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Kara Jean May 2016
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
Life goes on with the good and worst...
We're here for the sake of thirst.

The sunshine of morning can't b e changed,
Just as the destiny of ours' can't be replaced.

A new born child has a different spark,
Cause he doesn't know the awaited one.

Happiness touches like it pours after dry,
Acting every time is our foremost try.

Virtual world is a clear illusion,
Where we now distinguish among relations.

Duties keep on running in mind,
Still everyone can't be of true mankind.

Imaginations seek the greatest pleasure,
But reality is the only whining figure.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this is rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.2 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohr,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.


----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?
Incorporating radical (root-related) definitions via cut and paste is my way of acknowledging that I have no ex-uses left for using words in a wrong, thus lying, way.
jcl Mar 16
Animals have an intuition about danger. Men have “gut feelings.”  I should have listen to mine.  The first time I saw her, I knew she was dangerous.  I could feel it, and it excited me.  She was a predator, a tigress, a seductress on the hunt.  A wild, untamable savage woman who destroyed men.  She would destroy me.  I saw it in her eyes the first time I saw her.  She was walking by with her girlfriends, laughing and giggling  She looked up, caught my gaze, and my world suddenly froze. A thousand feelings were expressed in blink of her eyes.  She told me I was prey.  She told me I would die. She smiled, releasing my gaze.  My world rushed back into focus with the abrupt harshness of a slap in the face.  I was sweating. I was afraid. I was excited as I  watched her disappear into the crowd. I was reeling, trying to conceive a way to approach her, to find a clever, witty one liner to distinguish myself from the rest.  I set my drink down. I couldn’t think of anything.  I was spent.

... continued at séraphine #2 gare de l’est
if you like what you read, please leave a comment to keep inspiring the author :-)

Written May 13, 1998 Paris, France while sitting at a bistro

#243 2019.04.15 / #423 2019.04.30
n-khrennikov Oct 2018
Death and love dancing together,
In her youthful and strong body.
Her hand is like paper,
soft velvet
you meet in the wild flower petals,
Her lips sad and chapped
with poetry wheel she wrote
How much in the darkness?, it is heart bulb
as the stars share unforgettable joy!

Death and love
kiss her lips
let go of desire for life,
Because two people can not distinguish,
in the dance blew all three.
n-khrennikov ©

Memorialize:  Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963).
Tay Jun 2016
Don't fall in love with a girl who reads.
The girl who feels everything, who dreams, who writes..

Fall in love with the girl you find in a bar. Find her in the squall of smoke and sweat of an upscale nightclub. Make sure she doesn't mix her coffee with bourbon. Love the one shooting tequila straight from a cheap, half-empty bottle. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure it lingers a little too long. Use pickup lines and entertain her with meaningless slurs from a long day and mistakes you know are about to be made. Take her outside and kiss her in the rain because you saw it in a film. Comment on its silliness.

Pull her into a tolerable relationship. Let the months pass by without remark. Then let years pass by unnoticed. Talk about nothing of significance and retreat into it when the air grows stale and the evenings become long. Fight about how the shower curtain needs to be kept closed. Propose a little later because you realize you'd have wasted so much time otherwise. Take her to a restaurant that wreaks of marinara sauce and sheepishly ask the waiter to bring a bottle of expensive champagne. Offer up a modest ring and don't become too concerned if you feel nothing of sincerity or commitment. But fake it, ******* it.

Do these things. Because a life lived in purgatory is better than one lived in ****. She will make it ****. I'm begging you, stay away from the one who reads. Who laughs or cries when she makes love. Who can neatly fold her spirit and spin it into prose and poetry. If she loves poetry, run away. Don't dare to look back. She is to be left alone. Dangerous little smiles should make you shake. Do not smile back.

Do not fall in love with a girl who thinks. Who is made up of magic and knows herself. Do not love the one who knows how to disappear inside of a book or a poem or a painting. If she spends any more than a few seconds looking into the eyes of a sinner, get out of there.

Don't fall in love with the girl who is interested in politics, who feels disease in injustices. Don't love the one who is intense, who is lucid and charismatic. Stay away from the one who has any sense of ambition, of rebellion, or even the smallest hint of wonder in her eyes. Be cautious of the ones who can't live without music. If she can draw, quit, and quit fast.

A girl who reads is one who knows herself; who is sure. She is educated and she is fire inside a bottle of rye. The girl who reads is one who is comfortable with goodbyes. Think about it: she's read millions of novels and each one ends. Most end with the death of her favorite character. They make her think. And she flies through the pages like they are wet wine on collarbones. And she is okay with each and every ending. Sure, she might cry, but she'll wipe her face and pick up another book. Just to do it all over again. Remember this if she ever says her favorite book is you.

She is a romantic and how can you match up to the princes and heroes in her books? She knows nothing else. You can't love her the way those characters could if they were to take shape. She holds a vocabulary that lays claim to her ability to distinguish between the specious and the soulless. She holds rhetoric hands that turn black streaks into the books she loves so deeply. She deserves a man who can hold her hand the way she holds her books. Someone who can write her notes and hide them in her lunch box. Can you write in cursive the way she can?

Please, don't fall in love with a girl who reads. Because a girl like that, you never come back from.
Sofia Rybkina Nov 2018
Run away, since my anger has no end,
It's your light that has led me through anguish, through hurt and dark,
But your love had you seized - and you easily gave me up.
I'm not to distinguish an enemy from a friend,

I'm not to believe our family can be healed.
Run away, little Sister. I cannot be stopped or ceased,
A beast's the one that always spawns a beast,
Satan's the one who needn't be saved or peeled,

The apple falls not very far from the apple tree.
I remember us, children, we had our faith, our love,
We believed that His aid would descend from the skies above.
Run away, little Sister, since it will never come.
Riz May 2017
our society revolves around a
dogmatic
chauvinistic cult
where men
are not manly if they don’t show preference
for *** and **** attached
to a brainless body

society has
no care for
you
you are inbetween the cracks

you distinguish who you are
in your body
and mind
yet this permanent mask
is pasted onto your face
as you live in fear of violence
of exploitation
and of the darkest shades of humanity

you are a monster
you are a sickness
and undeserving of love

the pigs in society
squeal it into your ear

they wish you weren’t human
as you are unfit for their constraints of love
and you express it in ways that panic them
they are pathetically
scared of you

you are corrupt
you are a disease
and full of hedonistic mistakes

you
are
unethically
different

and change is scary
as with change, their reign
will drop
slowly
from them

do not believe they wish to help you
their crocodile smiles
are **** *******
all over you
...that's if **** could ****

they are wolves dressed as lambs
with an exasperating desire
to detroy you

how dare you threaten the old ways
how dare you threaten
the old ignorance

is it a dark truth
that you will fight your
enitre life
to get your respect?

well **** them
you are a fighter
you always have been

pin your ears closed
to their
bone violating words

be a moon who
cannot be broken
and can control the tides

be a sun
who is bright
and can radiate our lives

you may fight your whole life
and fight for what is your respect

but you will win

you will

win
A response to 'the shocking comments homophobic people have made about those who have died in the Orlando attacks and also those two ******* on sky news that Owen Jones walked out on.'
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.
In dedication to the feeling of true love.
Tiara I S Mar 12
Pose me like I'm your toy
Its better than being thrown away
Don't ignore me boy
I want you to adore me
See me sparkle under the moon
Smile with me- cry with me
Fill me with all that is you
It tastes so fufilling
I want to be what you want
When you dream I dance on the clouds
Interlacing all our lies until you can't distinguish me from you
So sweet- so ****- I'm all that you want
Yuna- Mannequin & I'm a sensitive maneater
Crown Shyness Aug 2018
It smells
as if it would be winter.
Last day of August,
time's a sprinter
or is it standing still,
controlled by my own will?
Holding,
playing dead,
head's decision
to bed my brain to sleep,
comatose in need
to feel ecstasy
in the occasion
of a
   t
      o
       u
     c
   h.
Bench. Garden.
The hardening of belief,
grief is preparing.
And my mind is visited,
randomly, by one word.
E
     P
             H
                      E
                              M
       ­                               E
                                ­              R
                                                     A
                                                               ­ L.
I love its sound.
It expresses peace
and my biggest fear.

My dear shooting star,
you grant me wish after wish,
they always happen,
but I cannot wish myself the erasement
of consciousness.

I came to the conclusion -
my purpose is
to exist
for reinventing damaged pictures
of love
and tenderness.
When will I be able to distinguish
relief from a gift?
Poison=Gift?
Lift,
lift me up,
I want to be toxic
to **** pain.
Want to be rain
as long as fire treats life like a game.
Esmena Valdés Sep 2018
We forgot.

We do not distinguish

the

m e m o r i e s

From ordinary moments,
we do not discover it
until later

b e c a u s e  o f  t h e  s c a r s.

Everything we said
will be corpuscles
scattered in the wind

a n d  you  l i k e  me

will forget.

I am tired
of looking a frozen sun,
of being an

e m o t i o n a l  n o m a d

of depositing

l o v e

in something that later
transforms into absorbed
thoughts and attitudes.

But this is my
condition
and it is also

c i r c u m s t a n t i a l.
nicole Jan 2018
remind me again where to draw the line
between affection and attention
when all i am thinking of is your warmth against my very own,
yet without any strings nor emotions attached
because let's put it simply and very bluntly - we're not in love,
we're two people obsessed with the idea of being in love

you lull me with preconceived notions (of love);
of how i should feel when i'm with you
it has become a steady, easy comfort to deny it
and we always stray from the truth
the truth is we are merely two people living out your ephemeral fantasy
and perhaps mine

after all, i was never able to distinguish affection from attention
Connor Eastwood Sep 2018
War
At a war with myself.
The trenches are dug deep, like scars on flesh
they distinguish me.
Bullets tear through me moment by moment trying to pierce the thick walls of fantasy.

Onlookers oblivious of the treachery and treason so skillfully hid within the casket.

Death fills until it bursts.

Fills until the war is won.
Lvice Nov 2017
The house that I grew up in is growing old.
I can barely distinguish between the house and my grandfather, and both have given up. Tired..of people walking inside of them.
I used to fall in the house running around the hallway and through the kitchen and now I'm falling through the floor.
There is no one to say "Get out of my kitchen!"
I've never been in the attic and I've only seen my grandfather open the latch once; I'll never get to see what was stored.  I thought Katherine's ornaments could be up there, but neither knew what had been done with them.
It broke my heart to see what I had seen. I wanted to have those memories again but not all the money in the world could buy them back.
The magic I had grown up with is dying. There is no more children to fall on the cinder under the fur shed and burn her forehead, or see snow for the first time. And after making snow *****, running hands through water and letting Katherine rub them through her bony hands. It doesn't snow in Louisiana but for this house it did.
I loved being old at such a young age. Picking blackberries with him and learning to preserve them. Staining my mouth, cheeks, hair, hands, my shirt with Mulberry. Then rolling dough on the counter and staining it with little girl hands and thin fingers and bear paws.
And still the only jelly I'll eat is blackberry jelly.
Cards at the table with Katherine was the best. She had this laugh. More of a cough and she wouldnt stop coughing until she caught her breath and then I would laugh so hard and try to walk it off and trip over her oxygen tubes.  That machine  used to haunt me. It looks with green eyes at night and stood in the open doorway of the door that I never understood why it was there, it never closed anyway. The doorway I used to hide in that one nightmare  about the dinosaur that would chase me around the same hallways that my grandfather would. I've always loved dinosaurs after that.
And eating at the kitchen table where there was always honey because grandfather was also a beekeeper and loved honeycombs and fresh honey.  The one flaw in that table was the window where I always thought raptors or a bobcat would jump out of while I was eating and eat ME. Tough little five year old me would put up a fight and scream until Paw would save me.
  The dining room table where Granny Velgin always had pancakes. The BEST pancakes. Where I learned to make them years later along with paine perdu, or French toast.  Little Cajun french me with my French name and father who was Czech but I have a  Cajun French grandfather.

The magic that was the now 60 year old house is going. It was always "50 years old" every time I asked my grandfather how old it was. It was his childhood house too. He says he still remembers Granny chasing Ayo with a pan for staying out too late..and I still chase the Christmas lights we used to walk to see. I still chase my cousins around the backyard geese and chicken and duck pen. I'm still chasing the magic that sat in the attic of the house I never looked in.
Iz Jan 5
Our love smells like gasoline
And alcohol
On these honest talkative nights
You showed me how to spiral out of control
And fly off the edge like it meant nothing to me
You located the spots in which I had never known were there
Like a book you read me and a garden you watered me
Our love it was nuclear
It was mutant
It’s sad Radiohead songs on long drives late at night
It’s the cigarette smoke stains so pungent on the roof on your old rodeo you could smell it as much as you could see it
****** noses in the cold
Seeing your breath but not being able to distinguish it from the smoke
Broken bottles and empty pipes
Cashed bowls and vomiting out of car doors
This is what it felt like
To really truly fall in love  
Waking up the night after still fully dressed
And in your makeup
It’s a *****, grungy, stinky, sticky,messy, wreckless life I live
But I live it loving you because it’s the only thing I want to do
Aleph Mar 23
Please ignore my foolish pride
I would chose not to hide
How I hate to wear this mask
If only I wasn’t so afraid to ask
I would chose not to trick
And present you my true speak

How I wish to show my true nature
How I hope to show my raw soul
And to you display the real creature
All my substance as a whole

I desire to be me more bluntly,
To be me in every event
Without concessions without being frightened
I aspire to be honest with me and you
I desire to be seem by another
Beyond this distorted mirror image
Projected to hide myself.

But instead of this
In my cowardice
I wear this glittering mask for you
And a myriad  more for others
Always replacing the previous by the latest
Discarding the empty disguise


Aspiring to be the object of desire for you and to the rest
Enchanting you and them with my dazzling superficial illusion  
With my mundane and trivial artifice,
Full of shinning nothingness


Don’t be fooled by my  art
All my endurance is contrived
Don’t be misled by my composed carapace
Behind my foam facade
Lies  a turbulent stream of violence
Can’t you distinguish?
Squeezed by the compressing margins  
In my core there lays hurt and anguish

I plead with you to see me beyond my illusion
There are some many disguises inside the confusion.
And you will not distinguish  my true me
I crave to be ultimately free

How I yearn to pull this mask,
And peel away my fake camouflaged skin
And show everybody my emotional scars my imperfections
All this fear of rejection

When every neighbouring glass ceiling  starts to fall
I want to be on the outside
*****, nothing to hide
Shameless to show it to all  


Without consequence assuming who I’m
In plenitude in a unyielding way
But I can’t count on me for this, my will is frail
Nonetheless you my friend must prevail

And so incapable of performing this worthy task,
I relay on you
To rip away my mask
Allowing  to see me trough

Accept me with my flaws
I will gratefully receive yours
Tear my mask with your claws
Heal my soul were it sours

Freed me of my emptiness
See me for who I’m
Fill me with wholeness
Trough away this hologram
looking to define myself
zee Mar 12
It was intensity in the eyes of the beast
With his romanticisms and optimism ceased
Gashes, cut bottomless within his soul
Who, would possibly aid him as a whole?

The king who had executed blasphemous quantities of sins
And pride fully worn, his foe's skins.
Could not be comprehended and eased after all
He lived to stalk, persecute and brawl

For behind all the masquerades and shells he wore
It was against himself, that he always swore
At the break of dawn, he held a face
In the midst of darkness, he could not sense, embrace

A battle came forging against him, he felt grim
Though it was not his form which was to be dithering, limb by limb
It was his trepidation, his need to stop his despair
Oh, how he craved to vanish into thin air

For he realized that the only thing meaningful to him now
Was for his annihilating words, to be a vow
A vow to soon meet, the eternal light alas
For his heart had become, into brittle glass

The light was his way out
To permit him, of his emotive drought
And so, as the stars blazed up in the sky’s high
So did the tears, imploring, to be let out in both his eye

How far more, would he suffer?
How much longer, did he have to be a bluffer?
The possibility of freedom, is all that made him wait
Little did he distinguish he was just another prisoner in the chambers, of fate.
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