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Andrew Rueter Nov 2017
I am perching
I am searching
Sitting still
My mind filled
With the vigilance
Of a militant
Looking to invade
By throwing grenades
And committing atrocities
At a high velocity
Yet I'm made to lay and wait
My love feels like hate
Stuck in this crate
It's getting late
My feral fate
Makes me shake
Like the love intake
That makes me break
When you're raising the stakes

I see your fin in the water
Moving in for the slaughter
Acting like a shark
You go dark
Like a silent submarine
You float near the bottom
Your gun is submachine
That's how you caught them
Now it's my turn
For a bullet burn

Treat me like a ***** distractor
You're a fractured compactor
Leaving me partially intact
But most of me I lack
After your attack
I should thank you for taking out the trash
But I could've done without the clash
Because now I'm just a pile of ash
Stuck in a bird cage
At an increased age
If I become a phoenix and rise
It'll be an imprisoned surprise

I thought I had prepared
Yet now I need repairs
When it's my love I share
And it's casually broken
To be used as a token
You must be joking
There's no way I could've ever prepared
For the fact that no one ever cared
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
https://www.amazon.com/Icy-Andrew-Rueter-ebook/dp/B07VDLZT9Y/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Icy+Andrew+Rueter&qid=1572980151&sr=8-1
I
dont tell anyone about the way you hold my hand I
dont tell anyone about the things that we have been I
won't tell anybody
Cuz they want to see us fall.
I
dont tell anyone about the way you hold my hand I
dont tell anyone about the things that we have been I
won't tell anybody
Cuz they want to see us fall.
Whats wrong with your matter
why do your thoughts seem to shatter
and splatter all silence into waves
of static chatter
Let your mind faulter
sitting silent under the calm water
Bubbled constant blabber jabber of
topics and thoughts and things that really dont matter
Fill the days with more than one hour
of silent inner and being stiller
giving power to the brain flower
Ignore the distractor the interactor
and the teacher thats molding young minds
with some kind of ego attractor
use brain conditioner applyed twice a day
by a liscensed practitoner
asleep at the wheeler
thoughts that act as some kind of leader
attracted by a stringer
unaware of the silent danger
mind of alter hidden
right above the shoulder
1st Movement:

When I hear the knocks at my door I’m filled with hope. Hope that it’s my good old friend coming to see me again and fill me with his familiar presence. By equal measures, though, I feel fear. Fear that it’s my good old friend back again to fill me with that all too familiar darkness. They’re gentle knocks, sinister but as grating and aggressive as a great dog’s bark. The sound turns the air to a particular darkness which fills my lungs and heart. Fear interspersed with curiosity compels me to answer the door with haste and resignation to his behest, if only to refine this binary mixture of emotions to one or the other. Both are equally awful as each other, for this old friend is not the kind of friend one would willingly welcome. He’s the sort of friend who, when he wants to come in, he will, and I’ve learned over the years that it’s easier to let him. Let him in to wreak his worst on me and let him go again until his return. He always returns.

This ‘good old friend’ I speak of is the crafty external force which deceives me with my heart’s treachery to believe his bogus internality. He deceives me and he deceives my heart, my mind, my soul; my whole being, the whole world. The sooner I let him in and the more open and receptive I am to his abuse, the sooner he will leave. Leave me for a moment’s respite from his damning indictment which screams of anger at his own futility.

The figurative door barks only in my brain, but the definite door knocks gently, devoid of any disturbance. As I open the door the darkness dissipates making way to a bright clarity. My fallible heart was presuming the worst, yet not knowing it. Standing before me is my friend, my brother securely holding in his hands the words written that everything will be alright. Not now, and we know not when, but everything was, and will be again.

I put on a mask of happiness to fool my brother to altruistically manipulate his altruism toward me, but to my own detriment. My own success backfires. My brother, fooled in my eyes, serves the manipulation straight back to me. Facile happiness abounds us both driving enthusiasm with which to examine the words he holds, and to diligently extrapolate the truth from the book he bears quenching our thirst driven by our mutual love for truth.  As his eyes close to another world, another dimension, mine too close seeing only the questions asked in my imagination. What does he under his eye lids see? Where are his words going, and to whom other than me? These are the questions he is here to answer, unbeknownst to me. The questions I’ve been silently asking ever since I learned to question. The same questions every single person in existence, excluding none, asks all the time. Some ask with hope of an answer. Others, enveloped with contentiousness, ask to prove a nonexistent point and perpetually fail to succeed, mocking only themselves. But do they know they mock? The self ridicule is cloaked in self righteousness woven by this world with its daily, bite size propaganda fed through speakers and screens right into the deepest recesses of the mind. The dangling carrot promising satisfaction. Playing on our inherent knowledge that there is something better, something more resemblant of that originally intended perfection for which we all strive in our divinely uneducated way. There is something better than the devastation we witness encompassing our souls and poisoning our hearts, making us sick. A sickness self inflicted from the view of the original intender. A donkey won’t chase the dangling carrot without the hunger. The screens drip feed us hunger and, offering the unattainable antidote, it keeps us chasing.

My brother has come to help me use my mental tools to instil the abiding antidote from these words. Words with which to gradually alter my outlook on their beauty. My previous reverence for poetry changing like the tides, flowing and ebbing over and again, gently moulding the lands into more beauteous forms making known nature’s true name.

יהוה; quintessence of the words,
Of beauty to our ears.
Not love of mind nor fanciful sight,
Nor tenacity of breath of those who might,
Speak provocation of effusive tears.

Diversification of those whose diction,
Expansion was sought imploringly,
Displayed meek thirst,
For knowledge first;
They’ll be blessedly beset linguistically.

Longing rills of liquefied utterance,
Reverberating waves aplenty,
Bellowing whispers loud,
Heard from within a shroud,
Giving rise to a barrel never empty.

Roaring murmurs of ripples in thousands
Cascading to oceans below,
A fast falling downward demise,
Sounding white truth and that of black lies,
Of onomatopoeic H2O.

Not stringent is the string of letters,
Lax are the words to be strung.
Not sequentially,
But dulcetly,
Outward beauty will be rung.

With a patterned strike using one’s cerebella Mallet
On the gong of one’s cerebral stock,
Eloquence imbues,
The mind your ears use,
Curtailing the perpetual tick tock – tick tock.

Facile masks circle that face,
Consuming as they revolve.
Filched is elation,
Taken is creation.
Yet knowing the inevitable resolve.


We know now, consciously or not, with whom we originate. What stops us from connecting the dots. A dot-to-dot; something so easy to do, but where those dots continue to move, we fail to place the blame succeeding to rue. Frustration turns to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to he; The dot mover, the obstructer, the distractor, the decoy from truth, from love, justice, from every good thing. We know whose power the world lies within, yet choose ignorance over the truth which we already know in our hearts.

These realisations are made like Wordsworth’s frost at midnight. They perform their secret ministry through the air, over my body and penetrating my mind and heart, upheld by any wind from my or my brothers mouth. Each and every utterance supports any later rumination on the truth, the lie, and anything in between these extreme poles of all that’s known and that which is unknown, seen and unseen, loved and hated.

These reciprocal uplifting and upbuilding exchanges, each a divine gift, a string of gems to have and hold for time indefinite, aid an understanding of the one responsible for such. So little time we have left, yet such extravagant lengths of this most precious dimension is wasted arguing for and against, but never asking who or why? Surely only a fool argues a case about that which is unknown. The facts form irrefutability, yet the propensity to form too fast with a one sided judgement still wins while we dote on our own supposed intelligence.

Acknowledging the light seeping through the cracks in the still darkness, he rages with a concentrated anger at his self generated, perpetual, vindictive blindness. He is that getter in the way of things, the shadow caster, the adversary, שָׂטָן.

He is the darkness licking round the door frame, to my mind with all his might and yet crafty restraint. Not one of us can escape this darkness, not on our own. We can, though, shed light on it. Light will always win where both are present. Darkness may be the fundamental state, but where light is allowed, darkness is always destroyed.

But then it comes over me like a tidal wave. A darkness rushes at me like a sledgehammer for making this realisation. Past the point of no return do I give in. I give up. It’s too much. Only so much ducking and weaving can one man’s energy let him do till there is none left, and now it’s gone. I’ve run dry to doom, run into the ground. I’m broken.

Time rolls on filled with a single solid nothing. The weeks pass. The days, the hours go by sniggering and sneering. The clock’s face look down his nose and finds me. To us, time seems the highest of all dimensions, but as obscure as it is, by what does it run? A question we have not enough time to fully answer scientifically. Science by it’s very nature is the perpetuation of posing question after question until the answer lies beyond comprehension. Posing question after question to answer with evidence is categorically finite. Uncertainty is an underlying rule pervading science itself, though faith follows beyond the apparent end. One will never know just how much of a threat obtaining this faith can be to he, the adversary.

Life’s doorman presenting my open garment inviting me into the warm wrappings of my winter coat to deceptively soften the mourning of the summer we lost. That paradise on which we passed. Beaconing me into the warm wrapping only to send me astray, away, adrift from the truth to eternal ruth and regret of one day.

At this my brother departs for his own trials in his own house, thus leaving me to petition and plead for a helping hand out of the ill-lighted and lurid cavernous fog I find myself in. There’s a relentless pain pervading my whole soul, but the pane in the wall frames nature’s beauty which taunts me so. A picture plane presenting a small glimmer of the bliss meant to be. A hope of spiritual prosperity, assurance for which we have been given, though the reminders are not easy. The doorman’s world drives his crafty vehicle of dangling carrots with such ferocity to blind us. The speed blinds the minds of those who stopping, would realise there’s string and a stick. It’s a trick. A trick which has seen us plough through a vast array of food, a banquet, chasing the ever out of reach embellished single grain, though always the closest.

Try as he might to perpetuate this fight, us, his captives, continue to fight longer and harder with a never ending and unlimited supply of the best weapon known to man. Love. From where does it flow? To where does it go? First we have to know, and once harboured, we must direct its flow.

Five years have passed. Five summers with the length of five long winters, and again I hear these waters rolling from their mountain springs with soft in-land murmur.
(William Wordsworth - Lines Written at Tintern Abbey)

The mountain spring is where. A monumental spring of an historic scale from mount zion producing a never ending murmur of love to cascade over the ocean of a people lowering themselves to the strongest and most sturdy section of the mountain.

As the result of a string of mutations, always mutating and never improving, is always the same, such a long string will never become rope. An infinite number of monkeys given an infinite number of typewriters and infinity itself will rewrite the entire works of Shakespear. Those who read a Shakespear and surmise the existence of a lot of literate monkeys, are vacuous victims of international mind-numbing, but wilfully so.

Saturated with such a concentrated concoction of diverse threads erratically woven into a veil, a cloak of lies behind which their lack of faith is hiding, a falsity for their fallacy; the world frantically searches for truths using tools honed only by the world, on which the adversary hones his trident. Needles in haystacks the truths may be, but once found they’re overt, obviously. They are the flames that burn the darkness, a holocaust of murk, the Wally amongst the distracting cacophonous din of hustle-bustle of faceless herds trudging in binary directions to their fraudulent feed of false food disguised as noble inflections.

The casting of light in our eyes, as pennies of an historic value drop, irradiates the notion that our eyeballs have been boring into truths and truth has been peering back for all time past. Have we not seen because the want to see was lacking, or did we not see because our ability was cracking? Were the lights on with nobody home, or were they residing in darkness? The utterance of my brother came inspired, “If we focus on misfortune, we will reap what we sow. Focus on the truth and let everyone know”.

Asking is merely making known one’s requirement for information. Prior to this we must attest the intent of receiving such. Though, the truth has been granted devoid of request, negate it has not our silent behest. Do we need to know the truths we now see in plain sight, to live our lives in harmony?

In a world without compassion, where the hungry are starved, the thirsty desiccated, the poor deprived, and the weak expended; does the supposed prime driver really give two hoots about the starving, desiccated, deprived and expendable; me, you, us? Ostensibly not.

Surely a world of war where we’re sick and we suffer will have been founded by not one whit related to love, but a halfwit wilfully innate and cognate to hate. Paying heed to words written with the elusive love we seek, I see the distinction from consent and cause. Trudging through Satan’s cesspit with consent from whom we cannot blame for causing the sewage in which we wade.

I know there is to do, but what to do, how to do, where to do and when. Knowing why is too little to do by. Answers are only information and information is worthless until actions are born. A gift unappreciated lies stagnant and not used. A gift gratefully received produces infectious joy.
2nd Movement to be posted upon completion.
Eddie Matikiti Oct 2015
Make me great beyond what I can imagine.
Bless me more than I deserve.
Save me from myself.
I am my greatest distractor.
I am my greatest asset!

Let your grace and love lead me.
Open my eyes and my heart.
Guide and light my path.
Draw me to my purpose.

Thank you for your mercy.
Be exalted always.
Irem Jan 2023
distracter,
pacifier,
mixer,
moving the ******
away like a sailor,
distracter,
distractor.
Andrew Sep 2015
Everything I bottle up instead of confess
is crushing me until I'm a compressed
cracked shell of a man and a complete utter mess
Not going to let it sit and fill me with stress
everything that bothers me I must detest
or what is left of me will become less and less
until I become a pawn in a twisted game of chess
people say I shouldn't dwell on these things and I should digress
but if I don't vent i feel like I will lose the color in my iris
and never be able to get my rest
and I will lose everything like Miley Cyrus
or feel like I'm repeatedly being jabbed like a touch screen by a stylus
overall leaving myself asking one question: "Why this?"

Picking my pieces of the floor trying to get it together
let my sad little words composed of sad little letters
do everything they can to cheer themselves up and fell a little better
doing my best to convince myself that I really do matter
searching for the words of sanity in this unstable chatter
because the floor is ******* lava and I'm climbing a latter
to bring myself away from these thoughts and to an effective distractor.
Cedric McClester Mar 2020
By: Cedric McClester

Mr. President ain’t no way,
That I’m killing me okay?
I don’t care what you say
Even if it’s here to stay
I know you anticipate
Easter as a magic date
In spite of Coronagate
That will somehow seal our fate

Despite what the virus does
You want things the way they was
Could that be just becuz
It’s in your reelection claus
Beg your pardon, it’s quite gorie
Everything ain’t ***** dory
You’re really starting to bore me
Your prognostications are premature see

You’re more concerned with your wealth
Than you are with our health
And so you act as if by stealth
Against the interest of our commonwealth
But we now have a greater need
That clearly trumps you sense of greed
And we’re determined that you not succeed
With counting dollars while we bleed

The death rate is starting to mount
So fast that we’re losing count
Which clearly is tantamount
To you having zeros in your bank account
He has become such a bad actor
Through all of this, money’s his motivating factor
The Commander and Chief is a major distractor
Like dealing with a nuclear reactor




Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2020.  All rights reserved.

— The End —