of our waste
Even when we're wise enough to know the effects of eating
We continue eating
Learning minor methods of mitigating damage to digestion
It becomes hard to swallow
That this is all it takes to be human
As humanity's power becomes planetary
Meals turn to feasts
And **** piles up
As the rancid fumes plague us with mental monsters
We yearn for a simpler time
When rations were the size of a sunflower seed
And excrement exited as ethereal gas
An age that never existed

The way I wanted to live became the way I had to live
But now that I'm living the way I have to
I can't tell the difference between what I want and what I need
I guess that could be a good thing
Because the space between what I want and what I got
Is where fulfillment is found
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
I am not the master of my writing

-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;

the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional

so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;

I offer the she-muse two choices:

give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,

bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance

my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant

muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services

weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad

the muse-***** cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh

there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Worldeater May 2016
Wait and
Feel the depth from within the Jungle
Of an overlapping melody of violence-
The water rose and drowned the sounds
Echoing the silence of seven years buried
In a sea of earth, so
It was written as
Ridden steady waves
Split, sparked, spooled by
The written woven
Time of infinite darkness
Like, glass clouds blooming across the eyes
Like a glass veil glazed obsidian- migrant mother stranger
Hunter in the depths of Hell- without without as I have
Leather whipped crescents livid on my eroded
Bones
The water rose and I with it as if participating in
The joys of nascent mother motion ever-flowing

I neglect to confide in what formal formality dictates a causality      
The end
******' Haagen-Dazs
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled

get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling,  breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?

skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-****-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the

absent women

no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms,  non-differentiating
just  humanism-isms

and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Songs of Oregon  No. 4
Bad Luck Mar 2013
My hands still ache –
I’m convinced it’s my atoms splitting
No one asked me how I got addicted –
They said the focus was on quitting

But I’m here in the present
So I must have a had a past
It’s too bad “Where’d you come from”
Is a question never asked.

I went through hell to get here
So it should matter where I’m from
I tell them “it should matter what I’ve seen…
It should matter what I’ve done.”
He then responded like a father and began his sentence, “Son…
It’s the shock, not the trauma, that makes the body the numb.”
He said, “The thing you search is silence.”
“And yet you let your monsters drum.”

You start to figure things out. You know --
When you’re locked up all that time.
But you learn not from what you’re taught,
Instead, you learn from what you find.
And I found mine in the written word,
I found it in a rhyme.


Numbers always helped me think, so I looked for something to count
And as I pondered that man’s words, the room’s only light went out.
So I counted the only thing that I could feel aside from air,
And his seven words made sense, as I counted the one thing
That in the dark was always there.
I’m my own favorite number, so I began counting,
“One…”
But this time I didn’t count to two.
And the monsters didn’t drum.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t rely on someone else
For the first time, in the dark, I counted on myself.
I then knew why “Where’d you come from” was never asked --
Both they and I lived in the present; we couldn’t act upon the past.
It doesn’t matter where you came from, or even why you’re here.
For your past dictates your penance, but the present is your frontier.
Leo Dubson Apr 2018
hello, bright sunny day, I'm miserable once again;
people say to just be happy, but I'm not a fan.

the ground is not enough for me, no not at all;
I don't want to be stuck on this tiny blue ball.

I want to fly, up high into outer space;
and punch god right in his bearded face.

yes, I want to defy, I want to control;
I want to be the only one that dictates my role.

I want to be grand, I want to be all;
to be god for a day, I would sell my soul.
b Jul 2018
i told the girls at work about
time spent with jane.
they seemed awfully excited
for me.
maybe they could smell
that jane is new,
but familiar

like a car bought
used. she is barely driven
though. i still drive over
the skids i left from
trying to stop
too quick. you can see
my tread worn out like
sanded wood.

or maybe they could
smell the hope like dew on
the morning grass.
fresh but dangerous.
waiting
to trip me with my eyes
set ahead but not infront.
theyll leave the wire
right where they
got me the last time.

it would be an honor
to be fooled
by something so sweet
to the touch. it almost feels
alien
to not be so upset
by the way the weather
dictates my evenings.

i do not FEEL like i used to.
my love and guilt
helix and weave like code.

i would only kiss you now,
if it brought back the one i poisoned.

i live in a farm upstate now
like a dead house dog.
if ive really moved on
know that i did the impossible
we'll be better off for it.

and if things never work out with
jane, you best pray
someone loves me when im dead
cause they sure as hell
dont love me
now.
Krison Oct 2018
Light awakens,
shakes and beckons,
Come and see my shine.

I pierce the dusk,
away the dark .
For shadows pay no mind.


For the green does call me so
"I've seen"!,  unchain my glow.

This the maker of the grain.
That dictates heat in rain.
The day within the fog.
The loss within the gain.

For you cannot drain
the sun .
You cannot cause it pain.

For it is yule that's burned to death,
The dusk to make the dawn.
And never can you stare in awe,
At it, such blaring might.

Unless it be, by nightly stars,
When it allows you sight.
Seen from all it's children,

Europa, earth and mars.
You think you can appease or please the gods who placed you in these chains?
These chains were forged from years of work
So why suppose you can merely shake and **** these mental chains to earth like dirt?
In prison cells you train your mind
To leave the walls and bars behind
In spite of tablets etched in law
And dictates of those gods of yore
Through heaven’s gate to evermore
The free man
In his bliss
does soar.
Yuki Jan 8
We all have poetry
inside of us.
So take this poem,
title it with your name,
listen to the beautiful
verses your heart
dictates to you
and write them down.
Jodie LindaMae Jun 2017
It's with a ringing in my ears and hands
That I write to you today.
Underneath my fingernails
Are bits of plague and dirt,
Memories of memories lost
Or discarded.

I carry you in my heart, Severus,
That which beats not for my own needs;
Only for the tasks which I have been handed
By others.
Between the fists and insults
Thrown on Saturday nights
And the ****** ***** I've often found
In my bed on Sunday mornings,
I've found it easier to be alone.

I know what your father did to you,
A young man on the cusp of greatness
Pushed too far and spread
Too thin, crumbling your soul to entrails
Before it could be nurtured to greatness.

When I was seventeen
And told my father I wanted to die,
He told me he would buy a gun
To aid me in finishing the job.
I decided to live to spite him.
When you expressed
The same guteral need to your superior,
He told you that you would be of no use
Dead.
It is fortunate and, perhaps,
Unfortunate that we both listened,
Disgusted as we were.

I wear you on my skin, Severus,
The effigy of thin arms,
Circled around knees,
A fetal position in the corner, no,
The womb of the house,
A reminder that it isn't where we come from
That dictates where we are going.

Your mistakes are mine,
Though I have reason to believe
That the death toll is a bit higher
For you.
There was only one man
Whom I could not save.
But his face blurs the edges of every happiness
I have ever felt.

Do you have nightmares, Severus?
Often I find myself adrift
In a sea of longing,
Anxious to make a connection
Though the dream always ends in me drowning,
Pulling my arms back below the current
Before someone sees me.

I know that you know
The feeling, Severus.
I know that sometimes your cravat feels like a noose,
The buttons on your coat a straight jacket.
How long have you been imprisoned by yourself?
How long has guilt gripped you,
Curled its fingers around your ankles
In the night?
Is the lesson you teach one of redemption
Or one of warning?

The blood in my veins aches for men like you,
A generation of people
Brought to their knees
By ****** parenting
And even ******* decisions.
A generation of men raised by women,
A generation of unfulfilled dreams
And ambitions.

How old were you
When you gave up, Sir?
What was the defining
Moment in your life
That made you stand, shreik, and
Bemoan your life?
Has anyone ever judged you
As harshly as your judge yourself?

It is frightening to me
That when you died,
Only a bit older than I,
You had only a single vial of yourself
To give away.
A life of thirty eight years,
Compacted and compartmentalized
To the point of nonexistence.
Dear God,
Don't let me disappear
As you've often let your best men do.
A year ago I started writing open letter poems to the fictional characters I felt strong connections to in order to better understand those feelings. This is the first poem in that series.
Traveler Feb 9
I find my beliefs
Are mostly inline
With the far LEFT
But you know
Every once in a while
I agree with the RIGHT
In fact fear dictates
I wish I had a hand gun tonight

Must I represent
The evil in this world
My empathy engulfs
Every soul that toils
To be accepted
With due respect
I would give my love
And my life

Sure I am of the pigment white
My ancestors aimlessly struggled
But couldn't put things right
Because they lacked
Humanitarianism
Something in their bible
“No offence” talk about schism
A map that embraced human slavory-ism
And so...
I consider thinking left
As an evolutionary state
A way to clean the slate!
Traveler Tim

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bWXazVhlyxQ&list=RDbWXazVhlyxQ&start_radio=1
John Prophet Mar 13
A world
beyond.
Dreamland
unbounded.
A vision of
grander
vistas.
Vistas
unshackled by
the senses.
Senses that
limit our
vision, our
reach.
The senses
tell us
this is
all there is.
Five senses
dictates!
Dictates
reality.
Dictates
all that
is seen and
known.
Dreamland shows
otherwise.
Dreamland
takes us to
other realms,
other times.
No limits!
No limits
to a
richer
reality.
A reality
beyond the
senses.
Dreamland,
a sixth
sense,
a window
to infinity!
Katey Jan 23
I won't make I through the year.
You should leave and forget about me
When I'm gone maybe it won't hurt as bad...
How can you love me? Why do you?
Why, when The Grey dictates every aspect of my life.
I'm sorry, don't worry about me, this is the last time I'll say it.
Traveler Dec 2018
Into a corner
Of madness
I've been forced
Crazy dictates
My every course

Windows with bars
Once held me in
Chains and cages
Unforgivable sins

Loved ones lost
Far in the past
Regrets are shared
Emotions amassed
  
Poison waters
Hold my truths
Grew up in Flint
Youth without youth
Traveler Tim

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ttqMGYHhFFA
Connor Oct 2018
"In Heaven
The Water
is Shiny Gold"

In approach of a clearing /
Vernal-Volcanic-Bagpipe-Intimidation-Collapse-Arise-/
empty hopscotches fade with rain, remembrances of my foiled return
lent to after-rather haze mingling line by line
with eyeglasses fogged up

I relinquished the panic of your absence one week ago today, but it wasn't easy, being caught in such swelling strings once desiring to wake in Gold

I was guided by my dream family which led me thus / glimpsing premonition Wyomings sprawl with pine & geyser
flat land fire
down river /
Spring Snow and tribulations sound with elemental reverberations of Spirit colliding with Stone
pirouetting upon a newfound expanse

My restless and uninitiated Tulpa stirs and screams
(I am owed this one) delving to ancient territories of attractive chaos
emerged unkind
but tender enough to fold into my next dressing, appropriately remote

II

By June I ascend further via Nepalese staircases carved from Mountain rock, Sun-showers resplendently endow this band of rattling Sherpas with grace
to hold, to wrap around their necks and deliver to my private Summit

(where many have died, where many have given their flesh to this
Golgotha Sagarmatha)

Sneah Yerng !
away you mortal entity death !

I consume you with Himalayan tea and the heavy sensation of my boots planting their weight to frozen earth - listening, attention to the foreground Chorus exhaling harmonies of Khmer which give further texture to the native brush

(We were once kindling set perfect across the ground - to blaze & become heavenly together - instead subjugated by time's feral will, you - now a Mother and a stranger to me, Myself - continuing & following this sense strangeness which is always present but flickering like cosmic frequency magnetically luring me into a breadbasket of fire & weeping intermittent, into a cycle, a snake - surrounding magic Islands of self-past and self-future
which whirl-about searching feverishly for a path - now that the one preceding has been lost or misguided, you're bound to this breathing child who's not ours - but yours)

This is how our story ends. Where we diverge and become Actual -
carrying separate but respectful momentum in each Epoch of life in all it's various & flowing Identities, just as I'd once predicted in an Altenburg Kitchen reading Rimbaud and sipping hot water quietly, disturbed - knowing, somehow, that we'd irrecoverably commit to being temporary conflagrations in the lives of the other. The end of A summation. Events that in many ways were born there, it is forcibly behind me now.. I was the result of these things. A sword carved from heat, and pressure.

What do I do with this?
So worn with necessity - living
Enjoying occasional rain, timely - capturing passing loves
refusing to stale and finish as Petrarchan - Madame George and Myself as two ambitions which acted both honorably & dishonorably at times. As human nature dictates, as I'll know, a branded truth from now on -
I am proud of you, I love you. I will cherish you, always.

We curate and amend – understand
each other's impossible profundities

(Shh! lights go out unexpectedly ! Your remainder hovers by the door for just a few secret and sacred seconds/ gone...)

These poems have been as much for you as they were for me - But I must exit this vacated place of only peering into the beyondness of things that have outgrown their form
open, step - deliver myself to:
The last poem I'll be posting here or writing for a while. The end of a continuous stream of thought depicting the events and emotions of the last two years. Recent events have called to their end. I'll be ready to write again once this coming new state of mind and being has revealed itself - of which I am optimistic
Tete Rudo May 6
Religion
Is an institution
It consists of adherence to
Dogma
Doctrine
And
Disciplines
Spirituality
Is borne of the
Spirit
It consists of adherence
To the dictates of God
The Holy Spirit.

Church
Is not a building.
Church
Is your heart
And
The heart was created
For relationship with
God.
Connor Dec 2018
I

I relinquished the panic of your absence one week ago today, but it wasn't easy, being caught in such swelling strings once desiring to wake in Gold

I was guided by my dream family which led me thus / glimpsing premonition Wyomings sprawl with pine & geyser
flat land fire
down river /
Spring Snow and tribulations sound with elemental reverberations of Spirit colliding with Stone
pirouetting upon a newfound expanse

My restless and uninitiated Tulpa stirs and screams
(I am owed this one) delving to ancient territories of attractive chaos
emerged unkind
but tender enough to fold into my next dressing, appropriately remote

II

By June I ascend further via Nepalese staircases carved from Mountain rock, Sun-showers resplendently endow this band of rattling Sherpas with grace
to hold, to wrap around their necks and deliver to my private Summit

(where many have died, where many have given their flesh to this
Golgotha Sagarmatha)

Sneah Yerng !
away you mortal entity death !

I consume you with Himalayan tea and the heavy sensation of my boots planting their weight to frozen earth - listening, attention to the foreground Chorus exhaling harmonies of Khmer which give further texture to the native brush

(We were once kindling set perfect across the ground - to blaze & become heavenly together - instead subjugated by time's feral will, you - now a Mother and a stranger to me, Myself - continuing & following this sense strangeness which is always present but flickering like cosmic frequency magnetically luring me into a breadbasket of fire & weeping intermittent, into a cycle, a snake - surrounding magic Islands of self-past and self-future
which whirl-about searching feverishly for a path - now that the one preceding has been lost or misguided, you're bound to this breathing child who's not ours - but yours)


This is how our story ends. Where we diverge and become Actual -
carrying separate but respectful momentum in each Epoch of life in all its various & flowing Identities, just as I'd once predicted in an Altenburg Kitchen reading Rimbaud and sipping hot water quietly, disturbed - knowing, somehow, that we'd irrecoverably commit to being temporary conflagrations in the lives of the other. The end of A summation. Events that in many ways were born there, it is forcibly behind me now.. I was the result of these things. A sword carved from heat, and pressure.

What do I do with this?
So worn with necessity - living
Enjoying occasional rain, timely - capturing passing loves
refusing to stale and finish as Petrarchan - Madame George and Myself as two ambitions which acted both honorably & dishonorably at times. As human nature dictates, as I'll know, a branded truth from now on -

I am proud of you, I love you. I will cherish you, always.
Kaiden A Ward Jun 11
There is a disconnect between my body and my mind.
At least, that's what I tell people.
Because I find it easier to admit
that I am broken
than to open myself to their ridicule
as I try to explain asexuality
one more time.

It's hard, to describe an absence
of something you've never felt
to those for whom it defines their existence.
I don't understand their resistence,
logic dictates that just because one thing is true,
that doesn't eliminate the validity
of it's reflection.
It has become this society's obession
to portray us only as a lie, a
sickness you are lucky not to be infected with.

Though I am still struggling to find my voice
and understand my own mind,
I am sure of one thing:
I am not BrOkEn.
And if you are like me, please,
don't let your pride be stolen,
because neither are you...
There is nothing wrong with being Asexual. You are beautiful and worthy of love and place in this world.
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