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samasati Nov 2012
I believe in smiling at strangers. I believe in saying hello. I believe in shyness. I believe in fear of rejection. I believe in the need of affection. I believe in the need of reminders. I believe in candles, especially those that smell of vanilla or christmas. I believe in wearing small crystals around my neck. I believe in energetic vibrations. I believe in colours - I think each person has their own colour. I believe every feeling is valid. I believe in chapstick and I believe in mascara that doesn’t clump. I believe in nail polish - every colour of nail polish. I believe that the only reason we lie is because we fear something. I believe in poetry. I believe in bluntness. I believe in the intention behind words, but I don’t necessarily believe in words. I believe in travel. I believe in travelling solo. In fact, I believe in travelling so much that it is pretty much all I want to do. I believe in music. Boy, do I believe in music. I believe any kind of musical composition can change a person. I believe music can cure depression. I also believe music can feed depression. I believe a melody can say more than lyrics and I believe that lyrics can be what someone couldn’t put together themselves to explain exactly how they are feeling. I believe anyone can create a song, even though they believe they cannot. I believe a single note can sound like the most beautiful sound in the world. I believe if someone records a song when they’re in an ugly mood, the ugliness emits to its listeners and can drain them. I believe in art. Of course I do. I believe in acrylic paint. I believe in oil paint and watercolours, but not as much as I believe in acrylic. I believe in fingerprinting. I even believe in painting with your toes. And I believe in dancing; even if it looks weird. I believe in flailing your arms even, as long as it feels good and right. I believe in dancing ‘til you sweat, though I don’t like that icky feeling too much. I believe that a babe can be a very ugly person and a physically unattractive person can be a very beautiful person. I believe that people who smile are beautiful. I believe that people who frown are beautiful too, just in a different way. I believe that there are sincere smiles and there are manipulative smiles. I believe that some people just know how to use their eyes well. I believe in eye contact. I believe in engaging. I believe in listening and dropping everything else that is going on in your mind just to listen to what a person is trying to share with you. I believe in sharing - sharing cookies and sharing love. I believe in the frosty cold. I believe that it doesn’t have to feel as cold as it really is. I believe that people complain a lot. I believe that people often have too much pride to be happy. I believe that we should embrace our discomforts and shames, that we should welcome them wholeheartedly so that we can be happy. I believe in honesty. I believe in empathy. I believe in tea. I believe in jelly donuts but only on certain occasions. I believe in quirky bow ties. I believe in knit toques and mittens and scarves. I believe in dresses. I believe in flirting. I believe in coffee in the morning. I believe in big comfy beds. I believe in walking around your empty house in your underwear or birthday suit, singing loudly. I believe in singing in the shower. I believe in singing on the street. I believe in stage fright. I believe in meditation, though I don’t really strictly set times to do it anymore. I believe mundane activities can be done in a meditative state of mind. I believe in clarity. I believe in not judging people because everyone is human. I believe every human has something very interesting about them. I believe in boring people too. I believe in christmas music - not the radio kind, the choral kind. I believe in cheap sweet wine. I believe in Billy Joel and I believe in The Beatles. I believe in Regina and Sufjan too. I believe that the ukulele is a very overrated instrument. I believe in having healthy hair. I believe in moisturizer. I believe in getting to pick a coloured toothbrush at the dentist. I believe in thick wool socks. I believe in baggy sweaters. I believe in yoga gear but I do not believe in sweatpants. I believe that yoga is one of the healthiest things for a person - ever. I believe in buying a friend drinks or dinner once in awhile. I believe in collecting shoes and scarves and rings. I believe in chords but I don’t really believe in jeans. I believe in hot chocolate with whip cream but not with marshmallows. I believe in dorky Christmas sweaters. I believe in baking cookies instead of cake. I believe in eating disorders - I do not support them, but I do believe they are much more severe and various than most people think and I believe there should be better/proper help for those who suffer instead of the usual cruel inpatient/outpatient care. I believe in trichotillomania and I believe in dermatillomania and the severity and impact it can have on its sufferers. I believe in gardens. I believe in every single flower. I believe that everyone is always doing their best. I believe that most people love to struggle. I believe in hope. I believe in having faith in yourself. I believe in iPod playlists. I believe in gym memberships in the winter, not the summer unless it’s to swim. I believe in matching underwear every day. I believe in Value Village. I believe in singing in bus shelters when you’re waiting for the bus. I believe in dressing up according to holidays. I believe in Grey’s Anatomy and I believe in Community. I believe in skirts and dresses that twirl like the ‘ol days. I believe in longboards more than skateboards. I believe in plaid like most young people do. I believe in bows in my hair, but not as much as I used to. I believe in foot massages and hand massages. I believe in reflexology and reiki and essential oils and chakras and crystals and holistic nutrition. I believe in anxiety; even crippling anxiety. I believe in awkward romances. I do not believe in flip flops. I do not believe in Beatles covers unless they are really insanely good; then my mind is blown. I believe in having long enough nails to scratch someone’s back appropriately. I also believe in biting nails. I do not believe in telephone calls unless I am extremely comfortable with the person. I believe in blogs. I believe in journals. I believe in naming special inanimate objects like journals, instruments, technology and furniture. I believe in the idea of cats more than I believe in cats. I believe in sharpies or thin pointed permanent markers. I believe in temporary tattoos. I believe in streaming movies online. I believe in royal gala apples. I believe in avocados. I believe in rice cakes. I believe in popcorn. I believe in airports but I hate the LA airport. I believe in openly talking about *** but I don’t believe in making it seem shameful and gross. I believe there should be no shame regarding sexuality. I believe in reading some great books more than once. I believe in laying on the couch under cozy blankets, watching a great suspenseful tv show or movie. I only believe in having a couple bites of cheesecake. I don’t really believe in lulu lemon. I don’t believe many people can pull off the colour yellow. I believe in buttons over zippers even though zippers are easier, they just look kind of dumb and cheap. I believe in the sun and the moon equally. I believe in closets over dressers. I believe in staring out the window for a good hour or so.
Arthropod King Nov 2011
Expand.

Enlarge.

People won’t find
Much…

They veer off
The meaning.

They are lost.

Blinded.
By own Choice.

As I’m blinded
Too.

Swallow sand.

Painful.

Gnashing of teeth.

Skin ripped
In Stripes…

Nerves over-excited.

Dilated pupils
Wander desperately.

Hopelessly blinded.

Impaled.

Salivation
Exacerbated.

Breathing at an
unbearable pace.






Do you want to truly terrify a man?
Expand his world.
Amelia Oct 2013
I come from a place
Directed by a man with no front teeth
Who exhales sticky sweet smoke.

I come from a place
Where sobriety is not a default.
Where bad attitude is justified by the number of weeks clean.

I come from a place
That holds words like
methodone clinic
weaning
tapering
crank

I come from a place
where my mental health
is less important
than his.

I come from a place
Where my mother shouts at me,
"It's his fifth week, you have to expect something like this!"
"He's not in the right state of mind right now, let it go!"
"Temper tantrums are to be expected!"

I come from a place
That he leaves.
He goes to

the office
the gas station
get coffee
Because the initials N and A have
become ***** as he becomes clean.

I come from a place
Where addiction is the only "real" mental illness to them.
Where the sounds of pills falling down the drain
are matched with tears falling down a tired woman's face.
(Make that two)
tw: drug references, drug abuse references.
Maggie Emmett Aug 2014
Aunt Lottie had a slow and careful walk
every step could jar
the delicate balance
of the fragile grand piano
she had swallowed.

It was no ordinary instrument
it was entirely made of crystal
which added to the fears
of its disturbance
or destruction
by the simplest slip or stumble
or missed footing on a step.

It was a slight inconvenience
she had taken in her stride.
Matters concerning the said piano
were only discussed in hushed tones
on Wednesday afternoons
and only with her dearest nephew, Ludwig
who sensitively seemed to understand
the precious nature of imagination
and the tickling discomforts
of digested furniture and such things
as fancy may create.
The fearless ones
are fanning out
into the woods.

Others are huddled
in smartly constructed
camouflaged blinds.

These self styled
eco-warriors
brave the cold
and the discomforts
of inclement weather.

They keep a
watchful eye
over the stale
remains of
Dunkin Donuts,
bagels and
bacon grease
they cleverly
scattered
outside their
deadly bivouac.

These bold ones
eagerly finger the
barrels of their high
powered rifles,
palming the smooth
wooden stocks with
warm naked hands.

They itch to squeeze
the trigger but discipline
and fortitude inform
the vigilance of these
sentinels of sustainability.

They philosophically muse
about restorative balance
and the paradox of killing
in order to survive.

Another day has broken
over the New Jersey Highlands.

The hunt for bear is on.
Let the mammalian cleansing begin.

jbm
Oakland
12/6/10

Music Suggestion: Radiohead, Hunting Bears
James Rives Jun 2023
imagine reaching deep into yourself,
past any sense of doubt or regret,
and reliving what made you -you-.

saturday mornings when your dad
cut grass and expected help he didn't ask for while bacon and eggs waited
in the kitchen,

or sundays where evening cartoons robbed you, so you wished
for extra sleep before sermons
and trips to CVS.

or holidays alone because jobs
are demanding, and it won't happen
again next year, where stillness forms into repression,
fueled by discomforts, angsts,
sadness.

and it isn't until much later
that the light of your own existence
takes root, petals up toward the sun,
and chooses to flourish.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2015
season of resolutions,
new year's first born,
even quicker, first to die...

written in January

bad companions,
bare naked lady trees,
leafless branches upward pointy hands,
prayer-poking gray cumulus suffocations
that brandish distempered depression,
but disembowlment,
alas fails

awake to January snows,
a few days happenstance
quick to mortify in hours
to city-blackened slush,
from the winter's seasonal menu
fast removed,
spoiled come-on appetizer

lament the cold,
the quick passages
of stern resolute aspirations,
laying on lying sweet snow coverlets,
all of sugar made,
rapid dissolution
as expected,
momentary melt in your mouth
not in your mind

written in January

dreams of summer rejuvenation,
season of asking for nothing
for cosseted by nature's free bounty,
ask for no more than my
stern but comforting
Adirondack pillow chair coat wrapture,
the summer elements teamwork
salve save safe sundry effects
tan the disaffected interior most

wiffy cloud-banks to safe deposit
January weariness and dismay,
face-stroking downy breezes
deftly engineer a physic
another, yet once more,
summer soul
forgive-thyself-salvation,
unasked for but
answer-granted nonetheless

written in January

sum sum summertime
easy eyelashes love licked
gentlest happy bay waves,
rocked body forgiven a
winters pounding and poundage,
rolling down now on sunny easy street

written in January

living room fireplace-glow ignored,
unneeded, for t'is the season of
whole rooms food fed sun-suffused arias,
bathing brain in sundown's
late afternoon long languid
indefinable colors of providence's provided
uncommon normal natural spectacular

written this January

troubling majors mining minor discomforts surge,
distractions fail,
memorization of growing up
a lonely long bike-ride mile from the Atlantic,
genetic makeup says
amidst the
written in January
nightmares
therein exists a seeded summer sensuality
that pleasure grants
poems written ***
summer-life-dream schemes,

happily
betrayed by my inner owned,
I am still a summer man,
writ larger when
written in January



~~~~~~~~~~~~
by Wordsworth
http://m.poemhunter.com/poem/written-in-march/

by Nat
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=I+am+a+summer+man
R King Mar 2013
At the end of the day, much has been done
Some of it work, and some of it fun
But now is the time to lie down and sleep
Into my head all thoughts seem to seep

Abundant energy I have found
Enough to get up, to leap, to bound
But due to the time, to my bed I’m confined
And to all possible dreams I remain blind

As I lie I review my day
Thinking of things in a different way
But I do not tarry, quickly I move on
To days that are both short and long gone

Then I think of things not yet done
Making plans that seem to be jumping the gun
All this runs in circles through my head
As I shift uncomfortably in my bed

Soon I realize that part of what discomforts me
Is that you are not as close as I would like you to be
In fact I wish you were here to be a calming presence
To settle my brain, to give my breathing a gentle cadence

Were you here in my arms I know I would sleep
For I would have my love, as you have mine to keep
I would hold you close as if to ward off theft
Of you from my life, which would leave me bereft

Thank god I still have you in my life
Yet I am alone through this strife
All this thinking and wishing, leaves me feeling alone
For it all comes to nothing, but the emptiness has grown

Though all this I’m just trying to say
I love you, and miss you, and can’t sleep by the way
And this poem was written and thoroughly refined
By the errant thoughts of this restless mind
Sir B Jul 2013
I am scared.
Don't hold me
It will make me look
Like a scared viking
I don't know if they existed
But I don't want to be the first of the kind

So take pleasure
In my discomforts
And leave me alone
When I am scared.
I was nervous for doing something new, was so scared. I couldn't wrote all my thoughts but made it a little funny and sad. :)
Anna Oct 2013
I remember Mondays in Coach Mac's class. How I loathed yet loved this occurrence. During the period of poetry, each student was asked to write one of their own and read them aloud in class. To write your feelings, your thoughts, onto lined paper and stand in class constructed spot light, asked to peel the skin off of your body to display.

Others mastered the art of avoidance. Of detachment. They often wrote about how fall was coming or an ode to another classmate. But I was never good at running. So I wrote. Not of happiness because he is a stranger to me. I wrote of what I've known for the past five years of my life.

They told me I had talent. And each Monday they anticipated the moment that I would stand up and read.

They wanted to hear my words. They wanted to know the hopelessness of depression and the consuming sadness that I have only known. They hung on to every syllable of my heartbreak and every stroke of ink of my depression. They wanted to know. They wanted to hear. They held on because I wrote words that discomforts, subjects tucked under the rug. I wrote about the raw experiences they themselves could not verbalize. Yet they were familiar.

They wanted the words from someone else's mouth.

They fell in love with my depression but they never wanted to help.
ooznozz Aug 2017
An empty drinking glass is pressed against a wall; amplifying the voices on the other side. My ear is pressed to the words, ”outside is a secret key” - I can honestly say, “I hear…" Your words, idealizations, sentiments, selected scrawls of graffiti-type promise and viewpoints echo through the wall. Over and over. Championing outsiders…

Are there WALLS WITHIN WALLS? Can we walk through them? ARE THE WALLS ERASABLE? Will the walls tumble down? Will the walls polarize? WHAT ABOUT CRACKS IN THE WALLS? Can they hear? Can we leap over them?

DO WE build them where everything and anything follows and flows?
DO WE build them where something's nothingness tethers vapors with souls?
DO WE build them so molecular melodies of light and dark can collide unopposed?

Are these word walls of dust?  Can we move them? Can you angle between these walls? Will the walls speak a wealth of quiet surprises, poems, and meditations? Do walls give birth to improvisation?

Now some of these walls, in their moment are with no rules, self-constructed, circling dramatically, and might prove more resistant to erosion.  These are often troubling walls, no voice, no strength of decency, no laughter, which place freedom at stake. That and survival. One can be easily manipulated or yanked by an image of the truth swirling in the brick blackness of the wall. Discomforts relish now. Walls such as these are very deep-rooted and passed on for generations. Yet even those barriers eventually give way once we read the super fine print etched into the wall - a word salad of B.S., idiocy and hypocrisy.

Reach for spray-paint and enlarge your wall… maybe it enhances your world now with colored aerosols of wall portraiture's that capture rebellion and mirth. So many Walls, AND SO MANY QUERIES…

I heard a poem say, “Step out from behind one (wall) and FIND YOUR REAL SELF” – or maybe it whispered “jus walk through that door in the wall.”
Your tightly strung trampoline of words has provided a springboard for me to bounce freely over the many walls we build around ourselves.


by "ooznozz"
neth jones May 16
.

i wake before the others                                                     
                                          betraying the family bed
conduct domestic procedure                                 
         (the sun has yet to rise and punish)
the rooms are illuminated       with the city dim
   projected from streetlight in
a dossing grain of orange                        
                   wiltered by the sheets          
 we use to cower our windows
 
in this near light i go to spread a morning meal
a tray of fruit, yogurt and breakfast biscuits
i bring it too our low living room table
but Abrupt !                                                            
   ­    there is a form   occupying the table

i scout for a spot to place my wares                            
put the tray / direct contact / the floor
                         and make a closer examination
on the table                                                            ­        
it is a soldier boy       simple      life spent out

this warrants artificial light                                      
i pull the cord on the corner lamp                      
   in a glimpse of eyes the bulb pops dead
               i know i won't meet result this way
its a brain pattern going on  i determine        
   and remove shrouding from a street view
orange wash lends  to the olive uniform
both hands hitched                                                
to his webbing   in the middle of his chest
helmet discomforts  his head turned to a side
eyes yelling a relaxed nothing                  
no surprise to his ****** features
boots that haven't even made mud yet
this is clean    but   for the blood reduction
a syrup for his presentation
no fooling  and there is.. the gun                          

the child in me and the child in him want it
he makes seventeen at most
and it is now i feel
when i see the device

war oversees
makes international the weather
mark john junor May 2014
ornate key to souls lockbox
kept by the old man
who sweeps the scattered leaves and mends the bent stones
his leather skin makes a sandpaper sound
and is tattooed with sea charts and mythical creatures
he is wearing the ornate key on golden chain
as he gropes his way down to the
courtyard where she is watching the stars

she devours his footsteps with her mind
and the trail of dust he disturbed salts the meal
she drinks of his liquid thoughts
their hot wet deep waters
as he works head held low
on the marble steps with wrought iron
sweeping up the dusty words
left by the shuffling of a thousand year students
who studied the discomforts and glories of the pen

as the soft sounds of her labor echo
she crafts rowboats of pewter to sail upon the metal sea
she builds metal men from a tin foiled
armed with swords to reap the harvest
she devises monks out of steel
their eyes an assembly of gears
fill the world with the small metal sound
of her blue eye looking out upon wicked world

as dawn stretches an aching red upon the sky
she lay in the old mans arms
watching her armada sailing the metal sea
watching her army of tin foiled men
their metal gear eyes forever looking to the stars
their dull grey skin echo dawns light
like regret

they have always been here
her and the old man
by the shore of a metal sea
in a tower of stone
building dreamlands from the chaff of seeds
that drifts down like grey snow
from the world high above
life from the ashes
someday that life will stand in summer sunlight
dance in october's moonlight
someday
cleann98 Jan 2022
cold autumn waters
rushing its way
underneath my feet
weaving through
             toe to toe
     slicing
          hacking its way
                   through the legs of my seat--
so naturally shining
the reflected beams
of sunlight
          knew how to pick
                which stream
        of which inch
                      of which hairline
               of the river
                            to show oh so clearly
            straight into my eyes--
this was exactly how
                                    i remembered
    the words flowing
                singing and dancing
         all so merrily in my mind.
                      and yet
                    --silence--
   i sit and stew
              in the comfort of my room--
          the fan spews nonesense
       whispering frigid sweet nothings
                      it distracts me
                  so i turn it off.
                      the light shone too brightly
                showing me far far too much
         it annoys me
                         so i turned it down.
                   the natural sounds
               the allure of the wild
                        the little chirps and peeps
                      and the babble of the brooks
i remember none of them
sounding like the clicks and clacks
        that i hear with every press of my finger
                             and every character i delete
                it discomforts me
                        i took a deep breath.
             and another.
                             closing my eyes
       i still saw a faint red through it's thin lid
                   i tried to picture
    the same magical world
                             i used to write in
               back when i was a bard
                     and everything
         the light touches
                                       would be my kingdom
                            my muse.
               and i smiled...
                     all my vivid recollections
       the people and worlds i breathed life to
                  the words that used to be so so alive
             it all felt empty
                    so i opened my eyes
    and tried to write again--
and it turned out... subpar •.• sorry, it's heen two years! i promise my writing senses will thaw out eventually °^°
Sinai Sep 2014
He was destructively rememberable and i blame it on the echo
that fell from his lips everytime i made him smile

It would elegantly fly around in unspoken discomforts then
land on my ears in the form of a
goodbye
Mystic Ink Plus Mar 2019
Looking forward
With gratitude
Someday

You will
Post your pain
Post the cries
Post the sufferings
Post the discomforts
Post the failures
Post the bends
Post the hell
That's how
One understands

Your
Effort
Energy
Courage
Patience
How you raised
Genre: Observational
Theme: Both faces of coin
Anonymous Freak Jul 2016
There's a place
Growing in the back of
My head.
The bricks are watered
By discomforts and
Depression.
The Windows are
Sprouted
In earth composed of a mixture of
Anxiety and PTSD.

I want a home where
Your shadows
Are as familiar to the walls
As a spouse.
Where you can hide,
But feel like you don't have to.

I want your peels of laughter  
To litter my living room
Floor,
Your smiles to stain
My ceiling fans,
And your tears to fill my kitchen
Sink.

I want a home
Of grace and charity
Where I can protect the broken
And pained.
The image is growing in
The back of my head,
The need is rooted in my skull.
The blasting heat
Of your parent's anger,
Is the sun
For it's photosynthesis.

We can have midnight
Conversations
At the kitchen table,
Where you can
Unscrew the bolts in your
Iron
Armor
And let loose the demons
You've been trapped with,
To burn in our
hot water heater.

There's a place I want for you,
A home cultivated by
Your brother and I,
A loving hideaway
For Grace and Charity.
Alia Jan 2019
Its so crazy how different cultures are from each other but still you can find things that are similar. And adapting to a new place or environment like different comforts discomforts and conditions you have to get used to

Clothes and languages and hand movements and head movements ****** expressions food

So like this whole concept of countries and flying and how FAR everything is and how expensive and how there are so many people I miss but like they're so far away like there's always someone far away from me that I miss and just like trying to figure out where would be a good place for me and how to get there and ******* money.. GIVES ME SO MUCH ANXIETY
Something I wrote to a friend
grace Jul 2014
What is sleep,
In the end?
Smoke rises
As eyelids fall
A wrinkled space
between my eyebrows,
counts the doses
and takes them all

What is waking,
In the end?
The fog of
a forgotten dream,
The shallow breathe
Of weariness,
Or the tea kettle,
Shrieking without rest

What is love,
In the end?
Musing the discomforts
And trains in the distance,
The taste of cheap coffee
And persistence..
Your name dances on my tongue
Like dust

In my eyes
The end is near
The controlled chaos
Is what brought us here
This mural of
Sleep, wake, love
has paint
chipping off the edges.
Alia Apr 2019
I feel that sharp, painful, bitter feeling crippling through my blood and bones
Sending shivers down my spine
Something missing from my heart
Longing
Brain disconnecting from reality
Chocking on my own thoughts and memories
Deep sadness
Regret
Shifts
The sweetness
The laughs
The fun
Learning and experiencing
All those special places
And faces
The disrespect
The chaos
The betrayals and discomforts
Unforgettable things
Moments gone in time
A big mash of feelings; good and bad; and happy and sad.

Empty closets
Furniture disappearing by the day
Memories and accessories packed away in a hurry
Oblivion
Home is nowhere to be found.
A sorrowful goodbye.

And in all that mess I've managed to let him step on what was left of my dignity and use my fragile feelings.
And I will never get to say what I needed to.
I'm moving back to my home country after living in another one for almost five years. I can't even really explain how hard it is on me. This place is so important and precious to my heart. Leaving *****. Boys **** too.
Chapter **
Decalogue

In the absence of Vernarth's transitory, Sardinia was still burning with lilting water. Already rejoining the plasma from which he saw him depart, he continued in the liturgy with monophonic ideologies, characteristic of trance as an element of his regressive parapsychological transfiguration. Already divided into various personalities and entities, he could have almost been instructed to leave for Piacenza and join Raeder and Petrobus to set sail for the Dodecanese to expand his duties with Saint John the Evangelist. He meets with Etréstles and the participating comrades that when he arrived at the refuge in the morning, everyone was asleep, except Etréstles who was starching some sheets of bread dough for breakfast. Meanwhile, he had sacred fire heating with sacred water for everyone. Vernarth approaches and Khaire tells him, he answers, a joy to see you.

Vernarth says: Beloved Brother Etrétles, I have already taken the notations to begin the decalogue. Today in the afternoon we will board the Sailboat and leave for Piacenza. We are in the final offering. In the Izanna tower, I called upon the powers of the Universe to present them, and I was commissioned to make notations of the Decalogue of the souls that Live in all the ages of time and its vicissitudes.

Everyone starts to wake up, look at him and say hello. They sit in a circle to enjoy breakfast. Meanwhile, outside the shelter, the horns felt moving to the rhythm of the minutes. In such a way, that the last sound of the Doric scale that the storm segregates, will provide the beginnings of each one of boarding the float that will take them to the pier of Cala Cogone. Everyone says goodbye and hugs each other, Vernarth and his brother says Khaire.

Decalogue I                  
Hanael
                                      ­      
Generosity transformed into a crowd. Many stones co-exist emanating the sweet energy of Hanael, and among these is the Onix, known as the stone of truth. Whose objectivism was dreamed of the Value of generosity in its maximum expression in the courage centered on the very vibration flower of the Gerbera, along with its sober goats of the reign of the heights? Hyperkinetic foot and ascension to spiritual psychic growth, which is the real emblem and symbolism of all the virtues of all the planes, the history not traced, or the memory that is mentioned.

Two unicorns alone will be reached by the ****** who will numb them with the perfume of her purity and her chastity, the reason why she will be related to the ****** Mary and the incarnation of her son Jesus by hugging them with her cloak. The Unicorn's single horn is an emblem of the spiritual arrow, divine revelation, the entrance of the supernatural into man, the sword of God, the opening of the third eye, whose vision is projected towards the ends of the angelic world. Hail Regina Sine Labe Originali Spectam.

Decalogue II
Saint Gabriel

Vernarth you tied to a tree with canvases draws himself to the Angel in his name meaning "God is my strength". According to the Abrahamic religions and Judaism. As a result, she became known as "the messenger". Angel Gabriel continues to have a role in the world, helping both parents and human messengers. Blowing the trumpet to announce the return of the lord to Earth.

In his mediumship, the Archangel Gabriel inspires artists, singers, poets, writers, and dancers, helps them communicate on a spiritual level to recover inspiration, innocence, purity, and joy of living. From which this egregious Vernarth Travel Wheel is not exempt until it is consecrated in Patmos as a sacred and lay reference of a spiritual being in gestation. From here he will cultivate the dignity and the Abrahamic mothers so that they can accept their body, awakening in the souls the scriptural power and communicating vigorous forces, which facilitate overcoming fear and lack of decision in life. Sponsoring God's messages to those who worship him.

Vernarth violates the Xiphos sword's decree to shed blood, but rather to purify the gesture of shedding Faith that cuts hopelessness. United in the Templars gripped by their fellow men of the spiritual warfare that never loses, that is always ready to the limit.


Decalogue III
Two premises

From the first two decalogues, the third is born. Both by the glow of the first reactivates the other, which is a rectilinear light that surprises the dark light that tries to invade its luminosity. At very meager kilowatts, the years that separate the times of adding more vestiges of transcending on moral exercise unfold from intertwining; in such a way that in periods of frank over-excited navigation, the energy of the spirit is advanced, only measurable by the actions and intercommunications of the Angels and Archangels.
"Decalogues / ten analyzes" Assimilations of divine inspiration, which will contain ten components beyond an enumeration of premises that expose the visions when justifying a test. This decalogue includes maxims such as "The Angel is the fundamental value of Mystical Perseverance."


Decalogue IV
Where is the North

The North: Biblical scholars have suggested that the north symbolizes the permanent or the eternal, perhaps because the pole stars could be seen throughout the year. It is the place of God's heavenly habitation (Isa. 14:13) and from where his glory descends (Job 37:22) to bless or judge (Eze. 1: 4). He is the true King of the North. But the north, represented by the left hand, is also a symbol of disaster. The enemy of God's people came from the north (Jer. 1:14, 15; Eze. 38: 6), bringing destruction. In a sense, the enemy was the false king of the north who tried to usurp the role of God and who is ultimately destroyed by the Lord (Sof. 2:12; Dan. 11: 21-45). To see resting in Faith, the north does not distract your gaze, it blesses resting the whole concept that shakes the predisposition to arise to all merit given by physical unity, which I inhabit where I will rest, and the glory has to exalt me. Whoever comes from the north bringing destruction, will crash upon him, bringing reparation for the faith that rebuilds itself. The north is an anti-magnet, preventing what it cannot distort from itself in the Christian saying.


Decalogue V
The desert

Vernarth has to consume the desert like a placid arid and inhospitable place when swallowing it. There is nothing in his hands, not even the most elementary thing found. Where you suffer all kinds of discomforts: thirst and heat, inclement weather, sudden changes in temperature, sand discomfort, deprivation, and material deprivation; not only of the futile things but also of the most necessary. It must be supplied in large baskets to serve those who cultivate and protect it. The desert is a meek sheep in periods of drought when it never leaves you.

The physical reality of the desert can be like a symbol of the imminent spiritual life: it is the place of the detachment of everything superfluous; an invitation to austerity and a return to the essential. It is there where man experiences his fragility and his own limitations; the place of trial and purification. But also the most appropriate setting for a renewed and mature search for our personal encounter with God in prayer, in the silence of the soul, and in the simplicity of the essential. It is here that every symbol, more than all its significance, is transformed into a test of loneliness beyond all abundance of Faith, without even having to support it.


Decalogue VI
Vampirism

In the behavior of the person who acts like a vampire, that society prevails that the behavior is dissociated to whoever does it and not. Many vampire souls have made a pilgrimage for good. No one has been able to exclude them from the darkness and stop rising from the dead to roam the night in a bulky black cape and use long, sharp canine teeth to bite the victims' necks and **** their blood. But modern vampires tend to encounter problems of strict uniqueness such as not being happy, believing even more than by dying to them they are more than a fatal vampire. "We are all Vampires in eternity who deal with darkness and light, fear and courage."
Vampire in Sardinia is drinking the same blood and sprinkling it on the earth that nothing conceals or prescribes sin. Then a child appears, picks up the flower that germinates right there, and the cycle begins again.

“When I train myself in writing saying who I am, I only receive from the purulence of the multitudes, in centuries by centuries, not finding a basis to answer me. They say they do not know what to answer because there is no content that compares to those who have no Age, Life, or compassion. That I only have to communicate with the Strigoi messenger articulated with the souls of the dead who come out of their graves at night to terrorize the neighborhood. That it is the same as I condemned to sail and swarm the World of the Nosferatu aristocracy, a survivor of all human vanity, in all the empires of the World believing to live thousands of years without knowing who helped me, because few give me the option of giving what good of me ”


Decalogue VII
Holy incense

I breathe humid air from the superior deities; they opt for my forehead, as practices that replace those that are detonating to expel theirs. Rain of aromas alter or renew low-voltage emotions for high gods, like the Egyptians who used the most precious varieties of incense. These incense craftsmen, in the times of the Pharaohs, knew all the secrets for making high-quality incense. It has been verified that in some of the precious vessels found in the funeral chambers of Tutankhamun, they kept hundreds of kinds of incense that have still retained their magnificent aroma through the centuries. On Sheesham's bunk beds of fire. Wood and Incense with ultra sensory olfactory powers, to design elemental and supernatural hearts, to house and be adaptable to hyper-connectivity. In the Hindu religion, akasha is the foundation and essence of all things in the material world; the first palpable and concrete material element created by the god Brahmá (air, fire, water, earth are the others). "Here he sleeps without waking up when the morning doesn't wake up, and sleeps when the night doesn't get dark"


Decalogue VIII
Mythology

As mythology, it is called the set of myths typical of a people or culture. Myths, for their part, are narrations starring gods, heroes, or fantastic beings, who explain or give meaning to certain events or phenomena. The word, as such, and this in turn from the Greek μυθολογία (mythology) . Mythology, in this sense, is made up of the set of stories and beliefs, relatively cohesive, with which a people has traditionally explained itself. its origin and the reason for being of everything around it. Hence, we can affirm that mythology shapes the worldview or belief system of a culture. Vernarth from Sardinia where he never thought he was undoubtedly opens up belonging to this place more than the hundred millionth essence of his Being. It unites all the elements that melt together the liquid, aqueous, physical, gaseous, and aqueous., To form the mythology of a true verb of a parapsychological regression, like a great condiment that every mortal lacks as opposed to an immortal.
Alikantus paradigm of Alikanto on his astral journey just three days after climbing in Gaugamela...! The corners of anxiety buzz after lightening their igneous hooves by the slippery stones of the footsteps that seemed to be the same projections of their tasks that marked the Tracian soil before arriving at the request of their harangue. He resorts to Medea, before arriving in Thrace after wandering around different places in search of protection and advice to protect his master Vernarth. While He was submitting to his last opioid libations of vivid liliaceous from angiosperms encapsulated by his right pectoral. That was Alikanto's missive. Ask Medea for a potion so that she can supply her master to deflate his breastplate, and thus be able to use his Panoply breastplate in combat since there were three days left for the duel. Medea arrived in the city of Athens on a stormy day with great dark Dantesque gray on the palm of the cliff, previously escaping near the Abdera cliff, whose east was evacuating black poetry,.


Decalogue XIX
Falangist

As a tactical organization for war created in Ancient Greece and later imitated by various Mediterranean civilizations. ... The term is of Greek origin, φάλαγξ (phálanx), which was used for the defensive formation used by the Hoplites, who constituted the classical phalanx.
Almost at dusk over Zeus's beards, the Vernarth Phalanges begin to arrive. The Macedonian Phalanx or Macedonian Phalanx was an infantry formation created and used by Philip II, and later by his son Alexander the Great in the conquest of the Persian Empire. The Macedonian phalanx arose, in fact, as a response to the tactical modifications that the Theban strategists, Epaminondas and Pelópidas of ground forces, developed in the early 4th century BC. C. to oppose the superiority, although already decadent, that the Spartan hoplite formation had exerted in the land combats between the Greek cops until that date.
Nothing depresses me more than not delegating others as if they were my Falangists, making them participate in defending themselves against all disadvantages and worse punishment with the Panoply armor, a superb protector of those who has no defender. "God is my Breastplate, his Gospel protects me by never being damaged"


Decalogue X
Lepanto

Where I have to shelter, says Vernarth, hostility haunts me. Beautiful landscape that is swayed between the rushes of good that tries to be less bad. Policy judgments, how close to marketing peace, and so far from founding true poetry. Still, Vernarth crossed the waters and their customs. From Lepanto, Greece. He appeared exhausted with his eyes reddened by the gassed atmosphere that greeted them in Battle. Of whose intraterrestrial castes it was the one that was in his iron spirit and reappeared in his cape as a gesture of his personality. He arrived cracking the ****** floors of Tel Gomel when he arrived ... he was assaulted by a soldier who asked for mercy to extend his bad fortune. Lepanto is a pre-military senatorial seat, and a great preparatory to the charms of the drama of my duties that will be in Patmos, never-ending dramas.

Falangist: With his helmet in his hands and the Dorus on his cloak on the ground tells him; every single thing I tried the double edge of my sword stained him. The top sheet notified me that my family in Kalidona was in a state of irregularity since my two older children were called to serve in the militias. And the second edge of my lower Dorus I bow before the meanest preciousness of that of observing with a good spirit to cooperate, now with the callousness of my soul that overcomes it exploiting and dragging my wife as easy spoil. I know that my descendants were buried under the effect of the cataclysm of Pompeii in the future. All will emigrate and then flee when they are devastated and the unwelcome comrades return to reintegrate into the Santa María festival. The Patron Saint who consoled me, but prepared me for the resistance of such bad fortune, that one day she would let herself fall with my crops in the culture of peasant angels in fruits and devotions. I sobbed and sobbed rubbing my animals through my empty eyes day and night. They did it next to me, with the singularity of not affecting me; they went to the nearest stream to sob for me so that I would not be affected by the fatal annihilation.

Epilogue
Patmos and Saint Gabriel

Once installed with the vision of visionary brotherhood that characterizes its filial union with Reader and Petrobus. It will begin in its mediumship with the Archangel Gabriel who inspires artists, singers, poets, writers, and dancers, helps them communicate on a spiritual level to recover inspiration, innocence, purity, and joy of living. As an input of character to validation the function of the Troubadour, Juggler, or Visionary. If it were not for the written and not musical notes, nothing would be more than a vision of being closer to almost hyper-reality, established by the prophecies as historical and religious support. With this last decalogue, Vernarth establishes that one in the work of oneself remains the summary of the prototype of the work. And from the work, the summary that allows the common man to be erected, who in his free will, does not deny, but rather power his unshakable satiety of science in his prostrated soul, under the key of dogma and questioning?
Hildegard Von Bingen has sparked the interest of many scholars, mainly because it seems to contain a major contradiction with respect to the rest of his statements about his visionary experience. In that absence of ecstasy that characterizes the visionary experience of Hildegard von Bingen, It also figures the fundamental difference that separates it from its contemporary Elisabeth von Schönau, and some scholars based this fact to deny it a mystical character and grant it the attribute of prophetic. The attention of this specific passage obeys its comparison with Saint John the Evangelist. The understanding of itself seeks a model, a referent, whose wide field of meaning has to be reconstructed in order to restore the full meaning of this statement. The analysis will stop at the following aspects:

1. In the gesture through which Saint John is shown, and by which Hildegard associates herself with the evangelist and, as we will see, according to the identifications of the time, with the beloved disciple of Christ and with John of Patmos, the author. of the apocalypse.

2. Hildegard's identification with Juan de Patmos will lead us to a comparison of both visionaries focused on the modes of their representation.

3. Finally, the content of the images will be reflected on from an example, hoping that all of this will be concluded with a sharper profile of Hildegard von Bingen's visionary experience.
Vernarth says: “I wander from the stony ruins in Sardinia, to go in search of those who gave rise to themselves. When I thought about believing to create them, they presented themselves to me as a whole that prophesies Creation. ”
DECALOGUE  VERNARTH
Pen Lux Aug 2015
nothing comes to mind any more
everything goes and moves faster
too fast to catch, an unavoidable crash
we've clashed and separated, broken
another love for another life
whether we were ever friends
is the question
even though you prayed, "friends forever"

silence discomforts the demons within you
so you hum and sing and talk about nothing
to collapse whatever comfort my angels live in
you'd rather see me withering, wilted
so much beauty in death! so much beauty...

I tap my teeth together, click
I clench my jaw, tick tick
I clench my fist, thick tricks....
lying again, you're lying again
and I cry in your presence
salt water spelling out "stop this"
I bite my lips when I wanna kiss

tortured souls with tender hearts
can't mend one if the other is falling apart
Venkat Raghavan Jan 2013
Sanctity of success comes from overcoming discomforts of hard labor

By - *Venkat Raghavan
Broken Arpeggio Mar 2018
How does one openly share
With many strangers in a room
All the atrocities and scars
That mark your impending doom

Always leading with the heart
Has left it broken and rather dead
Causing the mind to eventually take over
Numbing you down to invisibility instead

Simply wishing to fade away
Into vast webs of silent misery
While a boisterous and opposing point of view
Keeps aiming for your victory

Strong-armed, not so gently, into a situation
That leaves you stripped down, sullen, and bare
Brings about complete and utter discomforts
All of which, you hope no one is aware

Longing for some connection
Though fearful of the start
Freezes you into a silence
Unable to be of any part

Your tongue becomes sluggishly thick
Appearing knotted, twisted, and tied
Oblivious to the surroundings
While your brain is quietly being fried

Amid the haze, a courageous voice is heard
   sharing pieces of a story
With similarities to that of your own
Sending reassurance throughout a weary head
That there is no longer a need to feel so lost and alone
One should never stop attempting to learn and grow as a human. Compassion needs to start with the self before it can be given to others...
Gigi Tiji Nov 2015
For how many days and how many nights are in the moment of a kiss?
There is a light bulb on the horizon screaming ****** ******.
An obsidian hammer exploding into licks of carnelian flame.
A war drum, it's hide cured from the skin of the desperate.
A humanoid figure crawling out of its ****-stained cage
smelling the slime of a new day.

Little boxes smashed to bits by the stamping foot of a child.
There is a wind blowing from the mouth of the bull.
A ring of fire burns red and green from the void of the lover's soul.

Below the surface of a sea of sand I am breathing in only stardust.
My legs are tingling as they strive to wake up for this journey.

You are narcotic in your presence.
I am elated and depressed simultaneously by your existence.
A wonderful rush followed by a drunken stupor.
An ******* and a small death herein.

Here I am looking away from you because I am afraid of who I am.
I will only skim your surface because what is beneath mine is unspeakable.

I keep my eye heavy lidded,
because if they were wide open,
I would explode into treacherous rapture.
I would know bliss, and that is not meant for me.

This pain, I am only holding dear,
because it has been wrongfully taken from me before.
Please, allow me this despair. Let me feel this anguish.
Though it does not allow you comfort to witness,
it leaves no reason for your false consolation.

Look not, if it discomforts you so — to see me writhing.
Ask not of me to untangle myself from this twisted feeling.

This vine is welcome wisteria nestled in the shadows of my arms.
I ask of you to focus not on my withering leaves,
but of the blossoms it bears.

I will hoist its parasitic lavender radiance to the heavens,
an offering to the eyes of the suffering.

Do not dam these rivers lest you wish a flood upon your mind.
The ocean does not deny any a waterway, and why should you?
Are you so different from the vast gut of the world?
Let us be left landlocked and breathing hot sand.

Let me be. Let me run!

Where is the right place?
When is the right time?
To surface from the ocean of sinking sand.

The forever crumbling plateaus of this high
have me leaping from stone to stone.

Watch where yours is thrown;
where it lands you may find interesting.

This is incoherence.
I am confusion.

Where be my emotional faculty!
Where be my functionality!

Ever wandering.
Caught up. Waiting.
For the next ending.
Too busy to think of the new beginnings.

Quick! Keep going...
You may miss what's going to happen next!
But wait, wait for it...
"Right after these messages."

WHAT OF HERE
WHAT OF NOW
HAVE WE FORGOTTEN EACH OTHER
HAVE WE FORGOTTEN OURSELVES

Have we already closed
the never ending story and
put it back on the shelf?
Oh all the have demon's left
for when with her my life does changed
again slipping the loop to live again
burning bridges like a lamb lost from home
I think of her like on dark matter
now without her, my life would be shattered

Oh the pain of won't
that touch of flesh
that time I can hold her
and not hug my pillow

Oh such twins we are
like aliens from another star
and boy do I love her
like not then any other

I am in a state of grace
so out of the human race
that girl has got me bad
and without her love I would be sad

Been burnt from space
called a God by the exceptional race
but I hide in the reeds
and wait for my sister angels

Oh sing city of song for soon I leave you
rot in the discomforts of your own doing
so such a proud wonderful
now brought down to ruins

Oh selfishness and greed
it had become the demon seed
and you may want to wallow in lies
but my sweet countryman I must fly



By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
CE Jun 2014
My eyes are sore
My hands are cramped
I'm struggling to keep awake

But my dear

I need to keep awake
I want more of your words
I will gladly bare any discomforts for you

Such a small price, really

Because right now

There's a smile on my face
There's a beat in my heart
There's a laugh in my voice

It's all because of you

You make me giggle like a school girl
You make me blush like a teenager
You make me feel like I'm not finite

I could run on with stereotypes and clichés all night writing ****** poetry dedicated to you

It's the best I can do

Because I can't describe it enough

I can't find the right metaphor or simile to explain what I feel

I can't find the right word to finish this stanza

I can't write this well enough for you

You deserve the best

And I'm sorry to say

You're stuck with a ****** poet

Who writes ****** poetry

For the best person in his life
Zac Walter Dec 2013
Help me have some numbness (Pain)
Gain ego, lessons (Experience)
Help others discomforts (Heal)
Gaining Transcendence (Overcome)
judy smith Mar 2016
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Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
rarely do you spend a night stumbling
around a town
       drunk, figuring out a fortune of
a face, a luck of a smile,
          decisievely:
                          never much cared
for language other than for thinking with
it, lucky some, who actually use
it like they might use a hammer...
      what then, came first?
                               the hammer, or the nail?

god, i had to escape the chicken-shack...
and... looks like i almost did.
            if ever: the exhausted language,
and then there's the hidden
linguist, somewhere, probably in
          Posen... lumbering away at
a second language, that is apparently a tier
just shy of: making competent
users.
        - and i did forgot drinking
with a mirror...
                        instead took photographs,
of a snail... a snail...
         point being:
    i don't even remember how i brought
it home...
                                         bribe?
unlike hallucinogenics...
           drinking... yeah...
                                   yesterday is vague...
i drank less, walked more,
and brought home a snail...
   a ******* snail...
         once i brought back a hedgehog...
once i brought back a frog...
      next day?
          that has to be some sort of
hallucinogenic drug teasing me to remember...
i don't know who that person
is in the photograph,
   he claimed that breathing alcohol
filled breath on a snail
                   was appealing to the snail...
he even claimed that the snail
had dermatological properties of
healing: slight, discomforts...
             hardly a wart, just a skin hardening,
so this guy placed the snail on
the skin hardening and started to
feel the cosmis ****** of feeling
        the snail eat up the "concern" with
its under-belly...
            my first girlfriend told me
of the time, as a kid, when she used to pour
salt on snails...
   i remember seeing two boys
play with frogs...
            ******* used to smear lipstick
on the poor prince charming
                         and then set it alight...
YOU, CAN'T, THINK THIS **** UP...
i too wish for such a depraved imagination...
come to think of it,
   on a completely different topic...
public intellectualism is only a western
concept...
               a bit like religion...
good in private,
                        but out in the public, open?
the public intellectual who has given up
his private intellect:
      god... the scrutiny that comes with it...
there is such a thing as a privacy
of intellect?
                     just asking:
      because even poetry isn't an open
and closed scenario of a seagull
regurgitating in order to feed the chicks...
and yes, chickens are natural
cannibals... if you've ever seen a chicken
on a stump of wood right and just after
the axe-chop...
                  you'd see the remaining
nervous system after death...
                 and how other chickens will
jump on the stump... and drink the blood
of the Antoinette...
   with Antoinette's head still, partially moving...
unless of course you're thinking
about Hollywood and...
   christine chubbuck:
                 and that one shot to the head
that Hollywood couldn't make: instantaneous...
   like Kafka, i'd go for the stab at
              the dark, namely the heart...
because why would you even
think it was a mild execution...
             with andrei chikatilo:
          back of the head, left in a prison cell...
god, i can't stop to imagine the marvels
of this cockroach urban myth of surviving
               in a limbo of succumbing to a diet...
say all you want,
  but i'm pretty sure there's enough
reason to contemplate the inverted niqab
of hollywood...
             groove the shades, though...
can't **** for a hundred metres though...
              the Veil of Thespian...
oh hell, it's real...
              not as ****** obvious as
a ninja trying to look slim in a desert
wearing a velvet bin-bag...
         but i'm pretty sure there is a Veil
of Thespian...
             Louis XIV even said it:
                            the seemingly holds
the sway of power, before the jury,
           to appear...
                     rather than be...
        qua (as being) in antonym form
must give birth to: quiff (as if)...
        frivolity and cotton candy smiles...
people are beginning to make
   the assumption that poetry will save
         them from the tyranny of acting...
besides the point,
  given the example...
          if only there was an instantaneous
death like depicted with:
heavy editing, and no thespian involvement...
i can't help but see a movie
and not see a piece of paper
                    and a pair of scissors...
odd... because i wouldn't make
the same connection
               with a pear and a magnet...
               moth and macaroons?
appears i wasn't even "forced"
       to wear this veil...
                    acting should have really
been left to neglect in
   a theatre...
                      on behalf of
    democracy... why not speak of
                           the thespian tyranny?  
all the other forms of art are
starving...
                 why even bother wondering
why moden "art" (painting)
                is a bit off, trying to escape
                             plagiarising geometry?    
it's not healthy...
                       modern painting is
starved for the benefit of one medium...
that can't even fathom itself
           as member of the same family...    
yeah...
                    well, i guess i could
throw in the minstrels...
        but then i passed a busker on
                                  the street last night...  
poetry in public?
                  unless you're competing
                   with a mad christian preacher...    
but acting is both mainstream and
subversive...
                               (it) doesn't necessarily
require a stage: to find an actor...
           but if i'm not living
under a thespian tyranny...
             then i'm no more a poet than
one: requiring to write in orthodox rhyme.
Nancy Delgado Dec 2015
you claim that there never has been a Creator or ever will be,
but tell me why this supposedly nonexistent God can never escape your lips?
your thoughts and dreams all are consumed by Him, sure a denial of Him but yet you find Him never really leaving,
indeed something nonexistent could never occupy anything if it is not yet- in the quietness of our fading time- the mere thought of His Omniscient Presence discomforts you.
oh i pray you may but look up to see how The Triune Fire is in your very midst- indeed, giving you the ability to even breathe- yet you use it to blaspheme.
foolish yet understandable to our nature- know this, it will not be long if you are His- He will not hesitate to bring you Home
oh foolish one- come Home.
mark john junor Feb 2016
madness had taken her in the night
she danced naked in the moonlight
screaming of revenges and mysteries wet
when she finally fell to exhaustion's sleep
i tended her fevers but could not ease her mind
which flew like a black raven in the rain
here and there without sense of reason
crying out its displeasure's and it discomforts
a bead with a hole for an eye
her mind was down there in that hole somewhere

she fled in the daylight
and i tried to follow her on down to the swamps edge
but i could not follow the trail further cause it was
into madness she raced with careless abandon
and in the swamps breeding breathing bleeding
that her footfall lead

long days passed without a sign
as i camped there by the dark edge of sanity
waiting for her return
waiting for my loves sweet arms to find me once again
but my only companion was a black raven
he came to talk to me
all those long days under the sweltering sun
and after a time his words became clear to me
after a time his thoughts became mine
told me to dance to the song of the rain
told me to run and seek the sun
in the swamps dark halls

now we are here
living in our own world
and its alright
cause we have our friend
a black raven with a eye like a hole
with a mind like gravel
a mad dream to be sure
but it is ours alone
mark john junor Dec 2023
Wind sweeps me along
like the dry old leaves of yesteryear
dry and brittle
imprinted forever with the
memory of long languid summer
faded now to dark browns
far afield from the lively green
that was youth
ever-growing
never-ending
ever alive with all that I could do
but never did
dark sounds the bell that tolls
a dark song that only whispers sing
I am swept up into a stone-wrought doorway
and I nestle my sleepy head into its comfortable corner
sleep comes soon
restful wakefulness that is the edge of dreams
sleep comes nearer
and away, away with all the discomforts of life
watch them fall away like a veil of tears
away, away goes I into the sleep of ages
a new leaf born into the next world
My highs are so far above the earth
( I can see everything, good and bad)
My lows are so deep in the ground
( I worry of the rock and soil collapsing on me)
I am unnecessary
(except as a place marker)
I do not want to be missed
( it is what keeps me here)
People's selfish selflessness holds me here
I want to be loved but the way that people love me
makes it so much harder
I am unnecessary
In order to be made visible
I explain my plight to caring ears that don't know me at all
( I live in a remote land without neighbors, miles from everybody else)
and when they don't understand
they blame it on my youth
this both comforts and discomforts me
I want to be helped
( but they don't understand)
I want to be free of ties
( it's easier)
and dismiss everyone
I am not being dramatic
this is how I see things
and while others tell me what I am
( this does not matter)
it only matters what I think
After writing this
( I think I'm okay, now)
I hope those who read it realize this poem is not for others
( I didn't know what else to do)
this is for myself
You can call me dramatic
( I honestly don't care)
You can blow this off as some ******, badly formed poem
that holds no meaning
( another regular sob-story-cliché)
In a way I'm relieved
( you make it much easier).
wordvango May 2015
courage in certain forms
of me against the options
of substances or words
to ease the discomforts
I display functional knowledge
experienced real ******* up
on altered states chemically
imbalanced wavering between day and
mostly, nights.
I gained somehow, an appreciation of Thoreau,
Van Gogh, Yardbirds,
Yes, and Pink Floyd.
They got me higher.
I woke up with echoes instead
of pain in the morning.
With dreams of creating improvisating,
a new buzz.

— The End —