"distinctly" poems
the bed is not very big
a sufficient pillow shoveling
her small manure-shaped head
one sheet on which distinctly wags
at times the weary twig
of a neckless ******
(very occasionally budding
a flabby algebraic odour
jigs
et tout en face
always wiggles the perfectly dead
finger of thitherhithering gas.
clothed with a luminous fur
poilu
a Jesus sags
in frolicsome wooden agony).
25.4k
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they ****** ****** ******
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the ***** of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry ***** swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
10.5k
god pity me whom(god distinctly has)
the weightless svelte drifting ****** feather
of your shall i say body?follows
truly through a dribbling moan of jazz
whose arched occasional stepped youth swallows
curvingly the keeness of my hips;
or,your first twitch of crisp boy flesh dips
my height in a firm fragile stinging weather,
(breathless with sharp necessary lips)kid
female cracksman of the nifty,ruffian-rogue,
laughing body with wise ******* half-grown,
lisping flesh quick to thread the fattish drone
of I Want a Doll,
wispish-agile feet with slid
steps parting the tousle of saxophonic brogue.
8k
can I grow tomorrow?
place a bucket over my head
to block the sun; protect my innocence
for a while. I'll grow tomorrow.
but, today. . .
I just wanna see the darkness
with my eyes open, in hopes
of understanding. I can be aware
of my surroundings, though I
do not see, distinctly, I can
tell that I'm surrounded.
something bigger than myself.
protecting me from what is good. . .
so that it won't become the bad. . .
protecting my naiveté.
just leave the bucket;
walk away.
I'll grow tomorrow.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
Like a captive, I capture rapture wrapping around stakes that matter
Joan of Arc battered
Also tattered but, easily dismissive
Refracted from fractured prominent phrases people play with
Distinctly persuasive and evasive, dressed boyishly attractive, lax stature, dawning armor crafted by absence as if asked about it-
I’m drifted
Protection is principle prerequisite, when fire is lit
I sort of implore your aorta before it’s incinerated to ashes
Dethatched as a habit, with swords or hatchets crafted to singe heartstrings that attached it
While I slash slick Rick as a quick fix,
To fend for pretend pretenses or presumed tricks,
I can’t quit
Cause I hit lips against hash spliffs fashioned with dashes of passion all while rationing fireball cinnamon sips
Martyr to avoidance
I gaze at fabled dazed gossipers galvanizing grips on gritty grapevines while licking warning labels through smoke haze on blurred lines
Capably unstable
Other eyes attending scandal circles able to shout lies and rekindle handed arguments on tables with locked smiles stay boxed in
Avidly amiable
Searching for counterparts when combusted or branded
Toying with matches loses meaning when rules reseed
Those vagabonds claim love is some all end hard bent to mend what the same above can’t comprehend.
Breaking boredom, I pillage pillows with night terrors
And ardent arsonists yearn for flames that churn, turn, liquefy and learn learned thoughts and smoldered feelings
Completely complacent
Melting in one another they are completing each other like two candles tryst true at a wedding day
However later the blaze is severed, smoke sears, and charred black wick stands alone for them.
Aggressive and progressive.
As for me never pleading, fire forever fleets to streets between iron bars I built that cage in deep heat and seep dire dreams once desired
Suppose I’m a skeptic
Roasted or disconnected
Just jaded, just met you
Always over it too soon
Burnt but I’m amused.
I’m useful.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
1317
Abraham to **** him—
Was distinctly told—
Isaac was an Urchin—
Abraham was old—
Not a hesitation—
Abraham complied—
Flattered by Obeisance
Tyranny demurred—
Isaac—to his children
Lived to tell the tale—
Moral—with a Mastiff
Manners may prevail.
6.8k
Feel the darkness around
A distinct feeling embraces
The outside
Somber feelings everywhere
Interact with darkness
In a unique language
You become one with it
As you go deeper within
There is a different light
Where you can see
Distinctly than ever
Even daylight fails to inspire
You are on your own
The real you
Reveals itself
Not even the stars are visible
Today is special
One with the space
It’s all in the darkness
When you drown yourself
In the solemn darkness
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
<>
you pout and defer, dancing backwards,
claiming, blue is now blackened
from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival
*saying eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far,
the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent,
but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die,
though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised
denying that inspiration
no longer resides with in thy sensitivities,
has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires
all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying
my internal spaces once filled by poems
you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze,
came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied,
but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!*
***you know it’s you of whom I write, but,
a note not shaming names, but messages
countless private messages have I sent
begging, beseeching, give me your gifts***
once more, you owe me not, though I
oft irritate with my deafening pleas,
yet only denials continue, my pleas ding
but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition
so speak to you plain,
feed my soul selfish
like in years gone past,
there are holes in mine
that require your elixir,
creamy softness that moistens
my face with tears of your words
originating, astound, enfold**
not later, not soon, not excusals,
write for me NOW, WRITE FOR YOURSELF,
but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,**
Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC
#***A place
In my mind
Neither Alien nor Earthly
I yearn to find
Lost
In the Universe
Neither to be found in Verse
Nor Hearse
A place
In my mind
Distinctly Familiar,Yet Unknown
I SEEK
Shall I ,find....***#
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
So there I was, and there you were, all of us,
everyone, dangling their feet off the rooftop.
Four distinctly different artists caught in the same painting
yet, none of us holding the paintbrush to our passions, yet.
Ambitious, yes, focused, not so much, motivated? Most definitely.
Dedicated to manipulation,
to making a masterpiece for the masses,
a decision to "form a more perfect union".
To map a new demographic before our deaths.
If our desire was to make a mark, well,
we'd be done already.
The mark's been made, but not engraved,
and for it to stay we need to stomp on it until our own foot decays.
And these days, most pictures will fade,
So as us four sat there, dancing with the devil,
we dared to begin drafting on our canvas.
With no brush, but our own fingers,
our own blood, sweat, tears, and elbow grease,
finally finding the paintbrush to be figurative,
that we were manipulated ourselves.
We learned to picture the paintbrush as our pointer,
our palms the palettes, our pinkies the varnish,
a promise our piece would never be vandalized.
The world is your oyster, they say,
and the city was our canvas,
where we painted nothing but pearls,
rare commodities for the communities to cherish
until our masterpiece, the indefinite work in progress, is completed.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
You ask me what I feel & think
(because the two are distinctly their own)
about the utter absurdity
& pointlessness of life
& out the windows cars go by
& up in space meteors fly
& sitting in this vinyl booth is me;
not alive long enough to know,
but who was seen many injustices--
yet knowing not a thing to do about them,
looks to those next to me,
who have only seen worse.
I do not know why the universe keeps expanding
or why my professor gives Monday exams
or why my poems are all the same
or why people in my life keep leaving
(or why I keep pushing them out?)--
messages marked "read" with no
response or
rhyme
or reason or
rationality.
Maybe the point is that
there is no point
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
I
The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table,
The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side;
And the Nutcrackers said, 'Don't you wish we were able
'Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride?
'Must we drag on this stupid existence for ever,
'So idle so weary, so full of remorse,--
'While every one else takes his pleasure, and never
'Seems happy unless he is riding a horse?
II
'Don't you think we could ride without being instructed?
'Without any saddle, or bridle, or spur?
'Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed,
'I'm sure that an accident could not occur.
'Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table,
'And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse!
'Shall we try? Shall we go! Do you think we are able?'
The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly,'Of course!'
III
So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute,
The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said 'crack!'
The stable was open, the horses were in it;
Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back.
The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway,
The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay,
The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway,
Screamed out, 'They are taking the horses away!'
IV
The whole of the household was filled with amazement,
The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about,
The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement,
The Saltcellar stood on his head with a shout,
The Spoons with a clatter looked out of the lattice,
The Mustard-pot climbed up the Gooseberry Pies,
The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of Veal Patties,
And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise.
V
The Frying-pan said, 'It's an awful delusion!'
The Tea-kettle hissed and grew black in the face;
And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion,
To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race.
And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter,
(Their ponies were cream-coloured, speckled with brown,)
The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after,
Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town.
VI
They rode through the street, and they rode by the station,
They galloped away to the beautiful shore;
In silence they rode, and 'made no observation',
Save this: 'We will never go back any more!'
And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing,
The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!'
Till far in the distance their forms disappearing,
They faded away.--And they never came back!
4.4k
1651
A Word made Flesh is seldom
And tremblingly partook
Nor then perhaps reported
But have I not mistook
Each one of us has tasted
With ecstasies of stealth
The very food debated
To our specific strength—
A Word that breathes distinctly
Has not the power to die
Cohesive as the Spirit
It may expire if He—
“Made Flesh and dwelt among us”
Could condescension be
Like this consent of Language
This loved Philology.
3.9k
abuse trigger
In my end is my beginning
-T.S. Eliot-
I distinctly remember the night I decided to get better. I mean once and for all better. On Monday 19th January 2004, at a few minutes past midnight, here, the real story began. I took a deep breath, trusted my instincts, and let myself go. I let myself taste the other side. I let myself fly freely around my environment. I looked in the mirror, removed the mask, and allowed myself to see my own reflection. And I spoke;
“You will do this. And it will start now.”
My mask I wore throughout the endless rapes and sodomizing, were what kept me alive, kept me breathing. Each day and week passed, each morning I would rise, fixate the mask, and go on. Until I no longer could go on in that way. The crash ended before it had even begun. Breathe through the pain, no pain no gain, pain is what allows you to know you are alive. This is how I survived the years of torment inflicted on myself. I re-enacted all the pain on myself in order to know I was alive. I took what I hated of him and made it a part of myself. But in 2004 that ended. I chose to walk a different path. I chose to recover.
Engaging with this topic has given me hope. I know that the future holds something amazing for me. I know that this is what living is. I know this is what freedom tastes like. I love the taste of the rain on my face, the light that shines through the night, and the feeling of well being throughout my whole self.
In **** and ****** abuse you are left hating your body. You blame yourself, and you hurt yourself as a way of reclaiming the body that another took. Your body becomes disconnected from you, it becomes "another", it becomes a "thing.”
In Greek Mythology, Persephone is the goddess of spring. According to her story, she was abducted, ***** and taken to the underworld by Hades, the lord of the underworld. When her mother, Demeter, found out what had happened to Persephone, she convinced Zeus to force Hades to release her. Before Persephone could leave, Hades made her eat a pomegranate, which meant that she would have to return to the underworld for one-third of the year. According to the legend, the time Persephone spends in the underworld is the time in which there is winter on the earth. Because Persephone made it out of the underworld, she can be called the first survivor.
As survivors we can take comfort from the knowledge that although winter is hard, there is always spring around the corner.
© Sia Jane (2007)
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
i am so
distinctly
aware
that there is
only
one
of
you
on this fine
planet.
and because of that
acute
awareness
it's terribly
difficult
for me to
live
with the fact
that even though
i can't
live
without
you,
i can never have
you
and i will never
be able to
find
another quite like
you.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 11:56 PM UTC
I remember quite distinctly
The night the Angel came
Hovering above my field
And calling me by name
Fred, the Angel yelled to me
Waking all my sheep
I yelled "you stupid ****** twit"
I've just got them to sleep
He said a king was born to man
And I must go to see
I said, "I've got these bleating sheep"
I don't do this for free
The angel said follow the star
All the way to Bethlehem
I told him, you must be ****** daft
My next shift starts at ten
I've been around the world a bit
And I've seen a lot of stunts
But this angel hung right in the air
And his wings did not flap once
He said there is a child
And he will be the King of Kings
I didn't really listen much
I was still watching those **** wings
The sheep were going batty
The field was bight as bright could be
I said, of all the shepherds round here
Why did you come wake me?
He said to travel swiftly
And to follow yonder star
I said, I'm off to bed mate
I'm not going on that far
Then there came a bolt of lightning
He had barbecued a ewe
I thought this bird means business
I mean just what could I do?
I left my flock with Charlie
The shepherd two fields over one
And I said I'll be back soon mate
I'm off to see the holy son
I met up with some others
All of us had the same tale
Of an angel flinging lightning
So we all felt we best bail....
I got there in December
I'd been travelling for months
The only thing I thought of
Those wings...did not move once
There inside a manger
behind an inn...full up each day
Was where I saw a vision
I'll remember to my last day
Three wise men dressed in robements
A little kid, and his tin drum
Some donkeys and a camel
The baby Jesus and his mum
Dad, was in the corner
All alone hanging his head
He said "How could this have happened"
"I never left the bed"
I looked upon the baby
And I looked down upon that face
He looked at me and smiled
You could feel a state of grace
I really didn't know then
What I was here to do
But, now I know my task was
To tell everyone I knew
So, I started out on homeward
To tell old Charlie of the kid
I picked him up a present
Yep..that's exactly what I did
I guess the world must owe me
and this I 'll stand and shout
You could consider my gift to Charlie
Was the first true gift given out
Now, I sit and watch the sheep here
People come up just to see
The shepherd who started gifting
The shepherd...that is me!!!
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
*
It was exactly a year ago
Same day, around same time
I can't forget the moment
YOU leaned over me
To say something and smiled
And I smelled YOU,
Your breathe, your being
So close, You were so intoxicating
Like a ever open doors of heaven
And Then, there was sunshine
From that day on... in my LIFE
There were flowers blooming all around me
When I watched the sky in the night
There were sparkling stars around the moon
I remember it very distinctly
The MAGIC happened!
Your LOVE transmitted to me
Your LOVE energy injected within me
Through your breathe, your eyes,
Your smiles, your touch
Your fragrance spread all inside me
From your soul to my soul
The Alchemy of LOVE begins
Then and there
To never END ever...
[Remember the date, today...
FOREVER]
YOU: so aromatic, so beautiful
So intelligent, full of wisdom
I still carry that MIRACLE
Of Your being
Everyday, Everywhere
Within my body, blood streams
My breathe & My soul
My eyes, nose and lips
The way I see things
The way I think
I think as YOU
Only a few are blessed
To be around YOU in this life-time
To experience LUNA like you
I'm destined one of them
I'm most aware of your LOVE being
My soul-antennas picked up
All the right signals and vibrations
That many miss even after living besides you
(Through their clouded
Screen of intelligent minds)
That's why I keep on telling you
**"Drop the mind
Use your heart"**
And YES, you surely did..
Remember the times...?
When you dropped your mind
For a while
We shared a crackling chemistry
Like two bodies one soul
That no other person on earth can equate
Our joy and laughter together
Since then... till now
I've given you nothing else but
LOADS of RESPECT and LOTS of LOVE
And continue doing so
Till my last breathe
Only my death
can remove your being
From mine
Same Time, Same Date
Every Year
Till I DIE
I'll LOVE YOU
*
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
Waiting for him,
Was like a,
Mindless abyss.
I thought,
This time I should give it a shot.
Add plus venture,
Into a realm full with pleasures of flesh.
Rather waiting to lie in sepulcher.
Thence came the wooers,
On horses, chariots, planes and cars,
Courted me to the foreign lands of brand new emotions.
Greasy, exotic, curious and even obscure ,
To satiate my hunger,
They poured,
And I sinfully devoured.
Ooooh!
A whip here.
Ouuch!
A tickle there.
Aahhhhh!!
The sheer unfolding of their classy work.
Every night lusciously they came,
Wrapped me in an awe of satire, skepticism and imagination,
Not to say of the bruises they gave,
Tears I shed of Anger,Pain ,Love and Hate.
Still I followed them blindly and agape,
Because a new world in me was taking shape.
Of Shakespeare, Freud, Tolstoy, Eliot, Byron, Wordsworth and my then fav,
the great Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
A medley of fantasy, fact-fiction, comedy, realism and romance.
Oh!
What not I chanced upon.
All emphasizing emotion, imagination, scientific and natural thought.
There was no stopping of these gnawing hunger pangs,
None lasted more than a one night stand.
The foolish me, unaware, cascaded in the fatal encounters,
Not knowing the pangs are of soul to reach the supreme ******
Thence came a Seer
The Prophet,
The Wanderer,
The Forerunner,
It was as if he can rip me with his thoughts,
And see my soul through that tear…..
I distinctly remember that divine night,
The moment I held him in my desirous hands,
I was no more in dual fight.
Things started falling into place,
Was no more in that abysmal space.
Still I would say,
It’s a current phase.
This soon would also evade.
New Lover ,
For every new night…
To cut a long story short,
Just so,
Because of your low attention span,
The lover, the poet , the wooer
Was the great
Khalil Gibran.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 1:05 PM UTC
Hail to Thee, Immortal Three
Knowledge we sing on laud
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates
Philosophy, to be human awed
Teach through time, consciously
Nod not, what others fraud
Socrates taught, Divine Being
God not of brutal Athens’ passions
Entity of Beauty, Truth Seeing
Goodness unseen in day’s fashions
Soul for unalloyed agreeing
Lessons humanities’ compassion
Talk eternal justice, everlasting life
Socrates’ Sovereign Right of Reason
Clearly mind deceived sense’s strife
Invincible perfection be God’s season
Thus, our key to knowledge ever rife
Priests who find this, absolute treason
No church or Socratic school
A barefoot man roamed to teach
Socrates mocked for looking a fool
His speech not one to simply preach
Plato witnesses a martyr’s drool
Cruel hemlock, words did so breach
Handsome aristocratic youth Plato
Followed Socrates’ Eternal Wisdom
But soon to find his own credo
In Medara to find Euclid and freedom
Egyptian geometry to provide dado
To Plato life, expression; not a system
Eternally an artist, Plato did develop
Philosophic circle in Academus groves
Bring Athens, world knowledge envelop
Discretions of sensations, be not oaths
What man may be, an animal jealous
Plato’s allegorical cave found in droves
As Plato once be Socrates’ disciple
So too, to Plato would Aristotle be
Passing comprehension archetypal
Successions of genius’ visions do see
Aristotle taking it step further, as vital
To science of hands-on discovery
And this is where we see a parting
Of two distinctly opposing philosophies
Plato being at odds, with science starting
Aristotle’s truth, finding no apologies
Things not happening by chance imparting
Frivolity of duopoly, dichotomy to Socrates
But a new era has surely now dawned
Science exploring an invisible atom
And the seen and unseen correspond
So to Aristotle’s, Plato’s, Socrates’ datum
Brilliant new philosophies have spawned
An abstract notion of conceived stratum
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
Do you ever feel confused?
I see a million different
r r r r r r r r r r r
o o o o o o o o o o o
a a a a a a a a a a a
d d d d d d d d d d d
s s s s s s s s s s s in front of me.
Yet I hesitate to move.
All are entirely d i f f e r e n t,
yet distinctly the same.
I can make out face
f a c e
f a c e s
in the distance.
But they merge together
into every possibility.
They are:
warm. cold. livid. smiling.
mine. yours. ours.
All S M I L E at me.
Some show their teeth.
They are:
there. here. nowhere. everywhere.
past. present. future.
All H I S S at me.
Some have no tongues.
They are?
living. dead. or somewhere in-between.
Where your prejudice is my pain -
The grey reflected so brightly
from your black and w h i t e eyes.
In a space where your victories make me warm,
Or when your pain is bursting
through my own heart,
Only then will we truly understand what road we should take.
For we are all one.
We are all the light
all the dark
and every road.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC
An introverted saint
An introverted saint named after a saint
Who died for rebirth of faith
A ******* is very intuitive and alive
Like poem
But that’s not who you really are
You are running away from your past
Your pain you took risk to give rot to a friend’s innocent body without why
The way it glows how the light holds you in silence, taking care of you
Experience the energy of where all life began when you met a friend
And yet you keep it so close to you
So you don’t have to be afraid of who you are... you might lose your mind you refuses to take it factual. A ******* wants to spend the cell with who he is.
A ******* sees an angel for the first time is a friend when he told a friend is an angel without a ******** feeling in unclearly to complete desirable to be aware
Know your purpose feel your birth
Hear at first faintly then distinctly is a friend’s a state of harmony
The sweet strains of our union
Our friendship heats up the cold universe,
And give your tired desperate heart you lost your introversive
Purified by our kisses, are eternally healed.
It’s destiny by the way it’s weird feeling
It is magic?
A ******* is a weak man that he is extremely hazy
the way narcissism made him lack.
Your brilliance
Your heart is very weak because of flattery
You are not afraid in the world you get hidden away from a friend’s sight as light that from your introversion compare with extrovert in experience
But you can’t cook to save your life for who you are, you are so desperately to erase in anything with good thing come in your timeline to move to make sure you are safely where your home is with you
To believe in something that’s all around us
But hidden from our sight
The gift of the faith that destiny is willing to create us to be purpose to meet in happenstance that who we are
Life can be kind and zealous
Because you are beautiful. —They move me.
An introverted saint
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
I was around fifteen
when I first imagined
myself as your husband
and I distinctly remember
Laughing and tearing up,
just a little,
because I didn’t think it
was possible
for someone like you
to love someone like me.
I did not know how to love...
but there we were
genuinely happy
and in love,
adrift in the aether of
my teenage imagination,
your face was hidden from me.
I return the comfort
of that fantasy and
conjure scenes of our life together.
Spending time with you
comforts me and gives me peace.
Wherever you are, please
know that I love you
and that I am looking for you.
Darling, you are literally my fantasy
and I will not rest until
our love is our reality.
I cannot wait to meet you.
Have a great day, Love.
I can’t wait to hear about it!
Yours.
Always.
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
forward forward forward
going somewhere moving forward
whether progressing or regressing
growing or unlearning
coming or going
living, dying
everyone believes they are moving towards something
and as everything happens all at once
each perceptive reality is entirely different than any other
and each consciousness travels, and does, and is.
each consciousness believes it has a purpose or a path.
the purpose is not to see into nor plan the future.
from the civilian to the hero tv shows and movies
have consistently glorified the ability to see visions of the future
generally this is followed by someone trying to prevent
the happenings in said vision from becoming reality
and distinctly failing because they "saw into" the future
that their own energy influenced
but the true super power is to be able to look into the past.
to prevent the omitting of details and data
to avoid a rewrite of our conscious interaction with this planet
not to white out the chapters that bear the truth in the textbooks
to recall history so it does not repeat itself
my question is then
do people disguise the wrongdoings of those hidden by the passing of time?
because they are ashamed of the mistakes of their ancestors pasts?
because they are ashamed of their participation in past consciousness's?
because they are ashamed of the atrocities humans have inflicted upon each other and themselves as well as their home planet since the beginning of recorded time here?
or do those who have the power to omit and hide history
purposely rewrite it?
do they mask the pains of the past so the rest of us will forget?
so that even they can forget?
so their next consciousness can unknowingly, while predestined,
have hand in crimes against the world all the same as committed in the lost past?
how many times has someone written these words
or a similar combination
only to delete the post?
burn the pages?
backspace the message?
stop themselves from speaking them aloud?
cover the symbols?
pass out of conscious living mid sentence?
lose them to a past lifetime?
how many times has this cycled through the same way?
how many times have I been me?
how many times have you been me?
how many times have I been anyone?
how many times have I been?
is there a rhythm or is it all as scattered and random
as the thoughts that bring you
to this kind of an understanding of the habit of misunderstanding?
the kind of thoughts that bring you back to the birds nest because you were too early for even the worm?
they will all catch up eventually
after all they all think theyre moving forward
and they don't even know where they've been.
they don't even know that they've been.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
The Prism Through Which We See Clearly
~
light saws our untrue selves with acute angles,
piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features,
our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements
this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here
it is a dissection of our true nature
why belabor, why elaborate?
through the prism
you color-coded self, tracted,
a mapping of your intersections,
what each color speaks, needs not an explication,
your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation
at last I see you clearly
the lost and black withered limbs,
the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity
did you know your eyes are constant singers?
through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted,
your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations,
your song, the production number of thy own composition,
through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released,
here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens,
from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms
the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated
through the prism,
before the full length mirror,
my own, unowned, never could be owned,
'mirror mirror on the wall,'
warped weave of tissues, mine,
the song sounds, mine,
from lungs disgorged
myself, diagnosed and displayed
of what I see, spitting speech
ceases and desists,
the only thought permitted, repeated,
where is my shelter now?
5/13/17 6:49am
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC