"distractive" poems
#
From an ornate podium
the orator spoke words--
..extraordinarily elaborate ones..
as if,
as if
But those who know..
we who have laid low,
down in to the trenches
as grunts, both outside
and inside
of the wire..
Those who have quietly
done their legwork..
who have accepted their
difficult fate as that borne of
and in to, a training.. an equipping;
lay low,
lay low
. . . .
The throngs
at the foot of the podium--
mesmerized by their own need
to be mesmerized, never even
noticed the children
who in their innocence, peered
out from under the crowd's legs
to better see the 'magnificent' podium..
The oldest of which, ran back to trenches
trying to describe what they saw.
Two of the quiet, unassuming-ones
made their way back to the podium,
and in blocking out the orator's voice,
(which to the knowing,
was as that of a clanging bell..)
Now observed up close, the inner-workings
of the elaborate podium
and sat in wonder of its expenditures--
wrapped around such slipshod, weak
and hastily assembled framework..
And in having become interested in the
structure's groundedness to what one
would hope would be a solid-built
foundation, placed onto solid, earthen ground
They instead gasped as they saw its
legs floating upon nothing..
*"What the **** is holding this thing up..?"*
War-trained and battle-hardened,
they remembered their superiors speaking
in hushed tones that even ****** with all
of his blowhard oratorical ******** at least
had a semblance of the podium's fastenings..
Albeit, partially assembled by our own country's
stupidity within certain provisions brought forth
in the Treaty of Versailles,
but this
but this;
This oratorical misleading of the broken-ones
this empty illusion of a presentation, borne
not from a suffering leading to true regeneration
but instead, a distractive short-cut into the Realms;
This counterfeit substance..
as if borne in power, as if.. as if.
.. But the realms.. they know
It is only those down here on earth, spirit
cloaked within the deceptive misgivings
of the flesh-- so aching to establish itself
apart from the necessary legwork needed
to humbly become a part of Stream's flow:
(borne, solely from the inner Wellspring-- deep
within the bowels of Love's True Ache)..
It is here.. on earth.. that you will find
the reward you seek.. oh wondrous orator,
oh magnificent 'smither' of fine words..
**Your podium, a whitewashed soapbox
floating upon nothing..**
--And therefore meaning nothing
within the Substance-Based parameters
of the Realms.
#
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 3:48 PM UTC
*“If people bring so much courage
to this world the world has to ****
them to break them, so of course
it kills them. The world breaks every
one and afterward many are*
strong at the broken places."
A Farewell to Arms,
Ernest Hemingway
<>
struggling with so much,
then this scripture of writing sent
by some unfamiliar, a providential
provider; and I am realized, this man
is broken in ways you have no idea,
can~not comp~re~hend
understanding floods, healing
required, for I too have been killed,
my trust and beliefs, trashed,
too many fools who think that
moral equivalence is a thing,
that the unspeakable is justified,
hatred makes me so broke so low,
how,
justification is not justice,
nor an excuse to do whatever
cross the street, and believe,
that drivers will honor a red,
a stop sign, but plenty think
this don’t apply to me, not me
getting on the back of a line
is for fools, people who cannot answer
the arrogant question of the insistent
“Do You Know Who I am?”
I know who I am, yet the ponderance
of evidence says that is not enough,
I
am insufficient,
I am less
than human,
I am
undeserving,
because of my
ancestry
And I will spare you the precise definitions of these statements,
for it should be unnecessary, you should be nodding in agreement, clear eyed understanding, intuitive, in your own broken bones felt!
But,
my bones are broken, and the healing needs a source, a “see here”
directive, explain me how my insane madness is not a proper
responsa to the
weight of hate
my eyes see, seen,
and that my own
eyes
are not lying,
but believed.
but intuitively understood
that my broken bones can be
healed, each in their own way,
so I will retire, perhaps return
when, even if not fully recovered,
sufficient to care enough,
ready to be rebroken, again,
for this! this! is my
true poetic ancestry
thousands of years have not broken us,
and never will, for it is not fear that will
prevent our resurrection, for we immunized,
for what unimaginable have we not known, and yet recovered,
this,
I believe,
my healing will be quiet, solitary, removed
from the distractive noises of invective infecting,
but I will be present,
for my children, and my children’s children will
look to this ancestor and learn that his blood
and bones deeds them the self-healing properties
that always has and always will defeat those
who seek to destroy your future
1) the DNA of your ancestry
inherited inherent in your bone marrow
and bone tissue is continuously remodeled
through the concerted actions of bone marrow cells
2) Stem cells in your red bone marrow
(hematopoietic stem cells) create red and
white blood cells and platelets, all of which
are components of your whole blood.
so here is our truth:
when,
***The world breaks every
one and afterward many are
strong at the broken places!***
our whole blood will replenish us
Nov 17, 2023
Nov 17, 2023 at 10:09 AM UTC
The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
you can find him out at night!
The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
when the stars are full and bright!
The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
see the snow out on the ground?
The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
dancing in the snowflakes' falling sound?
The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf,
of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush,
The leaves they are attractive, they shimmer in the night...
...like the snowfall, so distractive, a twisting shiny sickness is a tasty sight,
though the berries not delicious their taste is only acrid, and hiding a secret acid, yet pungent, smelling right?
The bush's thorns they punish those who root among the branches while the sprite he dances in-between the flashes of pain and belly aches the acid courses through one’s veins and the evil sprite it smiles knowing well where its source of nutrient for the winter has died and felled!
The little silver sprite rides the silver leaf, of the blue, briar-berry thorn bush; but only at night…
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
Roadways have flayed greyed arteries
Into the greenaries of the land.
A kingdom of metallic cities,
An empire built upon shifting sands.
And bombs stain the badlands
In dusty countries far ashore.
It is a time for distractive actions
And a constant state of war.
But what a dull reality!
To focus on the undulations,
The consequences of being free,
The purge of the weaker nations.
For life can be easy
If you live through glossy pages.
The life and lies of a celebrity;
The superficial ages.
A sorry state for families
Who talk only about the weather
And other temporal pleasantries,
On their proud suites made of leather.
Oh, what a poor affair!
Caring more for the clouds above,
Than the climates of our world-weary hearts,
and for all the ones we love.
And lo, we're careless and carefree
for all that does not appear on screen.
They'd gush over some royal baby,
But not pine over the unseen.
Our modern sicknesses
Are conjured and conceited too.
For what value is there in compassion,
If oneself is feeling blue?
Does charity begin at home?
You once said it does nothing at all.
But is home solely what you own,
In a world so close and so small?
These questions are silent,
But they are asked in the thousands.
By all those that are used to deaf ears,
Across all oceans and lands.
To the soft-hearted I call thee,
To not be so stilled and so dampened.
By the weight of the majority,
the crowds of the minds unopened.
And to myself I hope,
That we shall meet dear reader.
Above your recitation of my words,
To something more real,
To something much clearer.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
I write still to show
The flaws I've corrected
Before I must go
Here's some I've perfected
I’m breakable bones
My weakness is real
You can crush them with stones
But my spirit is steel
I've howled depressions
With lone wolf confide
I've roared at oppressions
With lion king pride
I rose unforgiving
From indifferent graves
To haunt those unliving
As apathy's slaves
I council with silence
Keep quiet rapport
With deafening violence
Of thoughts waging war
I’m pop country's menace
Funk you profanity
Spit-venom vengeance
And breakdowns of sanity
I’ve sung innuendos
Love's chorus revised
By symphonic crescendos
Two beats harmonized
I’ll never stop trying
To save this blue sphere
Our mother is crying
Apocalypse tears
I move hyperactive
My sprinting brain sped
Beyond the distractive
Outrunning my dread
I’m tempests emerging
Typhoons kept at bay
And now my storm surging
Will blow you away
I’ve fearlessly gazed
Upon Grim's complexion
The hell that was raised
Was just my reflection
I channel my hate
As my anger stream grows
Into rivers irate
Then tranquility flows
I form nations in clouds
Above law and border
No star-spangled shrouds
In my higher world order
I’m heat-seeker lines
Poetic napalms
Metaphor landmines
And ticking rhyme bombs
I've warped my perceptions
And force-choking grips
And Death Star conceptions
From jedi mind trips
And I’ll leave you assured
My defense will not yield
Until peace is ensured
And these wounds have all healed
Incurred as the ward
Of my muses concealed
Now commanding a horde
Of the furies revealed
I have severed accord
With the fates I have sealed
I've matured and endured
On this life battlefield
With this pen as my sword
And this pain as my shield
For I am the lord
Of the words that I wield
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 1:31 AM UTC
Conception occurred when you realised your dream,
Its now living in you,you carry it.
Carry it well and carefully.
Keep it away from toxins that come through distractive vices,
Before success is delivered,
Labour must be undergone,the labour is the road through which winners must pass.. Its the tests of strength and character. Its the hard learnt lessons.Its the purifying furnace.
It only burns,never kills.Might leave scars but that's good because every scar you earn is a tattoo for your history.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
when I was ten, I scraped the surface of my skin
soothing the nerves that might be achin’
and I dreamed of being a shape-shifter
instead of wearing my own skin, wanted to be a transformer
like Mystique covered her scales with brown-leather jacket
as if she was hiding in her friend’s pocket
I wanted to be a shape-shifter so bad
that I carry different names in different events
introducing another personality into another styles and bents,
desperate in escaping reality
that my first name is Nobody
with a last name of loser in a morena body
when I was thirteen, I wanted to be a telepathic
because middle school was boring and pathetic,
your freckles and scars was not considered as aesthetic
because they are distractive, not attractive
then most people was stereotypic
and put so much weight of stigma
that was heavier in my own persona
I hope I could read someone’s mind
to attend their standards and be acceptable, not behind
I hope I could seep in the openings of their cracks
to see if I could join in their popular groups and ranks
I wanted so bad to be telephatic
that my sanity was almost equal to chaotic and psychotic
when I was sixteen, I wished I had x-men gene of invisibility
because school was tiresome and heavy
and bullies was way powerful than your mental ability
that you would rather disappear and stay in eternal tranquility
then suffer from discrimination
because your skin was not society’s accepted complexion
they said, I didn’t belong anywhere
because I am nobody from nowhere
mom even said I’ll be fine and should work for it
I said that I am over it and I am so done with it
but mom didn’t understand that suiting yourself in was like
walking in fired coal with trigger in my feet of armalite the wall
now, I just turned 19, I finally understand
how world kept condemning, exploiting and oppressing people who are weak
who are in minority, not hearing their silent screech
I finally understand that if you have no power
people will trample and trample you to lower
I finally understand that I don’t need an approval stamp
from anybody that crushes my soul in *****
and you, yes you
you don’t need anybody to be whole
because, certainly, surely, you can fill your own hole
I finally understand that I am enough
that life is rough so you have to be tough
And I finally understand what made me stay,
you foolish prodigy, do not be easily swayed
I have the right to be here, you have to.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 9:14 PM UTC
Colargrins
I pull daggers from my sinking heart, liquefy blades, and splash back in spades upon the staggering departure of my starts.
Ill finish even with a diminished will.
Im not always first, but **** it in the last minute in nervous fidgeting of my reality rippling through residual hauntings of the feel of the feeling of your reeling in the excitement.
Dauntingly, flaunting, the alarming charm of tongue, eniticing the romantic knifing of lungs, in spent breaths, confessed of the love of truth.
Rasp out the hiss, as whisps of winds licked from jackals lips.
Whip the words in willful waning of the facts.
Aim to ****
Ill just Relax to the drop of the ax
Im a ridiculous idiot
Meticulously breaking it down to absolutes, in my astute fickleness.
Lustily finding finesses in the regrets of others, smothering prideful chuckling of chummery in distractive strumming of the nothings, shielding the view of this place, changing the hue of my face in the light.
Step away from the light
You dont wanna see what lurks within the night
My lackluster mustering is the recipe for disaster.
Ill just master the disguise, with too much time, miles of smiles, lies, and cold hand shakes that imply my maniacal despise.
Hi!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC
The Pop Culture is growing
More to study
more trivial knowledge
The entertainment category
less hobbied skills
We're so enthralled
Modern Age, information phase
So fun
The things we can do
when we're not working
and we're not not working
more these days
These days are so distractive
not by the hardships of life
but the ease
I see so much more that draws me in
I feel I should experience all
But there's no time
and my own expression
may be worth half of it anyway
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
I circle °§° when I'm attending to high priority problem solving...I get that "call", comes at any hour all the time.
I am a creative, straightforward problem solver, of that I serve a Use.
I don't sugar coat or concern myself with asinine diplomacy when what needs to be done takes precedence over graceful depositary.
I'm the bullseye solution spokeswoman, I see past the distractive story, connect the dots, then go in for the **** of the comfort zone, I do not speak enchanting hokee, to smooth the shock of my delivery.
I Call it Out for What it is, then lock my eye on each target who owes explanation to my Question, I go down the board until I'm satisfied, Cold Silence lets them shiver just enough to feel the Cold Choices they sold, then I sit and smile with ease, and Offer plausible suggestions to **** the problem, fast, and with no remorse for their poor professional Choice.
We reconvene within the hour.
I listen to their fumbled excuses, but they always impress with a touching integrity, owning their choices made for reasons I understand, but will not stand...
"Gotta keep the Machine running, even when it's broken."
I receive official plan of action which I must always find compromise...but immediate action is immplemented, when I get my way, The take down hits'em where it hurts, the sleezy ****
the **** is no small fish, the **** are the bleep bleep bleep with sanctioning power, so deft proceedings must start the the transition within reasonable forecast and market stability, but last 8 months showing progressive movement towards bleep bleep speaks louder, never trust the newscasters story, bleep bleep, it's looking like we will pull through, but turbulence is never far away.
Buckle up, stay cool, this baby is clear for landing and a safe arrival.
Still I will °§° circle, seems spinnings my thing.
Break to planned position...
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
I don't even want to rhyme this
but I know I won't be able
to help myself
I'm so lost in this space
this time, this place,
observations from a shelf
Connections are nebulous
over reactive and distractive
once upon a time it was just about me, but I know it's about you, and me,
and people I've never even met yet!
It's about times lost
in bio degrading minds
and lessons just best to forget!
Struggles with the real world
are snippets of words
in an over active mind,
but
don't ever forget
that occasionally
your thoughts were mine
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
I paint and revive different spirits with the rhythm of my words and the beat of my echo that settles in the mind of the needy.
I present in my palm words in the form of music notes and a key to unlock a room that's colour painted with energy, music and freedom.
I dwell within the hearts of my beloved as a prophetess, casting all the heartaches , infected streams and rivers that flows through their souls.
My words calm the distractive massacres occurring within their unpainted, dry and ashy bodies.
I breathe light and wisdom to dark abandoned tunnels full of green ogres and lively creatures .
My lyrics contracts and form an artistic paint brush. It paints both humans and towns with world peace, unity and love.
Lyrics of a young poet ululate on top of hills and walks a steep journey to the high end mountains and caves of our ancestors.
My words are dark skinned. They are firm and stand between riots and wars holding up a tight fist in the air.
I speak words in the form of music notes that rest underneath the soil of the earth. Words that resurrect those who are still and paint verbal art pieces to the unfortunate ones who can't hear my art work.
-lyrics of a poet.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 7:02 AM UTC
I might be foolish, inane, when I said I was born to be brave,
I might be witless and strange, slowly forging my cave,
Self distractive and lethal in every way I behave,
I could be tainted and ****** by every smile that I gave.
Might be a slave to my craves, eternally dancing this wave,
Might be a vicious hypocrite in every inch of my claims,
I might be drowning in shame and guilt I’m failing to tame,
Despising what I became hence I’m loathing my name,
But there’s awakening hidden when you just take all the blame,
Like a messiah who’s risen, purely cleansed by the flame,
I’m more in touch and humane when only instincts remain,
Today I’m squealing in vain but I’m most enlightened in pain,
Hear me now and heed me well, I’ll dance on top of your grave,
If you doubt me for just a second while I’m falling from grace,
Watch me destroy my diffidence and watch me make it my slave,
I’m more enthralled in disgrace and more enchanted displaced,
I’m more enlightened in pain.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 8:00 PM UTC