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A M Ryder Dec 2016
When it's blown to pieces, that's when it becomes art.
Art is a demon, a demon that drags you along.
It's messy and ***** when it pours out of you.
It's not something you can stop even if you should.
Maybe your wife leaves you
Maybe your kid runs away
Maybe you go insane..
You throw yourself away to be an artist
The sweet love I feel 

for her with the sweet disposition 

Is a fondness with no walls

Love screams, it bellows , It calls 

It calls your name 

It shouts from mountain high

It whispers from meadow low

It wandered in on shrill wind blow

Up and down those hills it blew 

Through peaks and troughs it knew

It sighed , It groaned on grassy dew 

true love found sweet dispositioned you

Martyn Grindrod
mariano aponte Jan 2016
Fasley smiles

Could it be my OCDish

Would they agree or disagree
Respectfully  - with no referee

Whatever matter  - It doesn’t

Let it be
I’m carefree
It’s the best defense
Not a draftee

A perfectionist I am
It stems from many forces
My moral sense
At any expense
Not remorses

Their sweet jabs
From the start
From day one

Like Mr. Shukar - they see
I'm the new prospect

My disposition in scrutiny
As I take in with fluency
No unity
Let it be

I’ll take it in my dome
Its my best cover
Not styrofoam
I'll take it whichever way it's thrown


Pass the twisted news along
I continue staying strong
Detail-oriented is my syndrome
CK Baker Jan 2017
In time you’ll recover and absolve
push those scorned impressions aside
hammer down the jaded edges
and sing
that delightful commoners song
the one you sang so well
in what seems a lifetime ago

You really had it you know
that fiery disposition and nimble cunning
those butter chords and derelict style
we could see it -- we could all see it
it was all it took to turn the evening tide
(and rile that buck fever)
heads bashing
tongues lambasting
middle fingers high
and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen

There were no rules
when it came to your survival
no textbook rally or common bond
no structured songbird or bravado stage
you either made it, or laid it
“life by the *****” Mr. Poppy would say
a kaleidoscope of dreams
with rich colored imagery
hardened artisan seams
in a carefully woven motif

But something got lost in the needle point
something sinister and distorted took hold
the quirks and street genius
that were your lifeline
gave way to grunts
and squeals
and chilling night crawlers
the colors faded quickly
to a cold confining grey

There was no grace in the new world
no retribution or switch back
no salvation or accorded finale
only edged platforms of blackened steel
that kept you cased
in a silent vanquished cell
shivering cold with fear
night without day
all in the shadow of death

But time heals all
and the polish sneakers
and open sores are long gone
(though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain)
indeed the falconer beat the widow maker
this go around
and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again
and if it does you’ll see me
standing hand on heart
with that old verse in hand:

he ain’t tainted
or silly,
and most certainly
not forgotten…
he ain’t loony
or fixed,
or a product of his self-doing…
he’s just a straight shootin’ guy,
who had the most of it
figured out
Adrian Joseph Dec 2018
Her beauty is its own unique disposition
Marvelous symmetry characterized by oneness
Grace proportional to power

Eyes colored with reckless suggestion
Their light reflecting every combination of sublimity  
Sweet violence intertwined  

Blushed cheeks conceal something fairer
A nakedness felt then realized    
Unhinged perfection

Hers is no mere surface beauty
Only the abstract simplicity
Of purest poetry
GreenTrees Jan 2014
Cloudy Skies
Sunny disposition
Beautiful Eyes
Love by attrition
With out her smile
I am in an ill condition
When her love shines
Marriage is the premonition

Karl v.
Mariah Wynn Nov 2018
Still. In silence.
Embraced in a gaze,
my eyes are latched onto yours.
My thumb traces along the
Stubble above your lips...
I’m trapped in your wells,
I wish I could transfer
The pain, the sorrow, the anxiety.
With just one lingering gaze,
Be the host for your troubling
So I could deal with it for you.
& you could be set free
& lay in peace.
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
I haven't changed much
Just gotten old
I don't believe I've been alive just yet
As far as I've been told
You've got to shop around
You've to find out what you want
But there's a difference
Between what it is I want
And what it is I need

Give me my disposition at the door
So I know how to act
So I know what to think
How to talk
And what to say
If I can tell you what's on my mind
Will you help me through it or push me away?
I'm alright, I promise
Just look away
Larzipan Sep 2014
My lips can no longer hold back.
The muted tones cannot bring out the infinity that hides
to an exit sign.
Certainty waves goodbye. My only function now is to collapse it.
To put the past behind.

The barred doors allow the bottleneck to tighten for a few hours,
but memory has a way of sounding the alarm in the morning
when the early birds rise,
armed with ancient lessons
that remind me they're the ones who are eating well.

I want to come up from the dirt and drink from the well.
My low-life self can no longer heed the worm's advice:
"Sleep all day and you won't get eaten."


Out with your tepid voice and halfway disposition.
Out with your elevated mind, your profound commitment to the mediocre task
of enlightening the little people.

The empire you fabricate may stay stitched for a while.
But the clothes of emperors always burst at the seams.
A workaholic, addicted to the common
you're winning your converts with tired dreams, vicarious imaginings of those finer roads, well tread by shoes that are not your own.
You don't believe in the masses. Fine. But get the *******
your throne.

Reciting badly drawn poems at four in the morning
(it could have been worse e.g. I could have wrote "mourning")
looking to insight myself,
not into a passionate frenzy
like Bacchae drunk on the moonlight.
No -- I want piercing red. That's what I want to be.
Want to show the heavens how I use the precious wine.
Sip it.
Out the undulations go.
Sweating out the great myth that time forgets when it flows.

My pagan-witch ego has put me on the hunt for blood tonight,
and the full moon is giving rise to ****** undulations,
washing up teeny-book explanations
of loves once lost.
But I'm far from my being,
and from the infinite ocean.
And the only sound I can hear right now is my one hand clapping at the curtain call,
retiring my broom,
bowing goodbye.
Kenji Dec 2018
I try to hold these secrets inside me, I try to keep everything locked within me...
Like a misguided key that is lost, and is being searched by others.
They say I am hard to read, but I can see through them like glass, they reflect on me as I reflect on them, a soul of a mirror, I keep my twins within, through the promiscuous looking glass.
With this strange inability to voice out my emotions, I keep everything that suffocates me, to myself.
My minds like a ****** deadly disease with no shame or lies to hide it.
However, this altering personality has a mind of it's own.
Expressing, but spilling too much, I surrender in regret.
I have no shame in hiding this strange disposition of my deceiving facade, I embrace myself in pure madness as my mind twists in insane obligations.
Defeating, but never defeat-less.
Where are you? Are you here? Come to me, dark lonely serpent, don't fear me
Leave, leave me alone.
Soul aches in mindless misery as I sit and talk to myself, and the unknown.
These spirits and forces suggest I'm living a lie and it isn't home.
These lucid dreams I have every night give me messages, and signs.
Some dreams are paranormal and realistic like a spirit is trying to speak through to me to get to the known dimensions to be seen, to be heard.
But some dreams are just vivid escapism methods to wonder other dimensions.
I see everything in my perceptive dreams, even in the conscious, the world we see to think to be real.
I see the child's tears as his mother stabs his dad in vicious anger.
I see the animal's wimper and sorrow as it limps in agony being tortured it's whole life, just searching, and searching for food.
I see the beggars dead eyes as drugs has overtaken their pure mind, the loss of hope, but I still see something pure, screaming to jump out.
I see the maids strength as they battle working days and days, getting underpaid and never seeing their family just to hustle and make money.
I see the lawyers fight for moral justice and integrity as the case has been lost, yet, they keep on fighting, they never give up.
I see the business mans wife drink wine alone all day just waiting for her husband to come home, but he's busy ******* his secretary.
I see the birds squeal in pain as its wing has broke, and no one coming to it's presence to help it.
I see my sick grans soulless eyes as Dementia  has overtaken her and she lives in permanent confusion thinking her brother whom died 20 years ago, is still alive.
I see, I see everything.
With a strong Moon in Pisces energy, this perceptive mind is never at rest. It's still fighting to love so unconditionally and help everyone at my feet.
I bleed, I ache, I scar, I cry, I surrender, and, these are my reasons for needing to hide.
With a mind of such empathy, I battle even helping myself.
But this is my insight, as a spiritual teacher.
I will die helping the unwanted...
I will die spreading love and justice...
I will die in lonely misery...
And I will die knowing my life made sense if those I sacrificed for, was all worth, the pain
Moon in Pisces:
Glass Jan 20
there have been sureties
not been able to suffer from avoidance;
contiguity and octave that when our hands compose
they become
a cistern prognosis that are
visibly shut
in there own organs waiting for
an unborn character to synchronize to an
upset weakness, and a
faltered selfish flavor that jolts into
a superstition of someones apathetic
disposition - "he's only in your mind"

- G
Graff1980 Sep 2018
It is the last day
to feel this
particular wind
on my face,
to absorb these
particular sun rays.

The boxes are packed
uniformly matched
except for
the black markings
that indicate
which room
the things inside
came from.

I slide my hand
across the
kitchen counter top
and find no dust
or dirt to speak of.

The carpet
feels thick and stiff.
I rub my bare feet
across the floor
one more time.
Then slip
my shoes
back on again.

It’s time to move on,
you’d think
it would get easier
with this
roaming disposition
that holds me
in its grip.

I’ve moved so much
but I still miss,
all that history
I associate
with each old place
that I once lived in.

I pick up
the last box
as little ghosts
of memory
follow me
out of the door.
corlitta Aug 2018
sometimes it's something
i'm still half away from you
most times it's nothing
you are the farthest i could view

i can't look you in the eye
that night still feels surreal
felt like truth sugarcoated with lie
things heart couldn't just conceal

now i'm having a hard time feeling
i don't know where to look
your candid disposition is lying
led me nowhere but stuck and hooked

sometimes there's something
things my lips refuse to say
most times there's nothing
things just go and fade away
Maddie Byers Jan 24
I cannot help but stop and look.
Down, Down, Down into the darkness of my mind.
Gently it goes - the ambitious, the determined, the neurotic.
I saw the existential disposition of my generation destroyed.
How i mourned the loneliness.
Now experiential is just the thing,
to get me wondering if the loneliness is empirical.
Credit to several poetry helper websites.
Stephen Leacock Aug 2018
Feels like slavery
With weight our shoulders
Havent We endured enough?
From One Bolder To The Next?
Like needles draining  our blood for energy
The White Gold of  Saturn
Using Led from congress
Our Spring Streams Have Run Dried
Directed into a Different lines and Process
Guarded by Projects With Capitalism at its finest
Racism and favoritism.
The Collective Body Shivers .
With stretch lines on her skin with her magnitude of her tears.
The stages of legions unleashed.
Souls in battle using a leash.
Things have been disowned and blown.
The Headdress will take its throne.
The Shield Into El-dorado that is known.
Grids awaken from the Amerindian parts of the jaguars tradition.
Collective religious cultures unleashed from its disposition.
The beauty that brings a new position.
Tony Tweedy May 21
There must be others going through what I'm going through.
This an attempt at conversation with those who feel as I do.

I live a life so empty and always on my own.
It seems so short of reality to describe it as alone.

The days are endless cycles that fade and become as one.
Looking to find some distinction when basically there's none.

Emptiness and lonely just doesn't tell it right.
And to say its isolation really doesn't describe my plight.

A world devoid of relationships of any type or kind.
Has left me with distorted disposition and an overactive mind.

I find days, weeks, months and calendars obsolescent things.
A consequence of every day repetitive in everything it brings.

I don't know how to stop it defeating me in this way.
For when I try to fight it all motivation drains away.

My life seems forever lived in the deepest sense of sorrow.
Knowing what I did yesterday and today, I do again tomorrow.
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