"distinguish" poems
It never gets old,
Even when the injury is nothing odd,
We never get used to it,
Its even worse when you can't even move to your favourite beat,
All you can do is just lay down on a seat,
Brings about anguish,
One which you can't really distinguish
From the previous one,
Because the feeling never gets old to anyone,
Makes us mad, >:O
And our loved ones sad :(
Pain,pain,pain,
Despite all this,physical pain
Is way less than emotional pain.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 4:11 AM UTC
All along my trigger was you and I can't stand it
To this subconcious fear I light up and take a hit
Tumbling forever I never thought this would quit
Because I thought I could distinguish love from
********
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
Men were considered to excel in education,
But now women are taking up the tradition,
Excelling in arts, science and commerce,
Women have really made competition fierce.
For household chores,
Women were considered,
But now you see,
Sunita Williams flying high on earth.
So let us all bear in mind,
That women are never behind,
They can conquer any situation,
By showing sheer determination.
Educate your girl child,
So that she can fight her right,
Make her very strong,
So that she can distinguish right and wrong.
~Farheen zehra
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
I speak in praise of the ******** yes,
and as a male, I decline to be clandestine about this.
The reason I so admire the ******** is that it's the female's key
to being multiply ******** and frankly, I'm in awe of this.
You see, the male ***** can't compare
because, of course, it has a dual purpose.
It wasn't put there just for bliss,
which is the only purpose of the ********
Males must just resign
themselves to their dangling ganglia, the ****
which is so easy to malign compared to the delicate paradigm
of the **** and its remarkable economy of design.
Now I realize that females may be suspicious
of my focus on their ********
but actually, I think it’s ingenious.
My own discovery of this was serendipitous and propitious.
You see? Really, I’m envious of the ********
because it's indefatigable and delectable,
(I think she likes a little nibble),
and anyway, there’s not much point in trying to distinguish
between *********** and the ********
So there's my poem to the little ****
with admiration and respect.
I speak in praise of the ********
Truly. A gift for all of us.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
you told me
to write down my feelings
and share them with you
when you wake up,
but drawing out these emotions
isn’t easy because
they’re pale and indefinite
i cannot distinguish
a path to take,
whether it’s winding
or cobblestoned,
or so overgrown with trees
that i cannot see the sky
so maybe in the meantime
i’ll sit in my room
and fold paper cranes
on rainy days
till a map that illustrates
how to carry on
makes its way
into my muddled hands
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
a man is born with a ***** testicles, and various other masculine equipment and tendencies.
a Man lives by a masculine code that revolves around the physical, the mental, and the spiritual. a Man is committed to himself above all else. this may sound selfish, but it isn't. a Man not only puts himself on high, but connects himself mind, body, and soul to the physical, mental, and the spiritual. everything that he connects to himself becomes himself. a Man does not distinguish between the his own flesh and the flesh of his children. a Man does not distinguish between his mind and the mind's of those in his inner circle. a Man does not distinguish between his will and the will of his god. a Man is power. he is the generator. those that he has allowed to plug into his world are empowered by him. they come into his presence and feel better for it. a Man changes lives. a Man understands the trinity of justice, mercy, and charity. a Man is not afraid to give to those as they deserve. he looks with fair eyes and does not slow his hand or slow its speed. a Man is not cold enough to be alien to compassion. he can see to the heart of matters and look past the easy answers. when others will marvel at his wisdom and praise his mercy. he will only think 'as it should be'. a Man is not without the ability to go beyond. he can look to the future. help those that need it, sometimes before they need it. anticipation and preparedness are the weapons of the Man. stoic strength is his shield. a Man is not without weakness. he understands his weaknesses, but is not victim to them. he may succumb to them, but as a master of justice, he steels himself for the price he must pay. weakness must be addressed and turned to strength. as a Man fears, he must stand up and face it. as a Man despairs, he must turn it aside. when a Man fails, all that have plugged into his power will fail. when a Man falls, families, nations, societies fall. when a Man falls, it is the duty of another Man to come to his aid. when Men stop aiding Men, they merely become men with penises and various other masculine equipment and tendencies.
The Man is a Man that all other Men fear and long to be. He is the one that Men plug into. Some Men see that as a sign of weakness and rebel, but The Man signs paychecks and feeds families. who will topple The Man?
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC
time is an infinite stream of possibilities
may this blessing flow to you across time through love
I pray for you, the me of my past who struggled and
lost your way in depression.
May this blessing find you across time to you, from me the you of the future, to the 26 year old that I was in a moment in time,
where I was lost.
May you find your way out of despair and hopelessness, and
may you find the courage to set the radio outside of the filled
bathtub. I know suicide seems the only way out, but you have
so much to live for. I am you of the future, as I speak to you of my past.
May my love and hope travel across time to help you find joy in that little moment, where you turned on the radio to make sure power was flowing before you electrocuted yourself. But in that tiny moment, reggae music blasted through the speakers bringing a spark of joy and rhythm into a dark moment, where you could not distinguish from the true and false.
May you find the wisdom to know that your pain will not last forever and all wounds heal with time, even heartbreaks. I know, because I am in this very present moment the future self of you. I know that your present feels bleak and each day feels more painful and pointless than the day before. It feels like the whole world is against you and people who are supposed to love you only judge you and ridicule you. Somehow it feels like who you are is not enough and you are sick and tired of feeling this way.
May my love and hope travel across time. Love is infinite and collapses the space that separates us. May my blessing find you
through this dark moment and many to come, so you may know
and experience joys, sadness, and full specturum of emotions
with an open heart. You will someday embrace pain as one of your greatest teachers, because it has lead you to the other great teacher of life, love. May you have the courage to really live, so you may face death, another great teacher. May you live and die with love, and not with fear and hatred in your heart.
May this blessing travel across time in that infinite place in your heart, where hope will rise out of the heavy despair that is pulling you down to depths of pain that goes deeper and deeper. Somehow, pain upon pain becomes comforting, and you begin to be trapped in yourself. All you can see is this moment.
May my prayer and blessing find you and guide you to a future you cannot imagine in your present, but you would not want to miss. Thank you, I love you. I'm sorry for ways I failed you. Please forgive me.
May this blessing of hope and love find you across time and space to bring you home, so you and I can live in that infinite space of love in our hearts, where we are connected to life flowing through and in us. May you find your way to me, to the now that is always being created.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
The devil sat upon his toasted grieving red throne
Gulping his tongue, the devil never stressed
She seduced his powerful taste
He knew she was a lost soul, out of control
She was a walking mess, who was taking her toll
He had no business taking a hit to his statured entitlement
He promised to distinguish her from the rest, implicating a battle every dawning blue sky
His threats do not scare her passion to fight
She's a rampage with braided hair and an innocent glare
Zip up your sweater vest, here comes Hells pest
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
i feel deep sorrow for those who are
colorblind.
not because they cannot
distinguish the difference between a
red rose or white, or
a green dress and blue, but
because they cannot see
the beauty that is the sunset.
they cannot tell of the colors that
hold onto one another and
mix in perfect harmony as they
blanket the sun and let her
sleep for the night, giving way to the
glint of the moon.
they cannot see the hues that
cause lovers to become awestruck and
fall deeper in love.
but they can see shadows and light.
they can see how their girlfriend's hair
darkens her profile a tiny bit,
creating contours.
they can see how beautiful she looks when
the sunlight hits her eyes and
makes them shine a brightness in competition
with the night stars.
they can see how the light slips from her face at night and how
shadows replace the brightness.
they can see how the morning light pushes out these shadows,
making room to lighten her face
once again.
perhaps the rise and fall of the light on a woman's face
are all the sunsets a
colorblind person
ever needs.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
when I say last year I hit an all time low,
I mean that I spent two hundred and eighty nine days without sunlight,
I’ve never known a rose to grow immersed in eternal night -
auctioned off my heart for the gift of sight,
I wonder how long I’ve lived my life blinded by the rose tinted glass?
false love will have you struggling to distinguish between gold and brass.
I draw out the sequence.
your palms met her flesh,
my reflection in the mirror is reduced to ash.
I feel my heart hit the floor,
blood stains in the carpet - proof that love does not live here anymore
next time just wrap them around my neck,
I get the same hand of cards
out of every single deck.
from love,
suffocating, choking,
that is the only sensation I have come to expect,
you know that better than me,
extinguished every fire set to your trees,
don’t you remember?
she left everything around you to burn,
choked on all the smoke,
still you fixated on all the ember,
if this body was ever not hollow,
I wouldn’t remember.
two hundred and eighty nine days,
I spent treading in the shallow,
moulded my existence out of clay just to fill another persons shadow.
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 9:20 PM UTC
Walking in the rain...
It refreshes your mind, body and soul to the point that your barriers and walls don't exist anymore.
No one can distinguish tears streaming down your face from rain drops collecting on your cheeks.
But, it makes you remember everything you've been through,
And all the pain rushes back so that you can understand that deep down it was necessary, unknown, but in someway.
Throwing yourself to the ground.
You wish it all away.
Grip you head.
Falling...
There is no more.
Not until the smell of petrichor
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 12:35 AM UTC
therapy and resistance
how is it that therapy becomes the excess of class war or the oppression thereof?
When the struggle of the individual is made to seem self induced when it is easily and clearly directly a result of the failures and complacence afforded by the majority of the group.
When in a therapeutic environment it is important to distinguish the opportunities of resistance from the experience of trauma.
there has always been individuals who establish groups that are in a realm of desperation.
Understanding how this process has unfolded institutionally is just as valid as treating the individual.
This gives the individual the choice and resources needed to heal.
The healing could look like resistance rather than assuming aspects of class war or oppressive culture to be normal.
Otherwise therapy is nothing but the means to normalize the process of oppression.
The traumatic state needs to be able to decipher its organic existence from that of organized oppression and its institutional cooperation.
the neglect of deciphering or distinguishing these differences causes individuals to make a competition out of trauma. This minimizes certain trauma of individuals and causes the group to have less of an opportunity to resist organized oppression of the institution.
Those that are in the realm of desperation or traumatic state are given no choice but to repress in order to continue being social or a member of the group.
in excess the hierarchies of gender, race and class are reinforced to an almost superhuman level.
To the desperate or traumatic state…
what needs reinforcement is that there are humans just like us who have resisted oppression and caused the normalcy of the group to be more inclusive and aware of the processes associated with organized oppression.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
The poet Phernazis is composing
the important part of his epic poem.
How Darius, son of Hystaspes,
assumed the kingdom of the Persians. (From him
is descended our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator). But here
philosophy is needed; he must analyze
the sentiments that Darius must have had:
maybe arrogance and drunkenness; but no -- rather
like an understanding of the vanity of grandeurs.
The poet contemplates the matter deeply.
But he is interrupted by his servant who enters
running, and announces the portendous news.
The war with the Romans has begun.
The bulk of our army has crossed the borders.
The poet is speechless. What a disaster!
No time now for our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator,
to occupy himself with greek poems.
In the midst of a war -- imagine, greek poems.
Phernazis is impatient. Misfortune!
Just when he was positive that with "Darius"
he would distinguish himself, and shut the mouths
of his critics, the envious ones, for good.
What a delay, what a delay to his plans.
And if it were only a delay, it would still be all right.
But it yet remains to be seen if we have any security
at Amisus. It is not a strongly fortified city.
The Romans are the most horrible enemies.
Can we hold against them
we Cappadocians? It is possible at all?
It is possible to pit ourselves against the legions?
Mighty Gods, protectors of Asia, help us.--
But in all his turmoil and trouble,
the poetic idea too comes and goes persistently--
the most probable, surely, is arrogance and drunkenness;
Darius must have felt arrogance and drunkenness.
5k
The day I lost my Angel,
I traded my love in for something of repugnance,
And I by no means even put up a struggle
I never even spoke, Not even showing a single expression.
I just raised my arms towering to the sky above
I just gave up
I ceased to distinguish who I was.
I became nothing, a soul I hadnt ever met or knew.
I had loved you, A feeling that you out grew.
A love I never knew.
I never once considered the repercussions of my emotions
Or my thoughts.
It’s strange how a single ripple in the sea
Can work to transform everyone and everything it comes in contact with.
Never leaving any inclination of its presence
Or its effect apon the vision that is cast into the waters of prospect.
Now I have nobody left,
No one and nothing at all.
Nothing in my heart or in my soul.
The graceful love I showed you.
But who am I to say.
I am just a guy at heaven’s gate
With broken wings.
Hoping that today is the day I may get in.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
TRUMP
i never said a word about you because
would it be rude to call you an embarrassment?
you're everything i'm not and you're
everything i fear in a person but
tonight i thought about you and for the first time
since i blocked your number that night i was
supposed to come over i kind of maybe sort of
missed your touch but i didn't miss you
i loved you when you were inside of me but
could barely stand to be in the same room with you otherwise
you made my heart pound like a bad anxiety attack after
seeing your 47 in math and thinking woah i might not graduate
and realizing even worse: with a grade that low i'll never make it
to outer space (which means we'll be stuck on the same planet
forever no matter how hard i try to rid myself of you you will
always linger between the cracks in the sidewalks and broken
picket fences you are suburbia's biggest fear)
POOH
you taught me that lust never leads to love
and you stole my favourite book. i wonder
if you ever read it but you stopped talking to me
out of the blue, apparently i had done something wrong?
i mean,
that's a first
i dream about you more often than i'd like to admit
sometimes you drop in just to say hi but most of the time
you call me a ***** and tell me you wish i were dead but
no matter what you heard about me i swear to God i'm pure
or maybe God was right when he burned my skin alive and
watched me become ashes in the middle of nowhere with no one
around to hear me scream for help, have i sinned too much to be
let in to Heaven?
******
beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful
beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful
beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful
beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful
beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful
SIRIUS
history repeats and i've been stuck in this loop
since i can remember i fall in love with the same
person over and over again i fall in love with you
and you fall in love with him and i stop believing
in love all together but i fall in love with someone
else because they remind me of you and i hope you
think of me from time to time and miss me as much
as i miss you as i try to fall out of love but it never
works the way it worked so easily for you, first love
doesn't mean forever love because the first is never
the last and everyone said so but i was hoping that
maybe one day we'd get married in the garden down
the hill by your house that overlooked Lake Ontario
or the ocean as you liked to call it because you could
never distinguish the difference between blues
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC
To even commence to define how profoundly I fell in love with you, I would need the capacity of a thousand-page manuscript written in the most romantic idiom.
Each, and every retention of us is stowed into the back of my conscious, and concealed deep into my heart.
Every beautiful memory plays through my head like soft music.
I would say my heart is immovable. There are days that I try to sojourn the thoughts of you, but its intolerable for me to do so.
I am so engulfed in your perfection. I do not think there has been a single day that you have escaped my thoughts.
I can feel your presence with me if I ponder our memories deeply enough. Your presence weighs heavily in my heart. It is as if part of your soul occupies its crevasses, and fills my cracks.
Your eyes are echoes of a hundred distant galaxies no man has ever revealed. Vast windows that reflect the constellations.
My heart is certain the universe resides in them.
As I begin to study your face, I feel like nothing but love can exist.
Your porcelain perfection never ceases to weaken me.
You weaken me with love, trust, and desire. Like the finest specimen created by the hands of Gods.
As I anticipate the connotation of love, the implication is “you”.
Even if the fire for what you feel for me dies, I do not reason the passion I have for you will ever dim.
I do not begin to recollect if I had ever felt this susceptible.
I let this passion be valued like the rarest stone.
I would give up the entire world if it meant I could have you in my life endlessly.
Your happiness is of grave importance to me, when I study your smile, I can overlook the darkness of this decaying reality.
Every heartbeat of time my mouth declares three unpretentious words.
“I love you”.
I say it like an invocation.
Not one moment did my tongue express profanity against these golden words of poetry.
I love you. “ I Love You” . And solitarily just you.
I wallow in my own sorrows at the thought of the culmination, when we shall one day part at death's hand.
For I deeply distinguish that you love me equally, and this brings vast pleasure to my temperament.
I sense security in your encirclement, your heart is my home.
My heart qualms of my fragile weakness that I consume when I dream of you.
You make me susceptible to the sickness of love.
If love was a poem, you would be the title.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
After so long an absence
At last we meet agin:
Does the meeting give us pleasure,
Or does it give us pain?
The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the prophets two or three berries
In the top of the uppermost bough.
We cordially greet each other
In the old, familiar tone;
And we think, though we do not say it,
How old and gray he is grown!
We speak of a Merry Christmas
And many a Happy New Year;
But each in his heart is thinking
Of those that are not here.
We speak of friends and their fortunes,
And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,
And the living alone seem dead.
And at last we hardly distinguish
Between the ghosts and the guests;
And a mist and shadow of sadness
Steals over our merriest jests.
4.4k
the shoes are imprinted with the paved streets
there is never enough time
our eyes sparkle
but the eyebags belied the many nights
whiled away
smiling at the stars
new maps every night
gazes change as the skies change
we traverse different longitudes
trees spill into trees
there never was a need to distinguish
our passports fading crumbling
paths always leading to each other
will we still be left with an identity?
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
For translational
invariant functions
The Lebesgue measure is an example of such a function;
In geometry, a translation "slides"
a thing by a: Ta(p) = p + a.
In physics and mathematics,
continuous translational symmetry
is the invariance of a system of
equations under any translation.
Discrete translational symmetry
is invariant under discrete translation;
Analogously an operator A on functions
is said to be translationally invariant
with respect to a translation operator
{\display style T_{\delta }} T_{\delta }
if the result after applying A doesn't change
if the argument function is translated.
More precisely it must hold that:
{\display style \for all \delta \
Af=A(T_{\delta }f).\,}
\for all \delta \ Af=A(T_{\delta
}f).\,
Laws of physics are translationally invariant
under a spatial translation
if they do not distinguish
different points in space.
According to Noether's theorem,
space translational symmetry of a physical system
is equivalent to the momentum conservation law.
Translational symmetry of any woman
means that a particular translation does not change her.
For a given woman, the translations
for which this applies form a group,
the symmetry group, or, if the women
have more kinds of symmetry, a subgroup of the symmetry group.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
her milk is him
her eyes are full of good tidings,
washing my body with lavender soap cake,
all the dirt crumbs of a hard life drained
into a circle of holes that carry away carings,
to places where their squeaking can’t be heard
her hands, pillows for a head so sorrow-weighty,
her body, her hips, a bed upon to rest,
and he wonders,
how did he exist before she become his nest,
her hair of grass, now, a coverlet for twigs and strings,
when then he laid his body down for disturbed sleep
her milk is him, a restorative that refreshes his content,
how did, once upon a time, he let existence subtract
his time on earth without any relativity, time unrecognizable,
he was in no one place, pathless, subsidizing nothing,
unable to distinguish tween the straight and the curved
her milk in him, whitens his soul, she calls out,
“*you are my shepherd, my king, my David,
my white marble sculpture of our current existence,
when you drink the white of me, it is I who is fulfilled,
when you write of me, your milk is me*”
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 4:39 PM UTC
Across a void of space and time far away from where I am supposed to be, but a lot closer to myself
Headed away from home but towards it at the same time
All I have is a select few thoughts packed into boxes
Boxes that I treat as if they're a part of me
From boxes on wheels to boxes that fly,
To boxes that clearly say, "I live as if I'm never going to die."
We go looking for more boxes, boxes that we places parts of ourselvs in
And sometime we decide it's time
To give away a box or two
After all that we've been through
Castles built of boxes tumble time and again
And yet we build, for boxes will always be available at a bargain
They say "No need to carry your own boxes, let us do it for you!"
And while you're waiting on your boxes; Here, it's on us, have a brew
Boxes of color, boxes of shapes
Boxes that distinguish us based on our drapes
Drowning in a sea of boxes, can we barely see land
But thankfully whenever you want to move your boxes, there's always someone to lend a hand
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
the simple true |
vs.
absurd ********
water on mars points to the future of
the dead earth;
Fascists vs. aliens | complete fossils of advanced
hominids found miles
deep below [ ]
the Martian surface [but w/ no signs
of engineering or built structures]
questions w/ no answers |
what kind of society did Martians have:
dictatorship, democracy or empire & what kind of poetry
did they write:
searching for the great epic poet
of Mars beginning by digging straight down past the fossil record
coming upon an entirely other set of structures & fossils dated
thousands of years before those previously found
& further down, more advanced forms of society
at the deepest strata advanced electronics & technology appears
w/ less & less hominid forms, n still w/no evidence of written
poetry
|
Martian poetry may have been oral; so in
setting up sound meters to detect
residual radio-sound waves, the history of sound can be
recorded & focused on any one particular voice or several:
from this we detect recited verse
no matter how far back it was uttered; in truth, the older the better as it's
easier to distinguish & isolate the particular voice
from ambient rhythms
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
In a strange mood - see/write art
in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^
in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.
knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.
a ***** well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.
^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell
Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
we long for what we can't give. (title for now) I long to converse with you without our words turning to anger, but still we find ourselves standing at opposite ends of a verbal battle. I long to spend time with you, without it turning into a confrontation, but we still stand at opposite ends of the chessboard. I have longed to hold you, even close, but you kept me at arms length; both physically and mentally. I try to do right by you but I always seem to fail, like a child blindfolded in a dark room who was asked to distinguish between colors. You ask for passion, almost like that of two star crossed lovers who have stolen a single night for themselves. But the many times I've tried to express it, the passion was unreturned like a lover waiting under the stars for a soul that seems will never arrive. I've waited for the happiness that is supposed to come from two hearts joined as one, and yet I'm filled with a sadness that comes from a pain of a solitary beating vessel. I have asked you for affection, that of a caring mate that says "I love you" without words, and here I find myself unknowing of a speechless love, for when I'm in pain I can't feel you there holding me. I hope for a strong open mind, one that can not only stand up for her beliefs, but also admit to the mistakes that befall all human beings. Yet, for you to see your errors would mean for you to admit your faults and imperfections, which your pride may never accept. I simply ask for a companion that would take the time to understand me and love me for my imperfections; for I know I carry many with me. However that effort and understanding has not been received from you. And even though I've had all these obstacles in the way, I've tried to love you with every drop of blood that pumps through my veins, but no longer can I shed tears for your sorrows, or bleed for your pain, for it is as if my heart has pumped its last drop of my pain.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
One could hardly distinguish between
the hue of the sky
and the industrial water tower jutting his head
above the horizon, the depths of the city’s
flat rooftops.
Smoking from steel grey
Rhodesians, controverting the horizon.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC