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Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.    like cardinal Leto remarked, having received news from Versailles... why is it always the ******* French?

perhaps in a less crude manner,
drinking wine,
while eating raw fruits -

  always a bad combination...
no *****, no meat?
   bad idea... wine, and raw fruit
akin to strawberries?
    irritable bowel movements...

- and that's because Einstein
didn't discover the concept of
gravity, in the format of: sideways?
in the form of orbits?
   expansive waves...
   that allowed for the elliptical interpretation?
like the old
      (heliocentric) oval...
             contra the (geocentric) circular
"concern" for...
   whatever is up / down
            sideways in
      the Copernican terminology...
because there was ever a "shape"
concerning the universe,
  and not a medium,
            an extraction for the metaphor
for water,
   gas, liquid, solid...
              and the fourth aspect
of ancient elements:
   its existence in a vacuous "space"?

- but i can't fathom the French at this point...
once upon a time...
one Frenchman equated the motivation
for a "summa summarum"
    to be bound with a thinking,
and a curiosity...

            the current fashion of Latin
   this... cogito ergo sum?
   it's nonsense...
    speak it long enough...
   and you'll find yourself inclined
to suppose that cogitans per se:
is a motivation, an impetus to exist...
yet... so much of thought it "wasted"
or, rather, to craft an impetus to
"doubt", within the confines of fiction...
but the motivation has lost its
origin within the confines of doubt,
and has been replaced by
the Freudian unconscious,
   a serialized phobia fest... notably
including a, clown...

originally, thought (per se) was
a secondary motivational outlet
that precipitated into being...
    first came... doubt...
   but... these days?
               doubt is a conspiracy theory,
no longer an emotional thrill
to prop-up thinking...
   and we have the French existentialists
to thank for this...
for they subverted their own

             negation has replaced doubt
as the origin, and motivation
for thinking...
        yet... this sort of "thinking",
has made, its materialization, so, so...
    i can hardly find it surprising while
i took to propping two worthwhile
economic outlets...
   prostitution (since they will spend
the money i give them...
on things... i wouldn't even care
for propping up)...

    and... alcohol (scotch whiskey,
russian standard *****...
    shveedish cider...
                     german beer)...

but how can you even claim an existence,
       there is no thrill...
of what is the secular expression of faith:
i.e. doubt?
  how can you replace doubt -
a motivation for thinking, materialized
into being... with negation?
  jean-paul Sartre attempted this inversion -

doubt has been replaced with negation
in his system...
             it's like that cliche of an English
1960s ***-joke / ***-like...
       this... frivolity over a blatant lie...
a lie so... bogus...
    so ineffectual in translating a hidden truth
that... you allow it...
   to care for the cheap comic aspect
of the execution...

but how can the French suddenly
feign to disbelieve their secularism -
   resorting to the antithesis,


  doubt motivates thinking,
  which subsequently motivates
   being within the confines of reason,
or rather, reasonableness...

20th century existentialists

negation "motifs" thinking,
   which subsequently motifs
"being" within the freedom of non-reason,
or rather, unreasonableness...

   and by negation,
   i don't mean the atomic conceived softening
   akin to: dis-ease...
    i.e. (as i explained it to one old man
in a park, walking his dog):
  a negation, or ease... a denial of...

how can the Cartesian model work,
when the 20th century French existentialists
began with the presupposition:

   i deny, i think, therefore i exist?
where is the original thrill of
the secular aspect of faith, within the boundaries
of doubt?
              gone... vanished!
****! a **** on the London tube,
during the rush hour,
  during the heatwave
                of the past month!

                   perhaps this only comes
as a method of assimilating an increased population,
within the confines of the Taoist maxim:
the best way to aid the world,
is to forget the world, and let the world
forget about you...

             perhaps... the Andy Warhol 15 minutes
      that in order to encompass the individual,
the world, and the individual within it...
   the approach had to change
from the original, exciting, exploration
genesis of thought, bound to the genesis
of doubt...
             having to be replaced by
a genesis of denial...
      the second tier of a secular society...
    the zeitgeist of Herr Censor...
to filter through what we see so often,
faces, bodies...
  but would be much more comfortable
having been bound to Plato's cave,
         of complete shadow theater...

perhaps... but the original tier of
secular societies' alternative to church prescribed
articles of faith...
                     to have replaced
the thrill of doubt...
      with this... Byzantine pillar of denial
as motivational groundwork for
thinking impetus
   that becomes an article of being?
am i the only one to see the frustration,
how, people abhor their being,
being founded upon an act of denial,
rather than an act of doubt?

     the once thrilling maybe (gnostic):
   has become the stale, "i don't know"
    (agnostic) - as if... people can't tell you
whether zebras have stripes!
   where there was once an article
of secular faith (doubt) -
                        there's not even that!

  there has to be a much needed new mantra,
all publicity: is bad publicity -
unless of course you're riding that
fame juggernaut and are paying
for your all-inclusive status akin
   to madonna: since fame dies off
and you, none-the-less invest in the momentum...

one day where i drink a bottle of wine,
half a liter of whiskey,
   and i'm apparently not "screaming" in
my sleep from the heat,
the whole, "apparently", as i retorted:
at 5:15am? i was alseep! i was asleep!
how can i stop screaming in my sleep
like a banshee:
the sleeper and the blind man both see
eye to eye regarding the future to come...

one day without engaging in internet
content: of my own accord,
next day? this... this... lethargy builds
up in me... i end up thinking:
i can't do this any more,
this insomnia culture globalism of
24h news reels is tirying me,
i pick up the sunday newspaper
which i found to be respecteable...
the sunday times,
  i peer into the magazines...
toxic masculinity,
    desire: what three women want...
i'm bored...
well more tired than bored,
                 what women want:
what an exhausting question...
**** fantasy, beta-male provideer...
    the only relaxing aspect of the day
(apart from the shade) is watching
england beat india in the cricket...
i always loved cricket sport terminology:
50 overs... innings...
wickets... 6 throws of the ball in an over...
the rest? i'm no atlas...
i don't like the world crashing in on
me with all its problems...
not because i don't have the right
advice to give,
but i remember the most modern secular
motto about giving advice borrowed
from Athos of the creation of alexandre dumas:

the best advice? to not give advice...
you cannot be held accountable
for giving bad advice: and people complaining,
or good advice and leaving
people in your sphere of influence...
asking for more - non verbatim... of course...

second categorical imperative?
              the best way you can help
the world: is to forget the world,
and let the world forget you...

                        you only need two absolute
maxim vectors to orientate yourself
in this world,
a third is nice, but: it can be kept loose...
at least two on a tight leash...

but one night spent drinking,
not writing anything:
and i am... spent!

                            the boogieman of england's
persistent complaints...
the muslims are not integrating,
the english: we should give them more
           o.k., o.k.... joe peshi in the role
leo getz in lethal weapon II...
            i too had to integrate!
i said: like **** if you think i'll give up
my native tongue when spoken in private...
you're not getting it...
i'll spreschen ihre zunge, no problem,
i'll even write you pwetty free verses to boot!
but, guess what?
  i will not force you to eat my
sauerkraut, my schnitzels,
                           my smoked sausages,
my raw herrings etc.,
                      integration does not work
within the confines of: pampering to a people
expected to meet you half-way...
what happened when the polonaise attempted
to meet the english half-way?
oh come on guv'... is there a ******* tram
echoing its way out of my eye
when you peer into it while i attach
an index finger to the bottom lid to give
you a clearer picture?
           25 years in england: no englush girlfriend:
i guess all the english girls just love, just love love
being ***** by 9 pakistanis
daubed in gasoline...
                   hey: they **** thrill...

i'm tired of the weakness of the english,
the humpty-dumpty nature they are imposing,
    appeasing, like neville chamberlain...
bringing back the munich agreement...
not on a piece of paper,
instead... waving a scrap of a toilet roll...
so the english could wipe their own *****
on the promises of the germans...
if this really hurts the northern monkies...
guess how much it hurts the sourthern fairies...
(well... fairy, is a designated region surrounding
devon, bristol, hardly a ******* fairy in essex)...

   why am i foreigner and i share
the same nausea of the natives,
                     exhausted by the narratives?
i guess the english didn't like the polonaise:
but the polonaise are to blame...
came here with a list of benefits they could claim:
without having even lived 5 years among
the natives... housing benefits, child benefits...
believe me: the polonaise are the only
people in the world that hate each other...
to the extent of citing bitter criticisms...
whenever i pass through warsaw to see my grandparents
i am gripped with a sickness:
this homogeneity is too much for me...
shove me back into the east end of London...
too much of the same genetic material...
and that's when the language i am keeping
(seemingly for vanity reasons) fizzles out
into your basic encounter and that basic reminder
that circa 40 million speak it too,
better or worse, but they speak it...

of all the festivals? download...
                                   i wish...
    glastonbury?       not my thing...
kylie? i'll concede: slow? live, with instruments,
rather than the studio original...
wasn't that a cover of
   bowie's fashion?
                  sure as hell sounded similar...
but i heard the cure were playing...
so while writing my father's invoice
i made myself a paperclip bracelet...
   i figured... "let's just pretend to be there"...
and no, the 1980s weren't that bad when
it comes to music,
not now, by comparison...
the cure's kiss me, kiss me, kiss me (1987)
one of those rare albums you can
listen to akin to reading a book...

                       but there's still that persisting
exhaustion... i came from under communism,
from under the iron curtain,
but at least there was the economic aspect
of communism involved...

   only today i watched the story
of the terrible inversion of english jursprudence,
i.e.: guilty until proven innocent...
the 1975 case of the silesian vampire...
an innocent man was hanged...
the original vampire?
    smashed his wive's head in,
then his childrens', then he set himself
on fire...
              then again: the tragedy of those
rare cases of being presumed guilty
rather than innocent...
then the reverse: presumed innocent rather
than guilty and getting away with it,
through the parody of death
and the non existent god...

   there could not be anything more exhausting
than communism without a communist
economic model...
this current state of affairs in the west:
cultural marxism and the yet to be discovered
antithesis of cultural darwinism...

i'll use the cartesian chirality for a moment:
sum ergo cogito...
i don't like using political terms...
but... liberal (classical) - i don't even know
what sort of thinking goes into the label -
in the east? the liberals are exhausted
by a resurgent nationalism within
   the newly acquired capitalist system...
in the west? the liberals are exhausted
by an insurgent communism within
an ageing capitalist system...

         on a side: seriously, why even bother
engaging in any sort of "public intellectual"
debates when the public are only
discussing two books: 1984 and brave new world...
**** it, might as well talk to a camel jockey
who only own and rides the waves of
time in this world only using one...
   whom Khadija **** Khuwaylid
would probably whip into his young
respectable shape...

                  and this is how Ezra Pound comes
into rememberance:
usura... at least the muslims do not
play into the game of usury:
of interest... borrow a quid,
pay back £2.33...
            that's the only way you can
gain respect of the muslims:
if they truly were the money lenders
of this world: which they aren't...
unless a newly blessed...

   among the philistines and the proselytes...
england is such a tiresome project,
even on the outskirts of London...
i'm being dragged down by this intervention
of marxism: on a whim,
on a whimsical projection...
of "adding" values...
           communism would have worked...
in exceptional circumstances...
poland... circa 1945 - 1990...
syria: the current year...
  to whatever year is demanded...
exceptional as in: war torn...
where was the marshall plan
   for poland, when there was one
for sweden (neutral) and switzerland
(also neutral)?!
        black youths bothered about
the summer holidays,
having to live in council flats,
  concrete goliaths...
           want to know what it feels like
when entire cities are like council
with only pockets of remaining
   free-standing houses among
overshadowing council flats?
                                    nee bother...
sure... in a country where:
the house is the castle and there's a labyrinth
of castles constituting outer suburbia...
balconies... that's what the soviet
models had... balconies...
where women could grow flowers...
concrete staccato gardens in the sky...
the blocks of flats in england
didn't have balconies (sky gardens,
          esp. the early ones, massive fault)...
i spent one summer reading
bertnard russell's history of western philosophy...
lying in my grandparent's balcony,
in the shade...
watching passerbys among
          the barking dogs of the neighbours...

one day, one ******* day!
   and i'm already exhausted from the castrato
english narrative...
pandering to the people you expected
to integrate...
  no! you're not changing your standards...
your standards are perfectly reasonable!
i'm tired of the english pandering
to the sort of people who, will, not,
               i integrated in a way
of respecting both the english culture,
as well as hiding / preserving my own...
why don't i just do the following:
   pisać po polsku?
                      like some czesław miłosz?

ah... good point... at what point
is the standard of integration appreciated?
when nothing is preserved?
surely integration is supposed to
accommodate some variation
of preservation?
     i might add: that's a fine line...
preserve all? no integration...
preserve some? integration...
                    preserve none? no integration...
food is a cheap target to example
                   it's a low hanging fruit...
given that even i find indian cuisine
   the most superior in the world...
food is a cheap target concerning integration...
but the niqab?
  when the local english authorities
are employing face-recognition
technology and when testing it...
are forcing people to uncover their faces,
subsequently arresting them out of protest...
but not the women wearing the niqab...
out of? out of what?
   a secular society shouldn't be allowed
to discriminate against any religion...
it should discriminate against: all religions!

                isn't that what the secular ideology
is all about? the... softcore version
of soviet atheism?
        secularism of the west (miltary-industrial
"vs." soviet atheism of the east
  (scientific-industrial complex)...
           i'm still so ******* tired
               of this bogus trap of "necessary"
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/my "insomnia" isn't exactly a problem, when rationalised via: a Freudian desert, namely, i sleep, but have not luxury to dream, which makes a sense of death all the more procreational for thinking's sake... insomnia like dementia... or rather... better the erosion of the thought aculty,  replaced by hallucinogenic inducement to counter the erosion of the dream mechanics... currently staged by boorish media, 24h reels of insomnia pusher outlets... so who gave ol' zuck the oyster tongue, greasy skin, and a wet, shrinking prune *****? comes a time when a boy gets to grow oop... chances are, if you're insomniac, you are not an escape artist, and you deem the escapism of bound to dreams, as yet another, sheikh dubai lamborghini promenade, riding it at an urban speed limit of 30mph... revving for the "fear factor" of... dancing with gingy 'arry... risqué... insomnia erodes dreams... all the better, in that perpetuation of a mummified blink... theatre's curtain falls... what sort of Freudian banana is there to speak about, when attempting to compensate the intellect, for a *******  Eiffel... notably... an individual's insomnia comes after, the media insomnia, bite sized 30 minute intervals on repeat for 24h hours... and in between, no  in-between programmes, that might allow journalistic digestion... a lack of dialectical exercise has created journalistic indigestion... most notable and in plain sight... when applying the pedantic counter dialectic observation, in the form of diacritical marks.

doubt is a luxury in the current zeitgeist,
to unravel doubt,
when compensating love,
as a chemistry of endomorphines...
doubt, is the equivalent
of an intellectuals synonym
of love... both are gambles,
uncertainties, both are:
wavering of the heart, pendulum
   doubt is a phobia-philia...
a love of fear, less strenuously:
an apprehension regarding
the fact that Zanzibar made it
into song lyrics, and is a place
that actually exists, in situ...
without any global mention
in culture mining...
for those starved from loving...
afraid of their own shadow
and loneliness,
cogitatio ex-et-qua claustrophobia...
don mclean's starry starry night...
as big as a *******
universe and as plebian
as the lost V in a thespian
and the lost F in: definite article...
FE VACUUM PINT... sorry... POINT?  
doubt is a luxury,
equivalent to love...
doubt is a thinking man's love...
in both instances the heart
is swayed...
     how quickly did the Narcissus
economics become
the semi-autistic solipsistic pillar
that undermined the shear
exhilirence of doubt = love,
post curiosity, posit trust,
posit: disembodiment...
posit... and the siamese dream factory
(no smashing pumpkins' cliché)...
doubt is a luxury,
a graphite find,
with synonym-covert findings
of the gem equivalent to:
a fear of the existence of
the unum anima...
     and the precipitation of
    in the case for the argument
for the existence of purgatory...
because being sedated by a general
anaesthetic... is not quiet tot...
but doubt is a luxury these days,
sometimes misunderstood as
but rather the ease of having
opinions, for the sake of
everyday narratives,
not dialectically challenged...
doubt, is akin to love,
in that there's the wavering,
nonetheless a teasing carrot
hanging before:
the palms that became
the Roman lynch whips...
one man rode a donkey
and suddenly four horsemen took
to a gallop...
     doubt is a luxury...
given our times...
    notably because the existentialist
replaced doubt with denial...
and denial, has no luxury
of thought as genesis,
instigator, alpha precursor...
     denial is not a luxury,
it is an accepted norm...
               perhaps the subtleness
of love in the guise of doubt
as the antithesis of erratic pulverisation
not associated with thinking,
or rather: cogitatio per se, est
supra "quaestio" moralis, id est:
     narratio moralis...
doubt is a luxury,
in times, when man looks upon
man as a chimera of
a wolf, a fox, and a sheep / goat...
doubt is a luxury,
when denial becomes the norm;
          this doesn't even have to
invigorate the comic holocaust denials...
but the sort of denials,
that allow a small town to exist
and the globalist city-state
cannibalism to also, exist...
        a "denial" for the sake
of "myopia"...
          came the pseudo-Socrates...
and the dialectical-Elijah...
              Copernicus the genius,
thesaurus handy,
also the solipsist, and also
the cider brewer's concept of
          mind you...
the thin line...
between atheism and autism...
an atheist arguing for the nonexistence
of god, countered
with an autistic- arguing
                for the existence of a self,
without being questioned
by the other's demand for an
existence of, the self.
doubt is a luxury...
denial is the new standard,
Doubt thou the Earth doth spin,
Doubt the skies not to be Heaven's chin.

Doubt that Heaven's green and gold,
Her pulchritude is a fairytale told.

Doubt thou we'll meet the Lord,
At the other side of life's road.

Doubt that in Heaven's pleasant glade,
Life shall dare never to ever fade.

Doubt thou the sight before thy eyes,
Infinite not to be the coyly sinking skies.

Doubt that a pulchritudenous flower,
Akin to any other flower loses her allure.

Doubt thou Hell ain't a woeful grave
But never doubt thy love I dost crave.

©Kikodinho Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
28th January 2017
Dark n Beautiful Jan 2016
I doubt,
I woke up this morning with doubt
I doubt I would ever find happiness
In a spike smoothie
I am being driven more toward;
the sea madness

I doubt I will ever take that trip to California
Or print my name on the wall of Jericho
because of the Israelites;

I doubt I would ever buy that $3000 Gucci bag
Just to empty out my account
I doubt I will ever swim in the ocean, again
my courage always rises with
every attempt to intimidate me.

I doubt I will ever walk the lonely street late at night again
If a pervert **** his mother,
No doubt what he would do to me
For him I am a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.
I doubt I would ever be able to write a sonnet, because
The feeling of frustration comes as a result
of my mixed emotional states
My parents doubted that I would have never made it this far
Because most micro preemie baby never survived

I doubt, doubt would never leave my side
Through the pain, through the doubt, here I am
today the doubtful unknown poet
i said to her, prior -
i've just found a gem of a song...
alterslied by walther von der vogelweide,

how would it not remind me
of the time - the spring on the balcony -
the suffocating perfume of
the marrow yet to be or just born
in the calf -
         or the perfumery of mahogany
of cherry not yet a chair or
a table... in that: her blossom as if...
more tender than any japanese
porcelain or for that matter: geishas'
milky leather... warm: for still worn
cloaking the sinew, the **** and spew
of intestines...
            and the last signature in bone...
still walking... calling the moon
a... fickle dunked biscuit...

  she was blooming beneath me...
this cherry tree - and but one among
the rest of the plethora of scents...
      still that book i was reading:
Henryk Sienkiewicz - knights of the cross -
the teutonic knights -  Krzyżacy -
          and of course the screen-adaptation...
one by Aleksander Ford...
the veneer corpse riddle -
                haunting as glass
with its imitation of water
                  or see through
as a veil of Baghdad's exquisite harem
of an abiding: sheikh or imam -
            piercing eyes that know no
depth of sleep -
                   stolen light: as what i call
dreams -

but i was "thinking" along the lines
             neoplatonism came from
Plotinus reading Plato - basics...
         Bertnard Russell can cover the rest...
but i was "thinking" of... a neo-cartesian model...
way before it might become ideological
and an 'ism...
                      how does the original begin?
dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
   not much of doubt these days...
to doubt these days is to almost entertain
belief: or at least: the plethora of emotions
that hitchhike their way for the heart
to carry... it's not an outright negation...
doubt, that is...

           then again: doubt is a double-edged
sword... it cripples those that believe
as it does ******* those who disbelieve...
   but i can hardly want to begin from doubt...
i've heard it somewhere...
like a hindu or a buddhist mantra...
i remember...
i remember...
    i remember...
                 i did link memory to a sort of...
cameo cinema of my place in this world...

perhaps... if i begin with: dubito - i doubt...
i don't see how i can translate myself into
a concreteness of: cogito - i think -
therefore into: sum - i am...
        by now thought is a fickle aspect of
my summa summarum...
i'd very much like to begin with...
at least one aspect of time being invoked...
doubt... is timeless -
                        thought is timeless and spaceless...
existence: is both...

i'd begin my neo-cartesian route by
stating an alternative route...

memoro, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
i remember, therefore i think, therefore i am...
doubt is a fickle creature...
a pretty creature... a peacock...
which... is hardly a phoenix...
     can any so-called editorial section journalists...
the opinion pieces journalists...
the dialectical-phobia-prone saturday journalists...
be called... journalists?
  are they really journalists?
to have... opinion columns in newspapers?
just asking...
i never thought they were...
   ideologue ditto-heads comes to mind...
how can: thinking translate itself into:
the pivot of out of every instance:
this insistent paraphrase...
       i never find myself shackled to thought...
esp. not by doubt...
           the labours of the liar to think...
when all has been thought...
but i am gladly thinking when shackled
to memory - when there's some narrative involved...
when there's the cameo cinema of memory
and i find myself: a good man...

i was once accused of "liking the sound
of my own voice"...
god forbid - but with regards to liking
my given names?
how doesn't this sound:
but it already does: Conrad von Heiligkreuz...
second name at baptism -
and i am... von heiligkreuz...
it's a region in Poland...
       there is a Świętokrzyskie Voivodeship...
i have a fetish for german...
and it's not like matthew isn't a loan
name to be given - origin in hebrew...
but at least i have a past -
to live under the guidance of the names
bestowed upon one...
in good company with ol' von Wallenrode...
C... K... does it matter?

i do like my given names...
hell... i'd like it even more if i was
Ezra rather than Matthew...
more so if i was a Nikita...
fluid non-binary names... don't you think?

because i am thinking of germany
from the medieval period -
             or at least: what became of barbarossa
drowning and being pickled...
and how... prussia and lithuania were
just gagging for a stab in the dark
for an already adrenaline fuelled junkies
of the passion of the cross...
or *****... i never know which the jester,
marquis the sade asked for...

foundation of knowledge: yes...
dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
but i'm not here to know more than what's
already known - where does knowledge
lead these days? pub-quizes and trivia...
regurgitation of facts...
i want to find an alternative to knowledge...
a: transcendence of morality -
a leverage of my remains that cannot
be confined to a bone -
to a name - i'd wish for an escape
with and through an epitaph...

                     or - anon.
                       as some works are cited...
prompter of the theatre -
     in the prompter's box when the actors
would forget their lines...
ah... the critique of the proposition with
the presupposition of a "i"...
                  "it" is also a presupposition -
nothing can be a pronoun...
                                but i'm not here to make
a genesis of man via: dubium...
nor via reverentia...
     i'm not a child any more...
i've visisted the underworld and came back
with dreams -
and to the world i left and came back
to... yes... i have been here before...
    to begin with... memoriae... though...
that's enough to subsequently think,
to subsequently be...
   otherwise why would the powers that be...
make it a crusade in the realm
of pedagogy
to pour corrosive juices into our brains
with all that encyclopedic *******,
arithmetic when there are calculators,
to exhaust our very personal capacity to
travesty i yelp!

                   hell: i'll even yarl!
                save your memory...
it will give you more than doubt in what
has to become you -
   or whatever happens to thinking -
insert any number of blanks when a concrete
translation of thought into will was lost
to "thinking" / day-dreaming...

but at least: the cameo cinema of memory...
10 very focused memories...
enough... and these to be kept unchanged...
sharpened like flint...
polished like silver...
             bitten like metal...
                     worshipped like ink poured
into chiselled labyrinths of timber...
                      to wake from having to inherit
the 20th century from others...
              my 20th century begins circa 1989...
but it also begins circa 1944...
and circa 1937...
                        circa 1982...
                                            circa 1998...
             circa 1994...
                           but it is never...
the history of a people that is...
             but my slot... memory: as personal
as thought... i have seen how memory can be
usurped... can be... the focus of saboteurs...
          i'm missing two nouns at present...

to remember something from aeons beyond...
i cannot doubt these two words i am thinking of...
but i don't remember them...
then again: is memory such a fickle bride
of thought?
            isn't doubt more fickle?
ah! subverters! well... saboteurs...
         and that second word?
it's a psychiatric term: of implanting false
memories... regression!
                 or something... but if psychiatry
is making an attack on the faculty of memory...
and pedadogy has already poured
carboxylic acid into our brains with education
that's... only for the purpose of ensuring
there are pedagogues...

                       yes... and the prospect of me becoming
a father, let alone a grandfather...
is for mickey mouse to become a ******* nun...
but you'll never know...

memory is under attack...
doubt... well you can doubt whatever the hell
you want: deny or believe whatever you want...
mind you...
if it "all" begins with:

    memoro, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
and psychiatry and the great psi (Ψ) of psychology...
what sort of: "critique of the proposition with
the presupposition of a 'i'" is there?
when you have the practice of regression /
false memory implants? and all that pedogogic juice
to boot?

better keep yourself to memory...
you never know: doubt can take care of itself...
it doesn't have to translate into thinking
into being...
but sure as **** and sherlock 'olmes to boot...
your memory needs defending...
to be sure... a + b + a + c + u + s = ?
                         well... sure... 1 + 1 = 2...
        to put to memory... how something sounds...
into writing... onomatopoeia...
well... it's not one of those: knock-knock...
who's there jokes...
                  ghosts don't knock on doors...
they slide their chains across the wood...
rhapsody in any ghoul's adventure of:
revision of the taste of morello cherries...
there will be no revision of the taste of morello cherries!
that sort of sour is one and only,
and it would better define someone's last
breath on this rock and couldron of constellations
come night... than...
                              an adieu with a kiss.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
always the pretty picture...
idealist love
      of awaiting the loves
of idealizing lovers...
   pristine gems,
from the depth of the Nile...
mummy ****...
never the slaughterhouse
*****, hard...
the butcher shop
         it will never be that...
the cold breath of air
of the autumnal night...
       always the most pristine
always the perfected
groom, and bride...
      how i whimper in the night
of this new reality
of the Stepford Wives..
         i found...
people who require a consistent
span of a man's attention...
are like machines...
reality t.v. shows are
but one outlet...
           like a mechanic discovering
faulty parts, the hidden parts...
the human condition,
articulated by secular
materialism of pure animation
within the confines of
a mechanization...
    fails, almost certainly,
every time it does fail...
the reason why the existence
of thought, doesn't translate
into much more than being,
but, rather,
translated itself from
the outlet that immersed
itself in doubt,
with the subsequent revisionism
of becoming immersed in

     to think,
but to subsequently doubt,
in order to be?
is much harder than...
to think, but to subsequently
in order to, "not" be...

because... where's is
the primordial existentialist
the thrill of uncertainty?
to think and to subsequently
doubt is to feed the necessary
thrill of being made,

but to couple...
to think and to subsequently
negate is to regurgitate
the necessity of a doubt of
non-being's Chinese whispers...

i might have worded this

to reiterate...
when thinking was coupled with
doubt, to translate itself into

the French existentialists were
nowhere to be found,
given, what they proposed was
that thinking ought to be coupled
with negation,
to translate itself into
a non-being...

                  denial is the crucible
pivot of expressing bad faith...
so what is good faith?
the old enemy...
doubt is a plethora of all imaginable /
unimaginable emotions...

the rubric, behind which stands:
doubtful Thomas.

how did negation affect St. Peter?
last time i heard...
St. Thomas was a scapegoat
for his virtue...
but St. Peter received a *******
but... St. Thomas doubted...
St. Peter? negated... twice... or was it

doubt is an expression
of innocence...
     denial is worse than the Satanic
lie of Eden...
      at least with doubt,
i can easily co-mingle thinking
with feeling...
but with denial?
  i can't co-mingle thinking
with feeling...
since i am enforcing
a lie, rather than freely laughing
about it...

   a lie freely observed and all the more
freely given,
compared to a lie forcefully
observed and all the more
forcefully made to obstruct...

negation = bad faith in Sartre's observation,
which is why,
doubt is to not be despised,
doubt = good faith...
because uncertainty,
a variant of agnosticism -
is... what Islam primarily teachers...
Islam doesn't teach anything
about the doubters of a faith,
a tickling emotion complex...
what it does teach...
is... equivalent of the chiral construct
of denying,
by persuasion to make,
nothing more, than an antithesis

and yes... i might be a drunk...
but when i read,
i manage to somehow regurgitate...
and it will never be simple...
because it's not supposed to be

  i can't make reiterations to bow
down to the populist simplicity
of the equivalence of
1 + 1 = 2.


how the French came back to
Descartes, by simply changing
doubt, to denial...


i think, i doubt, therefore i am...
i think, i deny, therefore i'm not!

the pains i have had trying to convince
someone outside of myself:
St. Thomas doubted,
St. Peter denied...

       it's not that hard to observe that
doubting is a healthy extension
of thought into feeling...
an ontological crucible... pivot... zenith...

how can someone not observe that
negation is an unhealthy extension
of feeling into thought...
an anti-ontological mound of sand...
a nadir?
i rather prefer the classical version,
the thought coupled with doubt...
i much prefer the labyrinth
of the heart...

because what is the alternative?
a labyrinth of the mind...
when feeling is coupled with negation...
i can't even begin to entertain...
the **** of free thinking,
enforced with every instance,
of making a denial,
                                 a perjury.

Satan didn't make a perjury,
the "supposed" lie...
is metaphorical for:
           an enzyme reaction...
arctic monkeys:
                                   my propeller...
why then... the echoes
of eons of the malicious laugh?
and Islam doesn't condemn
those who doubt...

but it sure as hell does know what
to do with those: negate,
forcefully lie...
    in order to gain some brownie
points in their ego-construction...

and... well... French existentialists...
i made my point,
i better stop reiterating
and deviating from the already given
focus points.
Dreaming is good.
But dreaming is bad, because it hurts.
Dreams die.
You grow up thinking you are invicible, forever amazing.
You grow up realizing it does not work that way.
You grow up to realize the people around you want you to be safe.

Life isn’t about being daring anymore.
Life is about having a safe future.
Pick a safe job.
Live your life.
Enjoy it when you can.

But the fireceness of life leaves you.

Adults burn the fire in you.
Cold water on your dreams, wash them all away.
Adults throw you in the wilderness to make you realize.
Realize life is not a game anymore.
Adults burn the fire in you.
They feed your insecurities.
Cultivate your fears.
Then feed them back to you.
They’re scared. They don’t want you to face a wall of disappointements.
But they won’t let your try, either.
Adults burn the fire in you.
Not consciously.
And suddenly you, with all your dreams in your heart, face doubt.


The worst feeling.
Worst than love. Worst than hate.
Sinuously cracking your hopes and dreams.

Doubt, creeping in your mind, burning bridges.

Doubt, expanding every time you hesistate.

Doubt, forever in your head.

Doubt burned my dreams to ashes.

Doubt washed them all away.
like it were a letter extracted from another:
an iota from a psi (Ψ) -
or   "     from either theta (Θ) or phi (Φ)

ᛉ is not exactly an upside down
but all things run on
clockwork - here: around here...

but isn't the driving force:
this peter defying gravity
more than... what the "lord" and "savior"
managed with parched lips
upon golgotha:
i seek tel megiddo -
              i seek and i seek
and i'm nowhere to be found:
bound to a blindness that reads:
and this book will be required
reading for years to come!
and we will strive to
keep illiteracy paramount...
come the sudden switch-over...
we'll replace standard
literacy with: attempting
3D experiments on 2D canvas...
with coding the monster project
of a.i. -
    if i were a man that worked
for the n.h.s. and drew blood
for comforts of detail and
the necessity for still-life...

whatever the noun-denotation
of the hippy symbol: ☮...
                i have extracted the rune
from the omicron...

it's not heart-surgery -
                      old father Yr standing:
an elk beside a birch tree...
suppose there might be
some dog-esque antics of
******* against it...
lifting the impossibly invisible
lineage of linen to extract
that: suppose i were attempting
to sit in a saddle and ride a horse:
a dog that i am, *******...

i "suffer" for what zenodotus noted...
✝ 180°...
             i have before me a contest
from last night...
i wasn't even trying
to counter the original...
i started thinking:
how indistinguishable hope
is from doubt...

   clearly: the sensible chargehands
of philosophy in france
came with their existentialism:
in systems in clear-cut-packaging...
there was no room for
a plethora of emotions
associated with doubt...
there was an evolution of
the original statement -
but doubt was never to be invoked...
outright negation
as a pursuit: modus operandi of

the original:
   - doubt (dubium) - it's still used...
something is dubious...
   - i doubt (dubio) -
god... so much of ******...
grammar-wise is akin to ancient
latin... pronouns are hidden /
incorporated into words...
          i arrived at no clear antithesis (
           i didn't pry open
this stale bread with
sartre's outright negation policy
as moveable pieces...
that subjectivity is scarred...
that objectivity is nothing really
but watching shifting goalposts...
or a snooker match
or... a meditation on
     the original: dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
                            doubt, thought, being...
                dubitum, cogitatio, esse...
     can it... translate like such...
whether antoine thomas aptly capture
the truest of all intents:
so much of thinking goes to waste:
daydreaming - which never manifests
itself in being: anything but...

         i just wanted to come to the synonymous
project origin...
doubt is most certainly a plethora of
emotions: i never doubt by objective
standards: by doubting i am forever
subjected: subjective - etc.
objectivity is a certainty -
doubt doesn't allow me to be objective...
so the origins of a canvas...

but if in the public sphere people
are seriously debating 2 + 2 = 5...
via 2.4 + 2.4 = 4.8 = 5...
and they are... collage educated and...
there's no nuance of custard... leftover?
a butterfly effect...
over "there" there's a hurricane...
i am the anemic butterfly...

i will not come proving that
modern ****** is very similar to ancient
latin... it's painfully obvious to me...
życie: life
  żyje - i live
          życiem: with life...
życiorys - an accenting of life: nuanced -
perhaps even borrowing
from physiognomy...

dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
  here's my alt. "interpretation":
hope is as uncertain as doubt is...
it's almost foolish to tinge hope with
certainty and doubt with uncertainty...
there's no real hindsight...
to bother with...
my hope is both an uncertainty and
a certainty: a doubled-edging at
the itch... an itch that would require
two hands to scratch it...

how does it sound, therefore?
   spero, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
i hope, therefore i think, therefore i am...
the original proof is undisturbed...
   pronoun that becomes a verb-complex
for an otherwise inactive noun
  spero becomes spe(s)...
                         cogito becomes cogitatio...
sum becomes esse...
it's not very much different...
the original is intact...
all i'm attempting to deduce is that:
hope is very much a doubt...
that hope is doubt...
that both hope and doubt fathom
the same replica of emotions
in their bouquet of: deadening actions...
it's an impossible standard
for moving: the impossible
object: perhaps it was a pseudo-Sisyphus
tasked with inventing
telekinesis and moving
a mountain instead of a stone...
after all: it's not like someone
was tasking him with the deed
for eternity:
  a midnight cleaner in an office
the tormented could have
simply sat and befriended
the stone with thought...
          without having to move it...
a stone a nuance of mirror...
a test to agonise the olympians
for having otherthrown
their predecessors...
time wasted... time earned...
    give me limbs of gravity...
give me: soul...
and i will outlast the gods lost
to their... belligerence...
no war against things inanimate!
always the war of tricks and ploys
to masquerade their own
inhibitions: taming that ol' sod
from the exploits of the harem etc.:
don juan-esque exploits conquering
a nun...
  it's such a boredom to:
not turn into an oak... wake in the night...
to settle for the polyphony of
falling rain... an imitation
of a time-dial where otherwise...
creep: sand is otherwise invoked...

the dictum commonly referred to as?
the cogito? shouldn't it be commonly
referred to as: the cogitans -
i.e. from res cogitans (thinking thing)
doubly i.e. the thinking
rather than: the i think?
a definite article invoked as precursor
to an escaped pronoun from
the clutches of latin wording?
the i? an i?
                ah...          "self"... / selb...
a norwegian pyre...
          joan of d'arc...
         it has to become an absolute indistinctness:
indistinguishable: ability:
            indistinguishability -
a lack of an ability: spell that in math:
a nuance of quadratics?
am i to exhaust my memory
bank of: what's phonetically simplest
and what has to become
this monstrosity of encoding?
parle parle parle...

i have to arrive at:
dubito & spero to be: indistinguishable:
before the sobering blow of:
cogito... that also requires an
outlet into being: of sorts...
i cannot distinguish between
hope and doubt...

      both are plethoras riddled
with mine of exploding salt...
i'm wounding myself on a crease...
it's hardly a thirsty dagger -
how would poetry of puritanical narration
freed from a theatre and a supposed
audience... entertain
a seance with bilingual schizoid
the hyper-inflated status of
native speakers...
the denigration of bilingualism as:  
oh: this little "thing" acquired...
nothing more: since not born

it's blatantly apparent:
i couldn't possibly teach...
push a buggy through a muddied trench
i just might...
howl to satiate the moon
with a tinge of blue
and watch as blood turns to ink
on this illuminating scythe of
forwarded futures:
we must acknowledge a past
as a guilt and never a nostalgia...

Hecate: hecat(e) contra: hey-cat-e!
it's not impossible in how
the syllables cascade / are juggled...
god bless the sober judges
of the last remaining shadow:
as standard: before the execution
come noon...

                i am yet to read any phonetic
encoding from africa:
except for the hieroglyphics:
which have become a emoji standard
for: limp owl ghost limb etc.
why is it odd that
asiatic people, notably the chinese:
cannot write narrative:
and their poetry is only haiku?

spaghetti: even though they have
ownership of noodles...
it's not like these people have
words: they wish they could sing...

but if if you have such
syllable complexity as
𡔈 (chu) - not chew: choo-choo...
and that's already so complex...
but arrives back at
Marco Polo's altar that sacrifice
of c + h + u...
what's stopping you
from... exfoliating in:
an art designed for either
sanskrit spreschen or the arab jolly
bunch of camel jockeys?

well... it's not like 0 was ever
to be derived from a squashed
doughnut of oMICRON...
   beta 8...
                  god! n'eh-ver!
if you were burdened with beijing...
syllables: no words...
no ******* words!
you wouldn't... somehow...
exfoliate in numbers?!
shrimp **** applause?
i stopped minding
the pride of africa a long time ago:
let's 'ave 'em those long
trunks of elephant
and blonde ***** attache:
trunks of: ***** ***** wooly woo...

but if you have complex
syllables: like the chinese have...
hell... the fugazi shoguns attempted
a dial-back...
simplified their efforts...
there's still that persistence for
       counts! the sticks! ths stones!
arrives back with tonnes
of matchsticks and no clarity
of: how a wild fire does so:
pre-emptive automaton d'uh:
'cos' no: that fog in the rational mind
of man has to persist...

                like a borrrowing from
but you can imagine...
letters "magically" turned into
numerical grievances
and a system of germartia was spawned...
for the office of the grand rabbi
of kiev...
A would have to equal 1...
B subsequently 2...
but the ol' hebrews decided
to keep their vowels niqab to begin with...
so that became a lost cause...

officially the hebrew have an alphabet
with not vowels...
with exception the gay Adams
of Ayin and Aleph...
        i will not hand-over
this hangover for much longer...
by designation of the tribe and for the tribes'
allowance sake...
i curse the moon: i howl after it:
to free my neighbours from
the reality i have to digest...
call it metaphorical howling if you must...
i have, to, heave... this...
junction of "coincidences"!
i am mad for the purpose of taming
a tongue: arrogance need master(ing)...

tired wheels: the same old burnt rubber
as made synonym with muscular
the same wheel of crushing heel!
i am my own less arrogant
finnish quake dressed in mystery
of a bothersome dwarf and troll...
learn beijing secrecy they say...
escape the mundane emoji heiroglyphs...
what word in any of these african
tongues was ever inscribed
in a system of phonetic encoding?
it took me years to unearth...
yes: a GALOGOLITIC system
was there...
i was looking for the antithesis
of runes...
before the greeks and tha latin brats
the adventure...

i'm asking without judging concerning:
how you can simply come:
come this anti-thetical mathemtical
brain-drain: slave-whipping
and tell not grieving authority:
this is, how... you will... GRIEVE!

in england: for a people that have
never been licked: teased by a mongolian
horde: only extracting -
"*******" sold by their own
aristocracy - coming to h'america...
i am! offended!
samuel l. jackson plays a common
robber armed with a 12" *****'s
worth of a shotgun!
i am! most! offended!
here's to the goon sq.!

           after all... linch me with
the sauerkraut: too many vowels...
too many vowels...
always with these ******* vowels!
like they simply forgot to
castrate the choir! ****'s sake!
if there's a bounty for an ottoman
castrato! i'll willingly pay for one!
i don't exactly feed a need
to **** one... as long as ******
hits the highest pitch notes of
              to have exported africans:
olympic sized...
they didn't solve the "problem"
of intellectual jews without a sense
of irony: arbeit macht frei is...
well... a maxim for...
the germans having to glorify
the physical splendour of african
bodies... notably...
intellectual glorifications
remain in the gutters and the concentration
in the dust and grievances...
the mind is not allowed

    i stand before a mirror and pretend to
its not exactly known as to what...
but i mimic -

九       which is 'nine': 9...
         denotes: jiu: a french concept of sauce...
that it's not "really" is another
poker hand refraining
from: the ol' 19th century wild card
romance of: we comes
as prior to the comes
of the conquistador comes...
having ****** the mayans
and the aztecs into...
the pyramids of giza?
no apple & pears?

the altar? elevated?!
             i come cannibal...
for the glory of the one true god:
yes... he has found new flesh...
bound to the scrutiny of africa
and the dull shamanism of mammon...
kneeling bloods of african-can-cannah...
moi?! truant jew?!
when this adventure took off...
my little people of north eastern
europe: concept...
where not invited into the history
of the roman empire...
don't ask me why they had
to focus on whittle ol' precursor
imitation afghanistan that's
now hang-man's-land
of -ing...
                          borrow me some sorrow
from can-can-attache?
or... haughty-stray-layla?!
                 to live among the scots...
is to best forget one's attempt
to live among:
white-flight Loondon...
         honest as might: becomest a
birth of a kippah donning god...

you want... a translation?
         łąnt... i can that i can...
translate phonetically...
it's to no one's aid:
unless i'd be scribbling with
choice of either braille or morse...
i WANT... look at that...
rigidness of letters...
then let it come alive!
add some diacritical scrutiny...
let european breathe into it!

crab bucket list: listing the near impossible:
deimension of: to do...
like my first and last litany of
best kept secrets...
this wettening of an oink:
strapped to an over-gresed...

to tell a solemnly swear:
this grit of supposed demoracy -
one lie is ahead:
thirty more to somehow make
it to: a coming...
i die a ******: not being one...
there's this lost ambition and there's
this ambition and karma
and a plot narration apiece
with: all the sensible saints
and hardly: any of them:
arrive at an angelic status...

what i once imagined:
as a freedom to think:
to narrate without a need to pursue
mute onto paper...
i once imagined thinking
to be aa freedom above speaking...
little did i want...
that it had to become
this itch for trigger happy...
and the octopus of hands
that learned a new lesion...
a tightening of tendons...
an overworked scrutiny of muscular
fibre... fat for brains...
to have to congregate upon
this same altar...
this same:

   given an... wait for it...
french is "bad": english is just
as bad..
i see a tree: there's a forest...
scholarship: a word i want to be
left with...

that's obviously a wrong
spelling... must be drunk irish...
must be...
          pre-               neurotic?
god give the next
beijing latex queen tiger:
the power to spell...
    or rewrite a 9... into a new...
or neu...
                      wery much like
a sam weller to question my
because the opera is a forever:
forever always sing-along...

it's almost a necessary joke...
what's the differene
between an anglo-saxon workaholic
and a west-slavic... alcoholic...
the latter doesn't call
you 10 minutes to 9pm
come a friday
with... neurotic demands
for a frivolous scrutiny of:
monday's are ripe...

the bad taste in my mouth:
i'm missing both a tooth
and a moth...
that anglo-saxons pair up
with the japanese:
it's not infamous: it's true:
arbeit macht frei...
it's a solid mantra for:
peoples lost to the cogs
and machinery:
as i demand to watch:
humanity... suffer...

            it's almost very much so:
humanity requires this pseudo-deity
this demigod:
this shame-riddled observer:
third party "spokesman"...

i want to hear...:
the creasing of the cushion...
the arithmetic closure for...
bones that might have
concerned themselves
the completed "architecture" of:
sitting in a chair...
as one Iowan might translate to...
the hybrid promises of: a lot of Maine...
give me a losing promise:
this last craze!
i heave to have to dabble:
this old soviet curse!

this is not my tongue!
'ere! hear how i drop:
zeppelin conjunctions!

dies ist nicht mein zunge...
hier: hören ich wie fallen:
  ladybirds auf: Livonian...
cruss... little be of V...
gott, mit, unß!

get african multi-african: proper
come prokofiev's battle
of the ice...
******* mongrel shelter
smacker erst piece...
you who do not own
a history of my my, own...
who are the arabs
concerning the quest
for explaining the niorthern
barbarossa was pickled!
tired arabs?!
here: now!
hier: jetzt!
                teutonic branding
of colours:
schwarzkreuz: auf..

and i am... somehow... expected:
to tire of the forthcomings of
a "delicate" past?
this english ignoble... precursor...
**** the hellish all that
might require: needs to Elgar!
who is Elgar?!
who the **** is Elgar?!

i tire of a people that are yet to know
the experiece
being involved in a mongolian: tirade...
or... a post-scriptum of... ha!
sever... this grandiosity:
this teutonic plague!
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
i am abel’s fiery tongue upon this earth,
cannibalistic in the raw sense of things,
i spoil my kittens like i might a human being,
which does not mean philosophy meets status quo
whereupon no thought is doubted or thought doubted
equates a sensual realism, for the stalemate, this no man’s land
of lettering suggested we go one step further -
i can peer into hell and only see personal misery,
and in all that i see heaven as a collectivisation of misery
of the parched lips riddling the desert sands -
without asking whether thought is truly doubt
or a moral compass we decided upon, that the senses be doubted
and thought proclaimed freer than our allowances consider utilised
or without utility essentially kept (it’s what’s
called congregating on the word reality without a congregation
on the word thought that speaks to western society the most),
for i can allow one thing but not the other -
i too claim the cartesian mechanisation of the senses
by the double inversion of thought: a. doubt thinking to provide existence
without thinking - automation,
b1. doubt the doubting thought and enclose zoologically
further in, to stress the coordinates of preplanned execution doubtless,
b2. doubt reality to undue the method of doubting thought that encompasses
the prime realism of things without thought,
b3. doubt the existence of things to think - keith lemon saying the word... tragic.
but the revisionary trick came when the cartesian model imploded
and said: thought proves being! thought proves existence!
hence no doubt was allowed, a bit fahrenheit 451 to be honest:
i.e. read any book you like... but don’t doubt its content,
think it through, think it out, elevates you into the agglomerate inclusion
with favoured numbering - keeps the “idiots” out, steady on
the beef in the banquet **** of bulimic excesses... steady...
rein in the oesophagus octopi - or like cancer and lobster in italy said:
death by numbers - bulging weight of the nuns chuckling a cha cha cha.
so why did post-cartesian thought engage with heidegger, why
did thinking suddenly uncouple itself from doubting to provide
the “perfect” existential parameter of undoubted sight
given that doubting passed from the realm of thought and into the realm of being?
‘i doubt i was there, i doubt it, i thought about it, but thinking about it
was truly discouraging to be here, so i thought i was there,
and that mediated the equation perfectly: i doubted i was here
but thought i was there, in the end i was here and therefore couldn’t doubt it,
but thinking about being here bored me, so i was “there” doubting
hopefully - rather than doubtfully hopeful of not being there and thinking
that being "there" was me being there would justify thought and doubting ease erasing, i came to the conclusion that being the lambs for the slaughter was enough, so i was here and thought... dasein! in the rally of relays i was "here" disclosing what thought was supposed to be when usurped from doubt and made surprisingly moral. posterior interior pumped suffocating by the toilet rim signalling blitzkrieg ***** and goosebumps on the guillotine ready to pluck a goose for broth instead of flight!’
sage of the black forest has spoken, shush: all the rat skeletons will now
be used for a xylophone symphony.
well it was once called mathematical akin to grammatical,
but so much was lost in the forgotten art of teaching grammar -
adjectives were used to allow timing, adverbs for spacing -
and a lot of emoticons replaced ****** features used once - like an itchy nose
or a half brow of sympathy stretched into an expression of surprise -
but so much was lost, the arts became post-cubism exact in
lacking all inspirational overtones enraging a schooled expression to canvas
a pope might admire, least the randomised passerby.
Arcassin B Oct 2014
By Arcassin Burnham

Doubt, Doubt, Doubt, Doubt,
That you,

I want.want you to stop this charade,

We need.need.need some confirmation, one will see the.the.the mess you made,

There will be no isolation,

Doubt, Doubt, Doubt, Doubt,
That you,
Very doubtful
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
horror movie tactic: or the abrupt / concentrated
                                                                              crescendo -
                              the shrill -
the chalk on the blackboard -
                                  all there, horror prime is
not the images,
                       but the music,
                                                  horror is defined by
music - the the lack of -
                           as are epics, with humanity being
inspired rather than ****** -
                and i dare say, i made my first collage worthy of
the aged Matisse: exhibit (a) a newspaper,
(b) a packet of cigarettes,
                       (c) a bottle of whiskey
and finally (d) heidegger's pondering(s) ii - vi;
i told you i was mad enough to buy a copy instead of:
when books are concerned, it's hard to imitate a
taste for designer ware, for a:
        my great grandfather invented / founded so and so...
how easily you can become elitist with books,
a bargain at £30 when usually $60...
                                        and, honestly?
i do feel less snobbish and more powerful,
                 i wield a variation of Egyptology's term:
precious artefact, something from the Third *****,
an intellectual output that doesn't bother Schindler
and the cinematography of the kamiński
red, amongst all the obvious bloodshed -
here's me, some years from the devastation,
feeling insecure about the need to call them Jews
(when they were primarily Poles) to anti,
  to anti justify when the two labels are considered
with variation on the pristine assumed nature of
Israel's policy -
                      sounds different when you consider them
Poles rather than Jews -
                           and here i ventured into the complexity
of thesaurus rex stomping ground the dictionary
keeps reverent - i'm not an Catholic escapist artist,
you won't find any argument to suit my awareness there -
          Jesus can have my writ of concerned antisemitism -
i already said that the tight-rope event by a Frenchman
was and will forever be more spectacular than
the crucifixion -
                                             he was a prophet born
without a conscious involvement in the three magi
and the star of Bethlehem -
                                       i don't believe he was born to be
recipient of a pristine banking on the matter:
         that all depends on how we behaved later,
evidently the Romans respected Jewish c.v.
none were handed down to Roman authorities to
build the coliseum - they were left pristine in their
Pharisee guises, and then the supposed "god" (level
it with the existentialists, the ditto means ~, approx.
or ambiguity, passed down, like a neared concern with
mythology) usurped the religious movements
the Roman respected and never employed the rites
of passage prescribed by Ramses and Nebuchadnezzar;
          or as i continually say:
you rather hear the word ****, or your face being
punched by my fist?
                                       why not, why not talk
***** and keep the *** acts pristine in accordance with
the rule of life? you think that not talking *****
will keep your ****** ******* haloed?
                   for the case of life: i rather talk *******
and **** with effectiveness than
                 put my tongue into a ****** and talk
pretty pretty, and **** like an imbecile...
                                      because i need to become a fuhrer
when she's doing her bit, and i'm doing her bit...
                i equate censoring peasant cordiality with
the things that destroys us: famines, earthquakes etc.,
   with the rise of ****** perversity -
to not talk oath words is as much as talking ******* pretty
and engaging with paedophilia -
                    or something quiet similar to it.
          **** me, talk *****, you don't even have to eat
shellfish: the grand scavengers of the depths -
                      better talk ***** than throw punches
or engage in unspeakable blasphemies;
so why are they trying to make you talk pretty
when you're bound to stuff that **** in your mouth?
you think that will resolve the matter,
thinking *** is ***** thereby enforcing a pristine way
to say hello; really?
              because that's where it's heading -
and it won't do much good when you say:
i can't say akin with the lark what the hell i want,
because another force is rummaging in the same area
saying: i can do what the hell i want, with or without
****** annoying lark singing me onomatopoeia(s)!
              sure, a mind that feels caged will flutter into
ambivalent freedom with the tongue,
       as will a tongue that feels caged flutter into
ambivalent freedom of the tongue:
enter?           a Rothschild -
         have you noticed how things have changed since
Descartes equated the dualism of thought and doubt
as the medium of being?
         apart from Heidegger, the finite increment posit
of what's the centimetres of a person's lifetime?
i think
                1 centimetre
                                        i doubt
                                                       1 centimetre
           precipitates into
                                                i am
                                                                 also, 1 centimetre,
existentialism took the i doubt from the equation
and replaced it with: i deny -
                                                and so called it bad faith...
denial is a subtler version of lying, or perhaps: a more
eloquent expression of it:
       god, i acknowledge the fact that the thesaurus is
an enemy of logic - i.e. close proximity synonyms and
                                      extensively divergent synonyms:
the first tool of rhetoric exposed,
i.e. say red ten times... sure!
      crimson, burgundy, wine, rust,
                      ruby, dahlia, geranium, maroon,
              scarlet, titian
                                               (nouns are primarily synonyms,
their existential purpose is to be synonyms,
   to compensate the existential flaw in Darwinism in
terms of the high tier of variant evolutionary consideration
        and investing in / creating a manageable vocabulary,
kindred of agricultural expertise / -ease, not as suggested
       aesthetic; tee off, a variant wording: games aside,
    but truly a word game, or golf; mankind has staged
the greatest war with its communicative system:
politics v. crosswords: two games - and none are enjoyable,
better leave the games to the symbols 0 - 9);
oh right, d'uh, back to the Rothschild "problem",
                you confront someone like that,
you won't hear a word of doubt, you'll hear the words
of denial... the point is: stunted emotional withdrawal -
just put the whole dynamic into a school playground,
                     people like that can't doubt their actions,
they can only deny them, which is why existentialism
exposed an very emotional variation of cogito ergo sum,
       the sentio ergo sum, or what one calls the Cartesian
extension: c.c.t.v. - like any viral infection: mass paranoia
stemming from a dichotomy rather than a duality
imbued by thinking and acting according to a balance.
the worded confrontation is a summary of a delayed reflex
of the staged confrontation, hence the need for the status of
"the shadow people", to deny and then exert force is
to deny and then to later manipulate certain factors into
an equation: bomb a place, **** anonymous "a", etc.,
             the fact is: it's algebra incorporated into language,
the general concern being about: the nonsense of
a Mr. Smith class system incorporated into all the brickwork
layers of the pyramid...
       sure, a Rothschild will feel vulnerable when question,
and he'll deny rather than doubt, and he'll think his
***** is 1 centimetre tall when ***** and is protruding from
his forehead... but that same person will react with
the "doubt" part of the equation:
                           he'll invest in an arm's deal that will
slaughter ten thousand Colombians over a kilogram
of *******... and he'll then doubt whether those ten thousand
Colombians had social security numbers or passports
or whatever it is they actually had...
                     courtesy?      sure: doubt they ever did anything,
keeps you thinking...
                        deny them the idiotic lie of proxy?
oh sure: they're into higher powers too! don't you know
that evil also works miracles?
                          there are proxy miracles,
are there are immediate miracles of: well, why not be
a saint for the day?
                                 my advice is:
doubt propels thinking, it's an instigator of thinking
  which some call: non-being...
                                but i consider thinking to be a variation
of being:
                                 as in: an aversion to watch a football match
and join a herd...
                       negation? the existential alter to coupling
thinking that's to translate into being?
You doubt yourself because others doubt you.
You doubt that you are good enough, smart enough.
You doubt that you can get through college.
You doubt that you could be the first in your family to graduate.

It hurts me to see you doubt yourself.
You who have so much to offer the world.
It hurts me to see your own friends doubt you.
Do they not realize how their thoughts and actions affect you?

Creating goals for oneself does not mean you are setting yourself up for failure.
However without people around you who believe in you,
It is understandable why you can't believe in yourself.
But I believe in you.

I believe if you set your mind to it you can do great things.
I believe you can graduate from college.
I believe you are better than what others think of you.
I believe you are better than what you think of yourself.

If only I could tell you all of these things.
If only you would believe me.
If only you could see what I see.
If only you could see all that you could be.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
. you're using all the right words: for all the wrong reasons... and let's face it: if women own the monopoly on reproductive avenues... then men hold the ego-key, to slot their presence, through a door, that curbs or gives allowances, to what is thought... *** was nether a transluçent enterprise... oh look... the Roma sigma pops up... dire straits: de profundis - money for nothing riff - boogie boogie... milkshakes from the 1950s 'n' all... you know what my biggest pet peeve is? the englih language imitating ancient Latin, i.e. not applying diacritical "punctuation" markers to close in on syllables and make the language atomic (i.e. H is hydrogen, He is helium)... **** me... the same Brits who lived in the 19th century, are not the same Brits living in the 21st century... no wonder the fertility rate is s ****** low.... try ******* an english bride... no thank you; i'd rather **** a female gorilla.

the milkman passes my house
at, circa, 3am...
see the van skid around the bend
up the hill...
i listen to music at volumes
equivalent to my father working
the construction site -
i'll be deaf by the time i'm 50...
     and guess what:
                  for the music i'm listening
to? it'll be worth it...

dittoing out:
   have the criticism of post-modernists
ever suffer?
doubt: doubt, is the modern
relief from existentialist
why is doubt being attacked?
doubt is half than that outright
******* of denial
proposed by French existentialists...
doubt is good in that it's
tornado of emotions,
you want to imitate Christ on
  you doubt, and achieve the pinnacle
of the passion...
you start negating?
     you're, nowhere...

    on your own...

came the noun-phobia of philosophers -
the tinkers and tailors
of a.. what seems to be:
a noun-phobia
  guaranteed with fog...
   and thing..

  the term
  "thing" presupposes
the supposition of tree...
     which subsequently serves
the proposition: let's hide in it!

      philosophy and its infamous
noun-phobia -
           and it's nihil...
  its nothing...
                 a ******* cul de sac -
     epigram -
       of quasi morse encoding -
     braille to boot -
September is coming -
           van Morrison (moondance) -
hiding autumnal chill -
proto-"africa": either in Hindustan -
or Siberia;

suppose a moon, suppose a shadow by
candlelight, some edgy urban solo -
as a bricklayer i could raise kids
and crux on a woman -
          chicken / doctoral itching with
a blunt nail are called scratchings -
             less digits in the digital
formatting - and more
                      the rotten handwriting
of general practitioners...
     Hippocrates might have made an oath...
but in terms of a handwritten cipher?
no clue...
               the canvas of a monkey
onomatopoeia within the confines
of a custard of a lexicon...
   a mouth thus opens -
a month begins -
instead of a tongue ejected from
the ivory temple -
  a sludge crescendo of a quasi
                 cascade of sludge gluing the
whole theater into
a replica of a Russian drinking game...

....                 ⠞⠓
          ...     ⠑⠁⠑
     ...           ⠞⠑
    ............                  ⠞
...                      ⠥ ⠎
     : : :           -  ⠎          
   ........ : ....           ⠕?

100 wolves of the continent...
for, but 1, fox,
of the English isles...
   i'll settle for that ratio...
and then i'll bite to ensure
a signature!

  howl all you want...
but have you ever found seagulls
annoying up the river?
more annoying than magpies
or crows?
             the wolves can howl
all they want..
ever endear the ear
to hear a fox "laughing"?
  might as well listen to me.
i cradle that sound,
above the chariots
of a human newborn...
        i grieve!
   i am... sombre gsture...
    a past, a passing,
a future, a wicker man within:
   banquette of souls!

    let's interlude -

   touko "tom" laaksonen -
    how can people "do" sober
           when entertaining such
        is it empathy, or sympathy?
            in the name of the either,
with either being the sum
of what wll never be a sum
     to gain from...
                  why not
       ****-ease up the ****
    for a zeppelin-esque
                            bomb drop -
(minor the Nagasaki) -
                    and hand-piked ****
with the cusp of your hand -
         throne of thrones -
   "king of kings":
  like ****...
  the holy trinity of
       the no. 1, as the no. 2,
   and subsequently the no. 3:
**** (father),
       take a **** (son)...
            ******* (the holy ghosts)...
king of kings,
never sat on the throne
of thrones...
   i always hated "artists"...
    painters -
   plagiarists -
      cheque sketchers...
         ******* indentation
from holding a pen to add to having
exposure to a grammatical examination...
       quality cinema:
panorama take on a versus of
heavy editing...
                     and there was a time
frame to encompass dialogue...
      somehow it fits:
the verbal myopic -
            the entire pre-
& post- canvas of a blinking eye...
   always the question of the
pre-industrialißed sketch;
words predating metaphor
akin to  -
  words versus metaphor
in genesis -
   format? anecdotal.

      in writing:
            by one hand alone,
made into two...
        my, my...
  what a ****** self-portrait
        a self-portrait...
a wish for color,
with nothing to show,
but the relief of encompassed bones;
that become a disembodied
skeleton - minus a purpose
of tendon attachments...

∟          "contra"    Δ          -
equilateral my ***...

            a few days spent within the confines
of a Promethean *****,
     there be, elemental insomnia
of an electric bespoke...
if Prometheus stole fire,
who, in in all for ****'s sake
stole the saber of Zeus,
the thunderbolt -
electricity, who?
who craved the insomnia?!
             this Frankenstein-esque
insomnia-zombification -
             white as is white:
with all the dermatological
copper take on broken shins...
         should ivory coco -
come between piglet *** copper
auburn in terms of autumn...

take your ****** *** elsewhere,
and then... start spelling
it with a missing G...
when citing Niger...
  you do the double dip of the NBA...
you count the second dip...
why do i love Batman as the best
  not of his superhero powers,
he has none...
          his enemies are
the only interesting
counter-factoids of
having implemented an existence
   there is no exacting of
a superhero,..
   but there is enough
to mind an antithesis...

          tylko wieśniak
by wydział film w tym,
          bo sie nie rusze -
    cegła, kamień -
       pień - mur -
           i by mówił - w tym
co zamarzło -
          to co ostygłe -
    w co z tym samym -
        meine filmisch -
      i skakaniem świec -
   od i na nagim cieniem -
   pytać nad pyche -
       tanz! tanz!
                 moje iskry słów...
   sto! i lat,
    o wielbłąd churem o
grzbiet da, i da,
       iskra; alfabetu!
    bogiem impromptu
o czym warty: -gień.

- suppose a moon, suppose a shadow,
by candlelight - within the confines of
mercury - that quickened silver -
some edgy urban solo -

      as a bricklayer or a cobbler  -
shoes that deviate from ushering
an echo -
          i could raise children and keep
a woman: only if she decided
upon not allowing me
a leash -
            what a saddening affair
of minds and freedom...
           chicken doctoral -
i don't know: vanity of the impossible
mortal gain...

    the monkey onomatopoeia
    within the confines of a custard
of  lexicon....

          that Victorian image proof
source of envisioned Braille in
the confines of a primate...
itches, scratches, chicken esque
clucking... which is what
handwriting looks like these days,
what, with the coding...
    semi plumber,
half the electrician...
  and certainly null when it comes
to calligraphic invigoration...

- homosexuality was always a contingency
escapade to release suppressed yearnings -
a sudden but a non-fulfillment questioning

               you can enforce curbing homosexuality,
but then there are two outlets...
the perversity: or the question...
of Ayn and Sophia...
        greeks ****** the hebrews in the hole
without an outlet - zee heed: with a missing A...
      Ayn - Aleph -
                    twin Adam -
          perhaps a Siamese abomination...

mind you... the forbidden fruit?
sounds more like... the forbidden flesh...

thee burdensome walking
the already burdened earth: as the fruit,
somewhere between the flesh of man's last predator,
contained, on land, and his hidden desire
for revenge and introspection,
a denial of commonality and shared purpose -
thou shall not consume
that which also hunts you -
little or no concern with equal
     measure of forbidding, that which you pet...
the forbidden "fruit",
in between the flesh of a sabertooth tiger,
and Cain's fruit of famine and incompetence:

   and why would you think about
drinking a ms. amber with pepsi...
pepsi! to coca -
and not slide in a slice of lemon
while you're at it?
  terrible mistake...
       well... one way to get y'er vit amins...

        and why is it that all the best
movies these days are about homosexuals?
the dutch girl for starters...
   me, drinking, watching t.v.?
either **** good drama,
a western,
   or a movie about a *******
          did i mention that i think that
homosexuality is an auxiliary escapade plan?
natural, of course,
    but i'd hate to have to life
a doubled up life -
then again...
     perhaps i would...
           me? i have a new girlfriend -
Sophia - and her ****: Philip -
           so am i expected to make demands
for the child they might end up
called Ayn, or Aleph?
                - the Wahhabi hypocrisy
    concerning music, or rather, censoring it...
but... but i thought the adhan:
the call to prayer: was sung,
rather than abiding by the catholic
credo murmur?
                         my bad... you know better...
i'll send you a postcard from
the Galapagos Islands,
if i find the time, to find:
    that 4th dimensional concept doing
the trigonometric shoom! elsewhere -
on a tangen "bias": **** knows where -
like a comet - missing a tail -
shoom!                                       gone.


            not enough thrills for a hard-on...
... images... drawings...
   apparently fine art is not enough
stimulation to ******* to for these Arabs...
****? .....   in general?
cartoons.... cartoons of women....
   ... because?
well... apparently the niqab...
  extends beyond the realm of...
  readily available attire...
            women on the street?
   pornographic "actresses"?
                       you see the cartoon?
it's all ******* ******...
                  oh don't get me wrong...
amy adams?
  buff as an exploding Hindenburg...
    the pale ginger - milchskin...
                - unrelated:
   how about i sneak a skunk into
        a coco chanel perfumery -
while advocating that people will still
call it a: scent just shy of roses and strawberries.

- people have heard of incels -
but have they heard of Vcels?
   yeah, yeah... voluntary celibacy -
i know what a ****** sounds and looks like -
and, to be honest?
   there's hardly any rhetorical ***
involved -
         a bit like jerking off...
              monkish chants -
Byzantine -
     the fear of man,
   when his own inability flourishes:
     in a woman...
these acts have become well trodden...
so well trodden that i'm
authentically surprised that anyone
would still goosestep them into
their mundane plagiarism's existence...
    replica invigoration:
turns out...
   zeit ist nicht gerade, aber

                              touko "tom" laaksonen...
i.e. tom of finland...
   question: you think a macron over
one of those As
                     would do the trick in terms
of spelling correction?

  touko "tom" laaksonen...
you seriously can only watch European cinema
while drinking...
    again... invigorating the english language:
one baby step at a time -
a simple grapheme -

    the vater's S Z interchangeability -
   synchronised contra synchronized -
    settled -
    synchronißed -
                       sometimes the slithering S
of a snake -
   otherwise the rigid totem with
a torso of a zebra...
                     hardly a major investment -
but when i see English having moved
from the Elizabethan Shaky Steward of
thou etc. -
       imitating ancient Latin -
    coordinating the Greenwich study of
              no diacritical application?
                 might as well release a bull
into a China shop...
                 or a rottweiler into chicken shack...
still... why is there an orthographic aesthetic
in practice, hovering over I and J,
  when there's no difference, as suggested
in CAPiTAL letterIng?
                                       ah... i see...
the english "think" they can bypass the para-
frontier, and the orthographic frontier
and race down to the metaphysics...
   you explain why it's i and not ι,
  and why it's j and not ȷ.
Morgan Milligan Apr 2014
Everything is good.
I smile at the beauty of my gift, the perfection of a singular rose
filling the whole room.  A cornucopia
of possibility shines through the window
like the sun and, through it, I see a cheerful mutt.
Then I feel my old enemy grab hold of my future: doubt.

This always happens. It always ends in the midst of my debilitating doubt.
Everything was going so good.
The cacophony of barking, the spiteful cries of an angered mutt,
start. The world focuses on the wilting rose.
The sky darkens to a depressing gray outside the window
and the feeling of emptiness invades until the only thing left is a hollow cornucopia.

What happened to my cornucopia?
Why am I plagued with this doubt?
I lost my only window
of opportunity long ago. My life was supposed to be good
and plentiful and now it's over. I was stupid to think a rose
could be anything more than a horrific reminder. I'm a worthless mutt.

All I'll ever be is a worthless mutt.
I offer absolutely nothing, a whole cornucopia
of nothing. I don't deserve this rose.
I deserve my world of fear and doubt.
I am not worthy of love. I am not good
enough for him. I could have been something, but I missed that window.

I bet he can see right through me. He can see the useless window
I have always been.  I scrounge like a starving mutt
and still use escapes me. He'll do better without me. He'll have a good
life if I'm not in it. He deserves the freaking Cornucopia,
not me. I'm a manifestation of constant doubt
and sorrow and I just bring people down. I could never properly thank him for the rose.

I could never be his. His love. His perfect rose.
I'm not his reflection in the mirror. I'm the broken window
that lets in all the rain. I will always have doubt
to keep me down. I will always be the homeless mutt
with no one to love them.  This empty cornucopia
can't be filled. I'm not any good.

The rose continues to die. I will the screaming mutt
to quiet down through the window.  I weave my cornucopia
of doubt while my face pretends everything is good.
It's a sestina.
Viola Sep 2018
Doubt is the darkness devoid of light
Doubt is a racecourse with no end in sight
Doubt is an insidious disease with no cure
Doubt is constantly feeling unsure
Doubt is a vacuum without a breeze
Doubt is everything that can never be
Doubt is all of my overwhelming insecurities
Doubt is everything I've ever come to know
But hopeful is what I want to be
Sonia Thomas Feb 2016
To doubt is to be sure
that you're only seeking
the highest peak of perfection.

To doubt, you have to know
what it is like to be good just once.
Once is enough to crave
the high once again.
You chase your heart
and you chase the hearts of others,
only to doubt your need
to be loved.

To love is to find
and trust
within you --
wrapped up in layers,
like Russian dolls nestled
within each other.

To love is to rise
and fall from grace
all at once;
to understand what every song means,
what every poem spoke of
and what you looked for
when you grabbed a cold hand in the dark.

To love is to doubt.
To doubt is to love.
To do either well, we must do both
till the answer is found within us.

You're the answer to all my doubts.
And so, I love you without doubt today.
Viktoria Nov 2018
That’s all that runs through my mind,
Stop belittling me,
Stop lying to me,
Stop acting like I’m ignorant.

I’m trying,
Trying to understand,
Trying to listen,
Trying to help,
Trying to reason with myself,
Trying to believe I won’t fall pray to that monster known as doubt.

I fail,
Again and again, I fail,
I know in my heart something’s wrong,
I know in my bones something’s broken,
I know in the shreds of my soul that are left that I can’t fight anymore,
I let doubt in.

I doubt what I hear,
I doubt what I see, feel, and fear,
I doubt my dreams,
What made me... me.

All because I let doubt take hold,
Doubt that was placed there by others,
Others who projected onto me,
Others who let dreams come and go,
Others who lost themselves to doubt.

Because they were broken, scared, and sad,
They forced me to feel the same,
They accomplished their task,
That’s all I think as I lay there shattered, broken, and ripped apart.
Krystal Scoglio May 2019
You treated me like a Queen until the day you let the seed of doubt poison you.
You listened to the poison whispers of your friends that fed your seed of doubt it started to flourish.
When I was running late your seed of doubt would whisper, she is cheating on you. So now you Call me the *****.
Every time I speak to my friends your seed of doubt whispered; she is talking bad about you. So
now you accuse me of being two faced.
When I spoke the truth to you your seed of doubt would whisper, she's lying you know what
really happened. Therefore, I became known as the Liar.
As your seed of doubt grew it became overgrown and took root in my life.
I rushed to get home to avoid being the *****.
I stopped speaking to my friends so the accusations would stop.
I never spoke even when you accused me why bother I am a liar after all no matter what.
All because you let the venomous poison known as your seed of doubt that fed your insecurity
along with the whispers of your friends. Therefore, my life is no longer my own but controlled by
your seed of doubt in me.
Ngoni L A Mupure Jan 2014
The noise of doubt
Poison to the mind
Caught between two worlds, one thin and the other stout,
Gravitating towards faith, a chorus for the blind?

Blotting out all the pessimistic contents,
Praying for a miracle
But, doubt keeps on knocking nonsense.
Graduate my faith to the temple’s pinnacle.

I loathe the tenor of dirges.
But, cherish the flipping of ancient pages-
That refreshment to my hopes,
And the tunnel to moonlight
Narrow escape from fright,
Blind to the future, lend me a pair of sight.

Ignorant to optimism, hand me a share of knowledge.
Dying to taste wisdom, paint gray my hair- merge my reason with age
Send my doubt to the grave.
Let faith redeem me, lest I become a slave.

Close doubt out of my imagination.
Lord, redeem me from the deafening silence of doubt,
Bitter like worm wood
Drown me in hope-hood…
Let faith be my confession,
For I loathe the noise of doubt.
The song of a confused soul
Classy J Sep 2016
Going crazy, you’re words don’t faze me; I remember when growing up was as easy as driving Ms. Daisy. Been moving up lately, flying like the birds, man my stock be going up greatly. Lying awake, making myself a protein shake, working around the clock, I don’t think anything in life is a mistake. Making other rappers green with envy, is it a sin to be deadly? Not here to be friendly, hit you like a semi, might as well give me that Grammy. Ready, set, go, this is just elementary, got the wit, and you better bet my flow succeeds Excellency. Busting through the knot, love the fight, learned a lot despite everything, I’m still blowing up like dynamite. This wasn’t just done overnight, took a lot to get going, now I’m here holding my own, yeah that towel I’m not about to throw-in. Got the skill and the will, no fear, no need for a loan, destiny I will fulfill. Can’t deny my credibility, not just your average guy, got a natural ability that I apply to turn those blind eyes. Not one to deny, not some small fry, me oh my, establishment I will defy. So stand by, not about to comply, so to simplify, I testify that I will intensify people’s once unheard battle cry. Bout to bring the ruckus, don’t like it you can **** ***; I won’t sit here idle and let you continue your injustice. Not a fan of this monotonous spiral, for supposedly advanced beings we still act primal. Want to be a model, stop that vicious cycle, leave your denial, and then maybe there is a chance for humanity’s revival. These moments we use are precious, don’t drop the ball, and burn the wrong bridges. Sometimes you can be your biggest opponent, lie’s are potent, they will leave you broken, don’t believe the words that were spoken previously or in the moment. Never limit yourself, keep up a positive spirit, you are better than those jealous bigots. It’s not illicit to be you, after review, even though I may not know you, I don’t think you smell like mildew. I think to be you, is to be true, and if someone doesn’t like you, it’s their loss, not your fault that they have a distorted view. Anyone can love or hate, take this as a grain of salt, but just remember that you are the keeper of your hearts gate. Never doubt, there will be seasons of drought, it will get better, just stay patient, you will one day break out. Don’t have hesitation, don’t become complacent, keep a dedication to getting out of unhealthy situations.  You just need the right motivation, keep away from running towards short term fixes like medication. I don’t want to weep at your funeral, stay clean; any soul can be renewable. Life goes up and down like a trampoline; some things can be unforeseen, which can drag you down deep waters like a submarine.  So be careful in the battleground, it is not a playground; you certainly can’t fool around, for if you do you can end up underground.  Don’t give in, don’t be fearful, though at the moment it seems like you have no control and are in peril. Never settle for less, unclutter your mess, and release all your tension and stress. Never doubt; depression you will beat out, call the auto-bots because it’s time to roll out. Never rule out yourself man, you can work this out, yeah dude you just need a plan. Got to do the homework, file everything into groups like a network. Don’t let things keep you in the dark, become the spark and take out the devilish shark. Never doubt, not a time to black out, not a time to freak out, I believe this darkness can be forced out. Never doubt, never become a sell out, darkness we have to ***** out. Never doubt, before you go head first, you better map it out. Never question if you’re normal or if you’re cursed, demons we shall divorce.  Never doubt, let it out, work it out, don’t worry if every now and again you wipeout. Never doubt, before you say something you should play it out in your head, finish the things bothering you and put it to bed.
Theo Om Mar 2014
I saw the images of my mind
between my thoughts and feels
between my words and fears
and I know it's all illusion
it's all illusion

these words
these feels
these thoughts
these saint weird images
in my crucified mind
in my crucified mind

it's sacrifice of emptiness
of absolute void
between my hands
in this dark chaos
of my broken soul
in her mouth

I touched the things, the tables, wet vaginas, penises,
and felt their warmth and moisture
alive and dead
alive and dead
at the same time
at the same time

and they told me:
all it's not what it seems
they told me:
don't believe, you're the man! don't believe!
it's all illusion
it's all illusion
just doubt and know it!

life and death
death and life
just only can be
only can be
but never will be
never will be

in this dark void
the absolute emptiness
of my broken mind
of my liquid heart


They told me: you live in a potential world.
Don't care about it.

They told me: your life is just a potential of itself.
Don't care about it.

They told me: you are **** Sapiens!
You don't have right to believe!
You must doubt!

Doubt everything!

And I doubt.
I doubt my existence.
And I look at my hands
in this dark chaos of my lost voice
And I know it's not my hand, but just a potentiality of itself...

it's not my hand
it's not my hand
it's not my hand
just a potentiality of itself

~the hand
not my hand
~the hand
not my hand
~the hand
not my hand

it's strange!
it's miracle!
it's indescribably!

it's not my hand
it's not a hand

only can be
in this dark void

only can be
in this dark night

I look at my hand
in this dark void
I look in my hand
in this dark void

in this
in this

in this dark void

I look




Ok, it's all very and very strange.
P.S. If you don’t understand my weird poem read about Theomism:
“Doubt thou the stars are fire,
  Doubt that the sun doth move,
  Doubt truth to be a liar,
  But never doubt I love,"
He wrote.

"Never doubt," she whispered
As her foot hovered over the fallen tree.
Tentative and cautious she treads,
As if to make up for her blind trust
She had in his words.
"Never doubt."

Words, words, words, words.

"Never doubt," she choked
While her eyes hungrily stared at the water below.
To die, to sleep.
To drown, to float.
"Never doubt."

"I love I love I love I love," she sings

She is here.
She is standing on the fallen tree over the water,
Flowers in hand,
Melodies in mind,
Her choice in her throat.

"Not to be."

She is there.
Her self
Fell in the weeping brooke,
      her cloathes spread wide,
And Mermaid-like, a while they bore her up,
Which time she chaunted
snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature Natiue, and indued
Unto that Element but long it could not be,
Till that her garments,
heavy with her drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay,
To muddy death.

Now tell me, my dear prince,
Would you call that "love?"
Many of these lines are appropriated from Shakespeare's "Hamlet." No plagiarism intended.
Graff1980 Jan 2015
Doubt is the lonely father of fear
Not a clad caped hero
Waiting to swoop in
And save the day
But a two faced killer clown
Wearing ****** crocs
With electric joy buzzer shocks
Sending surges through your veins
Sending urges that drive you insane
It may be in reason
It may be in season
But the summer heat
Can burn your feet
Under the fire of fire
Place you in stasis
As you wait to find were your space is
Letting others tell you were your place is
While they race to chase
A better life
Doubt can be better than blind
You just have to watch out
For the dangerous side of doubt
Turn detective to fix the defective
And Steer clear of the fear
That disparages hope and reason
If there's a word that you're holding back, say it.
If there's advice in your brain, let it out.
And if anything helps, then I'll take it;
But no man can assuage all my doubt.

I doubt that I'll ever quite make it:
I doubt that my dreams will come true.
I doubt night and day, but I fake it
In case they start doubting me too.

I don't think I can catch my breath now,
I doubt that this air will be clean;
Don't know if I'm close to my death now,
But alive? I just feel in between.

Come and steal away all of my guilt now
Make me sigh and admit I was wrong
For of all of the things my mind's built now
I distrusted self-doubt all along.
Alyssa Underwood May 2018
"The Struggle for Love"
"The Longing for Home"
So desperate to prove
That our hearts aren't alone

While death looms wherewith
To make dust of our flesh
We seek in a myth
Our souls to enmesh

With a hero of hope
A rescuing source
To widen our scope
And give pith to our course

An unshakable tie
An attachment at core
Which might silence the cry
That our hearts are at war

With a pure set of eyes
Full of fire and proficient
To dispel all the lies
That our souls aren't deficient

But it's not our mere lack
Which causes most dread
It's the earth-shattering fact
That our spirits are dead

Cut off from their Source
In a black alienation
Humanity's curse
For its rank ins'bordination

We just want our own way
And to write our own story
So we plunge on astray
To seek our own glory

To play artist or muse
Or idol or chief
Any self-styled ruse
To assuage us of grief

Any measure to show
A lasting signif'cance
So that someone would know
Our unique magnif'cence

For our beauty's been marred
And we crave a redemption
Of souls twisted and scarred
By fulfillment's exemption

But, alas, we will find
That search hard as we may
There's not one of our kind
Who can carry the tray

Upon which the weight
Of our souls has been laid
For who can e'er tolerate
Its gross debts unpaid?

Such suff'cating mass
Of defects and ills
Pressed 'gainst delicate glass
Of egos and wills

Still more ghastly to bear
Is devotion unbound
For with millstone to wear
Its master is drowned

'Neath a sea of foul yeast
And becomes the enslaved
To a hungering beast
To a worship depraved

For the heart is a tiger
And must have its fill
So it raises a man higher
With a kiss before the ****

Not intentionally, of course,
Does it slaughter its idol
But of hurricane force
Is this longing so vital

And as pedestal turns
So quickly to altar
Our wounded pride burns
When our gods and alms falter

And the fire of its rage
Turns upon its obsession
Tiger breaks out of cage
To reclaim self-possession

It bites and it tears
What it once so adored
And pride no longer cares
If it kills its false lord

But upon such demise
The soul screams in terror
For it's broken its prize
And can't take back its error

It begs and it pleads
To restore what's been lost
But at end knows it needs
To consider the cost

Of the damage untold
It has left in the wake
For hearts can't be controlled
With a gush or a shake

No, men's hearts are like bombs
Which so easily explode
Once the pin is removed
All past wrongs will re-load

So the prey becomes hunter
When the tiger attacks
For he does not want her
To see what he lacks

As he, too, had put
Her up in wrong place
But now steps his foot
Upon her shamed face

To now pulverize
As his own heart's been crushed
To blind out her eyes
And to see her lips hushed

For with words idly spoken
She'd stabbed at his soul
And had left his pride broken
By her judgments so cold

She had not meant to harm
Knew not e'en that he heard
But one cannot disarm
A thought put to word

Worse than not knowing this
She no longer knew him
And her once imagined bliss
Proved a nullified whim

Oh, what games and delusions
We play and we build
Upon empty illusions
And dreams unfulfilled

Yet strangely it's when
Our worst fears come true
We can finally transcend
All those old tales we grew

Out of ego and void
Out of sorrow and pain
When our nerves felt annoyed
And our hearts felt too vain

'Cause when ego is puffed
It is primed, too, to pop
And with pinprick is snuffed
Like a pest-blighted crop

So imagine much more
When a venom's injected
Right into its core
And its heart is rejected

But can you also not see
How it needs such a burst
To begin to get free
From its self-absorbed curse?

Except now feels the matter
Of our soul's isolation
Fiercer still with the shatter
Of our pet consolation

So we wait and we wonder
If we've missed the true meaning
Of the frightening thunder
In our heart's constant screaming

Whether homesick or lost
Whether lonely or grieved
Locked in bleak Winter's frost
We find little reprieve

Yet we know we've been made
For the glory of Spring
Some card's still to be played
Some grand song still to sing

Inexpressible yearning
For some secret we know
But can't speak for the burning
Repercussions of woe

Not some mere melancholy
Nor nostalgic forlorn
Not the musings of folly
But a sense that we're torn

From primordial root
And from headwaters fresh
Yet much deeper to boot
From our spiritual breath

'Tis an ache not for wares,
Appreciation or fame
But a fight just for air
Against strangling shame

For we're naked, we know
And with all we devise
Our most flawed parts still show
To a pure set of eyes

Like we're walking around
With no covering intact
But thin hospital gown
With wide split up the back

So we hide our true face
Aim to be what we're not
Work our blots to erase
Lest our schemes should be caught

Be 't by friend or by foe
We dare not risk the pain
Of humiliation's blow
On top of our stain

But instead of relief
Anguish grows louder till
This life's loneliest grief
Paralyzes the will

And last hope all but dies
On doubt's bed of despair
While embittered heart cries
That its lot's too unfair

Yet on outside we play
Through our unconscious mind
Man's collective charade
That everything's fine

Like some pact we'd all sworn
To uphold and obey
To protect from the scorn
Of society's sway

If we run with the flow
'Stead of strive 'gainst the tide
We might make enough show
To salvage our pride

We forget that conceit
Is what caused all the mess
Through a serpent's deceit
And a couple's wrong guess

'Twas they first tasted shame
And then hid in a garden
Sewing fig leaves as claim
To secure their own pardon

Yet in horror they knew
They had squandered the Prize
And must flee from the view
Of a pure set of eyes

Now same state of awry
Runs through each of their seed
Inborn and borne by
Like the thorniest ****

Whose nettles pierce deep
And infect every part
While roots tangle and sweep
Through the mind and the heart

It mocks what we've lost
Torments every dim hope
To constrict and accost
Like a noose-tightening rope

Still, hope won't be decayed
Smold'ring fires yet burn
Sparking hints that we're made
For bright Eden's return

This redemption we crave
Is no phantom's false plea
But as crestfallen wave
Hides itself in the sea

It's been veiled in plain sight
Big as all of our stories
Deep as mankind's full plight
And as high as its glories

Cloaked in every ambition
That we have to get in
To some exclusive coalition
For its favors to win

Lurks a bleeding predilection
Frustrated from birth
A desire for election
To bestow on us worth

Lured by scent of a promise
To be chosen and known
Like the warmth of a mom's kiss
Given only to her own

We search tree after tree
For sweet intimacy's nectar
From a fruit that will be
Our secret connecter

To hope's nourishing breast
To life's honey from comb
To an undying rest
To a straight way toward home

One to wipe away tears
And allay deepest doubt
Which proceeds from worst fears
Of our being locked out

Of a garden again
Cast from pure tree of life
Dim remembrance of when
Mankind first entered strife

All our conflicts, comp'tition,
Confusion and blame
Find first cause in perdition
That's invaded our frame

Like the foulest disease
The most cankerous rot
Grown by monstrous degrees
Hatched by Lucifer's plot

This story's no ****'s attack
Nor archaic folklore
But the earth-shattering fact
That our hearts are at war

With a pure set of eyes
Full of fire and proficient
To dispel all the lies
That our souls aren't deficient

And it's not our mere lack
which causes most dread
But the earth-shattering fact
That our spirits are dead

Cut off from their Source
In a black alienation
Humanity's curse
For it's rank ins'bordination

And yet...

This is also the story
Of how those same eyes
The Possessor of Glory
Looked with love and heart cries

On the crown of creation
His reflection of Self
Made His own treasured nation
The heirs of His wealth

Now broken and lost
All banished from Garden
And He knew the full cost
To grant them His pardon

Had known long before
He had e'er even made
That first man of yore
Yet handcrafts anyway

For His love is so strong
And He wanted to share
His intimacy with a throng
His own children to bear

So with souls in convulsion
From their rebellious misdeed
Just before their expulsion
He promised a Seed

One untainted from sin
Who could take its great boulder
And the weight of His kin
Upon His own shoulder

A Hero of hope
A rescuing Source
To widen our scope
And give pith to our course

An unshakable tie
An attachment at core
Who would silence the cry
That our hearts are at war

With a pure set of eyes
Full of fire and proficient
To dispel all the lies
That our souls aren't deficient

For those eyes are His own
And He'd pay the full fee
By His body alone
To set our hearts free

He's hope's nourishing breast
He's life's honey from comb
He's our undying rest
He's our straight way toward home

He will wipe away tears
And allay deepest doubt
Which proceeds from worst fears
Of our being locked out

Of the Garden again
Cast from pure Tree of Life
Dim remembrance of when
Mankind first entered strife

But 'twas on another tree
That sweet intimacy's nectar
Was secured tight when He
Became sacred Connector

And the thorns of our curse
Were pressed onto His head
With not one there to nurse
As the Son of Man bled

Then the wrath for our sin
Was absorbed as He cried
And the foul curse was broken
When the Son of God died

But death couldn't keep Him long
Nor His glory dispose
And we found our lost song
When the King of kings rose!

The debt had been paid
He had finished the work
The tide 'gainst us was swayed
We weren't left in our lurk

And we've only to now
Just repent and believe
To open and allow
Our hearts to receive

Our Divine Fountainhead
Our covering complete
To sup from His bread
And to sit at His feet

To worship the One
For Whom we were made
By Whom we've been won
Whom forever we've craved

The One Who can bear
Our hearts' full devotion
The One Who won't tear
At our souls' raw emotion

The One Who will be
Sweet eternity's song
Who with lasting decree

First two lines taken from Timothy Keller sermon titles;
also inspired by his other sermons:
"The Breastplate of Righteousness"
"Blessed Self-Forgetfulness"
"The Sandals of Peace"
"The Wounded Spirit"


for more on this:

R Saba Oct 2013
all my life and all my goals
fade away
in your presence, dear doubt
i falter

all my time and my efforts
slip down from my shoulders
in your presence, dear doubt
i am only weighed down
by the future

dear doubt
i ask you
to spare me from the harsh light
keep me in the soft dark

painted on, this mural
time and time again
referred to as history
i'll live within those lines
if only, dear doubt
you'll spare me

all my life, all my goals
all my time, all the tolls you hake taken
i have paid

all my efforts, my breath
all my cries and my threats you have taken
i have paid
time and time again

in your presence, dear doubt
i am only weighed down by the future

in your presence, dear doubt

i falter
I thought this might be a song but it turned into a poem so whatever
Let the words downpour
let the thoughts pour down
when you have found more
there will be more found

give yourself an outlet
a simple way to let out
don't ever doubt sweat
and never sweat doubt

you can reach the shoreline
let your words line shore
you can give them more shine
you can make them shine more

Here is a new form i am working on, and i am posting it here before anywhere. It is called a flip flop because the last two words of each line must switch places. I call this one a compound flip flop because the first line in each stanza ends with a compound word. There's also a normal flip flop. Hope you enjoy.
Holly Salvatore Jun 2013
Doubt grows in my mind
Like earwigs
A new generation
Chewing on little
Pink nerve endings
Slowly poisoning
Taffy pulling
All the sticky
Memories out
When you say you have your doubts
I hear mosquitos
I read broken glass
In my crystal ball
But all my tarot cards are wands
In my head I'm already gone
Like that Eagles song
But to Santa Fe
Because slow is not a game
That I play well
The dragonflies in my stomach
Are ringing like lunch bells
And the doubt is
Curled up on the couch
Purring softly
Shedding everywhere
And I don't own a vacuum
It's everywhere
But I want to be with you
When you kiss me
It melts my insides
Little drops of mercury
In pills on the floor
Banned books you loaned
Burning up my naive little mind
Henry Miller took my innocence
A long time ago
I would never ask for it back
From an ex-pat
And the note taped inside the cover
Said You are divine
And I want you to be happy
With a pocket full of dust or a million dollars
But the doubt
Is like a dam
Bursting behind my eyes
Flooding every one-horse town in its path
Thank the Bureau of Reclamation for that
I may doubt till I die
But here's the thing
When you kiss me
It's like every little piece of me is tingling
Is ringing
Like those grade school
Lunch bells
And I'd make a crossroads deal
I'd sell my soul
And fill the emptiness with your blues
I'd do anything to get rid of the doubts
Curled up softly
Sleeping soundly on the foot of our bed
Shedding everywhere
The can of doubt food on the shelf
May contain arsenic
The closet may be cleaned out
Ready to hold our new vacuum
I think this one is still in editing, but I'll go ahead and post it. Why not?
Jeff Gaines Mar 2018
OK Reader, I'm going to tell you a tale … with great trepidation. You see, this tale, well, it's kind of like telling someone that you've seen a UFO. They want to believe you, but … it's never really been proven scientifically. Not to mention the fact that most folks who believe in such things are often the tin-hat wearing types, written off as … lets be nice and call them “odd”. And, of course, the more you swear to it, the crazier you appear. It's an epic tale, spanning 30 years of my crazy life.

  But, It's a story I want to tell, because it happened to me. I can barely understand it myself, let alone explain it. So … I'm just going to launch into it and you take it any way you wish.

*  *  
Where Can You Be?

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I'll search with gazes and I'll search with cars,
I'll search the cities and I'll search the stars, well …
I'm gonna find you, oh, wherever you are,
I'm gonna find you baby …  near or far, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I thought I'd found ya, but she wasn't you,
that girl she left alone and blue, well …
I know that's something that you'd never do,
your love has always been strong and true, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

If you must settle for some other man
and deviate from our immortal plan, well …
I hope you realize I will understand
and I'll try and do the best that I can, but …

Where will I be?
Where will I be, my love?
Hoping the next life sees …
our destiny!

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

~Wednesday, April 1st, 1987
10:30 P.M.

  I was singing in a band back in those days and, as it happened, this was the last song I'd ever write for it. Just after this, as it does, it all came crashing down and the band was finished. But in those last days, they pondered this song, with great puzzlement. You see, it was unlike anything I'd brought them before. It wasn't rock … It wasn't a ballad … it wasn't even structured like a “normal” 80's rock song.
  No bridge, no solo, no loud grinding guitars, etc. It even had bits where I hummed, yes hummed, the melody, like a lullaby. As they read the lyrics and I described how it went, they all looked at me like I had three heads and asked where this had come from. It was nothing like anything I'd written before. I could only tell them when and where I'd written it, but had no explanation of what inspired it. It had just came to me, so I wrote it down. They didn't know what to make of it, or even what to do with it.

  One of them said it sounded like a late 70's or early 80's adult contemporary song or even in the vein of The Eagles. Another asked if it was about reincarnation … And I honestly, until that moment, hadn't thought of it that way, I didn't think like that at 24 … but then, one of them said it was “Haunting” …


  “Wow”, I thought, I'd never had anything I'd written described as that before. When I asked him what he meant by that, he told me that it was haunting to think that this poor guy is desperately seeking a girl, that may or may not even know that he exists … in a world with billions of people in it. To top that off, he fears that she may off and marry someone else if he doesn't find her in time.

  This, along with the suggestion of it being about reincarnation made me rethink and rewrite the song. Well, a few lines in the last verse and chorus anyways. It actually made the song flow better and seem more complete. In a way, it actually made the song make more sense … to me and them. Sadly, we never did anything with it. There wouldn't be time. Ha … Time … how ironic. Over 10 years later, came this …

For Someone I've Never Met

Please save a place for me,
deep inside your heart.
Always know that I think of you,
as we both practice our arts.

Our worlds are full of temptations,
so very hard to resist …
and the good Lord knows
we're both far from,
sixteen and never been kissed.

Wealthy men with jaws divine …
Temptresses with looks so fine …
Paths that lead our hearts away …
Paths that surely lead astray …

They'll lead us there every time.
They'll leave us there … so  unkind.
Our hearts must shine,
night and day.
Through any darkness … they'll light our way.

If you never touch my face …
If I never look into your eyes …
We'll always have the comfort of sharing
the same
big, blue sky.

If I never smell your hair …
If you never kiss my lips …
Always know the search for your smile
has launched a thousand ships.

So, I hope you save a place for me
in your heart so sweet and kind.
Please, save a place for me …
Heaven knows you've one in mine.

~Thursday, September 9th, 1999
9 A.M.

“For Someone I've Never Met ” poured out of me in the midst of another breakup from the second, and last, girl that I wanted to marry. That emotion, never found me again. I looked at it on my computer screen and smiled, seeing “Where Can You Be”, in my mind, on my tattered old note pad that I called my “Song Book”. The memory of me writing it while sitting in my Z-28, looking out over the Gulf of Mexico as a beautiful heat lighting storm sent bolts across the sky, came flooding back; as did the debate of reincarnation I'd had with my pals in the rehearsal room all those years before. Here I was, again, writing about “someone” that I sensed, for lack of a better term, was out there … somewhere.

  Well Reader, do you believe in reincarnation? I was never really certain, but, as you can see, I had twice written pieces to someone I wasn't completely sure existed. I had always “sensed” someone out there beginning with the period after I wrote “Where Can You Be?” and thereafter. So, there they were, each written after losing someone I was deeply in love with. Each came out of nowhere, as they usually do. By the time I was in my 40's, I began to think I was either imagining it all (a side effect of being a hopeless romantic) or that I had just somehow missed this person and our “moment”.

  And then …


There was a place.
There was a time …
There, I stood … still unknowing
and everything seemed fine.

But there in that place …
at that moment in time …
the moment I saw the eyes,
I'd never believed I'd find.

Well, what could I say?
What could I do?
In a world filled with billions …
and there … was a you.

I'd always known you were out there …
even written of something amiss.
I never, ever stopped looking for you …
because my heart always said you exist.

My breezy Fall became harshest Winter.
My crazy life left my health running out.
I'd resigned myself that our moment had passed …
but this moment … it removed all doubt.

Well, what could I say?
Tell me, what could I do?
There we stood, staring … alone … in a city of millions …
yes, there … there was a you.

Oh, that mistress fate, she is just so cruel.
Frustration, a curse to be mine.
   I'd searched for you my entire life …
but now … my clock … knows a limit of time.

You see, I would never venture a love with you,
while knowing I'd have to leave you … hurt and alone.
I could only admire from afar … stoic and aloof …
while turning my heart into stone.

Nothing I could ever say and nothing I could ever do …
But now, at long last … at least I finally knew.

There, you stood … green seas, gazing up … into skies of blue.
My long-awaited revelation … become sorrow-laced realization.
There really is … a you.

~August 12th, 2009

  Typical of my life-long Charlie Brown syndrome … After being told in 2005 that I had “the lungs of an eighty-year-old man” and that I had “Six to Ten years” to live, I made a conscious decision in that Doctor's parking lot that I could never have another girlfriend and that I must face this alone. I don't see woman as objects. They are glorious creatures that are here to be our partners and friends and to make our lives amazing. I could never, ever knowingly let a woman fall in love with me, all the while knowing I was going to die and leave her. It's not in me to do such a thing, lonely or not.

  Yes, I'm still alive, I'm stubborn like that. But, some days are better than others and my new doctors say that they don't give people “time limits” anymore … because of people like me. I can't afford the lung transplant. So, as Bono so aptly put in one of his songs: “The rich stay healthy, while the sick stay poor”. It is what it is … and like the energizer bunny, I'm still going. Good for me.

  In the moment that I met her, the morning that followed, and the amazing speed of our nexus over the next several months combined with a string of synchronicities (Coincidences? Did I mention that she too, was a poet and writer?) that not only came after I met her on the sidewalk in front of the publisher we shared, but in those pieces I had written before and in several after; I was pretty much convinced I had actually found her. I have NEVER experienced anything like this, or her, in my entire life.

  So, after all this time, here she was … and there wasn't a **** thing that I could do about it. Besides, she was much younger than I and it probably would never have worked anyways. ****, the universe is rotten sometimes, huh? Maybe, if I'm lucky, things will balance out better in the next life. I can only hope. But I'm reminded, worryingly so, of the **** The Alarm song: “Collide”:

“All of these thoughts pounding in my head …
with the words I've wrote, in the letters I've never sent.
The distance in our lives may change …
Times that you can never erase …
But will our worlds collide?
Will our worlds collide, the next time?”

  Only time will tell.

  “Colors”, and a few others, were written about/for her. But, I could never show them to her. I would never endanger my friendship with her. I just wanted to keep her in my life. That, and that alone, was the only motive I'd ever had with her. I looked forward to seeing her marry, hearing her stories of her three kid's adventures; Hubby, all greasy, working on the car in the driveway, rabbits in her garden at night, eating her precious organic veggies or even about her new curtains. Just to know that she was alive, happy and doing well. I found a solace in her voice I could never describe and I was completely content to just have her in my life and watch hers unfold. Only I could end up in this odd position.

  I feared that she might get weird-ed out because I'd never displayed any romantic inklings toward her, so, to suddenly read these might make her feel a bit, lets say: uncomfortable. Actually, I didn't write them with any romantic intentions, per se; I just did what I always do … write what comes out. Still, there's no denying that they come across romantic. Again, so, so Charlie Brown. (long sigh)
  It is what it is. I also have to ponder the fact that maybe all those Charlie Brown moments in my life were preparing me for this one big, painful one. That does makes sense … ******' Universe.


Well when you're Green, I'll be your Brown.
Like the earth that loves the flowers,
I'll will be your solid ground.

And I'll be your Azure, when you are Verdigris.
We'll be thee most beautiful ocean
that eyes have ever seen.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
Mixing all of the colors … I'll make everything alright.

Now when you're Blue, I'll be you're Red.
If something should make you wanna cry,
I will feel your pain instead.

And I'll be your Orange, whenever you are Pink.
We'll be thee most amazing sunset,
that the sky could ever ink.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … and make everything alright.

Should you be Violet, I will be your Beige.
Like a sleepy moonlit desert,
pasteled in dunes and sage.

And when you're Grey, I will be your Rainbow.
We'll be thee most soothing rainstorm
the world has ever known.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … yes, I'll make everything alright.

With love on my palette, painting a glorious sunrise …
I'll color all your mornings with a smile and brighten up your skies.
If you should find yourself in sorrow from someones hate or lies …
I'll take the stars down from the heavens … and paint them in your eyes.

So whenever you are Black, I will always be your White.
I'll mix all your colors with a promise … everything will be alright.

Yes, I'll mix all of your colors with a promise … Everything's gonna be alright.

~  Winter 2012

  I wrote this after she had rang me up one afternoon lamenting about her life at the moment, troubled that her latest novel hadn't done as well as she'd hoped and now she had to be waitressing to make ends meet. I tried my best to cheer her up and assured her that she was strong enough to handle anything and that she must keep chasing her dreams. I wrote it as a poem, but I can't help but notice it looks like a song, though I've never heard music for it. Those repeated verses look just like choruses to me.

  Earlier in the day, I had been looking at a booklet of paint swatches. I guess, up there on my roof looking at the Manhattan skyline, her sadness and me looking at all those colors melted together somehow and, as happens, out came this piece. Even this, became another synchronicity as she would name her next novel “Show Me All Your Colors”. I remember seeing it in the bookstore and looking straight up … shaking my head at the sky. Was this the universe telling me to show and tell her all this?

  Well, if it was, I stuck with my gut and kept it to myself. My God, if you only knew how many of these synchronicities there were between her and I. It simply boggles my mind. I wanted to call them “coincidences”, but there were just so **** many of them … Each so unique, they just couldn't be called that. I don't want to tell them all here, because like I said, the more you swear to it, the crazier you sound. And I'm sure your questioning my sanity by now, aren't you? (Smirk)

  OK, OK … this one is definitely romantic. I wrote it one night, drunk to the bejeezus. I'd done what we called “The Crosstown Crawl” with my pal Tristan and a gaggle of assorted waitresses we knew. This involved starting at Brass Monkey on the west side highway in the Gansevoort District and ending at my favorite hookah bar, Karma, on the Lower East Side … Drinking in, and often being “asked to leave” (Read: Kicked out of) every bar that took our interest as we walked (Read: staggered) west to east, staying below 14th St.

  On my way home from the city on the J train, I thought about all the phone conversations we'd had while I was on this train crossing the Williamsburg Bridge. Being drunk, I guess, I caught a bout of sadness that I'd never get to tell her any of this or even how I felt about it all. Before I hit my elevator, this piece was swimming in my head. It's about as mushy a piece as I've ever written … if not thee most! Not the norm for me, but this is, after all, a lot to keep pent up inside you. I wouldn't wish this predicament on anyone.

For My Little Red-Haired Girl …

You …

My Love.
My Queen.
This Shining Light in my eyes.

My Laughs.
My Dreams.
My Soft, Contented Sighs.

My *****.
My Lavender.
My Dew Covered Rose.

My Smile.
My Cinnamon.
The Joy in my heart … ever inspiring my prose.

My Best Friend.
My Co-Star.
My Fearless Partner in Crime.

My Breath.
My Cohort.
My Side-kick throughout time.

My Snow-capped Mountain.
The Wind caressing my face.
My Vast Green Field.

The Ivy Covered Wall
that harbors my soul … ever refusing to yield.

In a different time ...

You … would have been my Life.

You … would have been my World.

You … would have been my Everything

and I will always love you for my own special reasons.

It is just a shame … and I'm so, so sorry … that you … must never, ever know.

Maybe next time.

~Charlie Brown

   When I came-to in the morning and read what I had wrote, I had to laugh a bit. It is borderline corny, very beautiful, very telling and very sad … all at once. I shook my head, laughing and told myself :

  “*******, Sam … yer losin' it. Get your **** together, will ya?”

  I guess in my stupor, I was imagining what it would have been like to write something for her. I don't know … There it was and I was stuck with it. I almost deleted it, but, my finger wouldn't press the key. As I told you before … I'd NEVER show this to her. She'd probably never speak to me again.

   As a sadder epilogue, that eventually happened. I still don't know why, but we haven't spoken in years. Maybe she sensed this emotion in me and ran away. Or maybe, just maybe … she thought I'd pushed her away somehow … but for whatever reason, we drifted apart. I guess I'll never know.  As you can see by reading this, that was never my intention. But, like I keep reiterating … It is what it is.

  One day, I called her number to catch up and shoot the breeze. I hadn't spoken to her in a few months as she'd been busy promoting her new novel and I didn't want to pester her. But … it was disconnected … I checked my emails … nothing. I'd never been so confused, she just closed me out. I didn't want to bother her. I was sure she had her reasons and if she wanted to reach out to me again, she would. She had my email and my phone number. But, for now … she was gone … and that was that.

  So, what do you think, Reader? Do I get the Tin hat … or a Badge of courage? Am I bat-**** crazy … or just eccentric? I'll leave it up to you to decide, because as I said, this all happened to me and there isn't a thing I can do about any of it. I just had to get it off of my chest. Thanks for letting me vent.

  Wherever she is … she will always mean the world to me. I can see her green eyes if I close my mine and look for them. Sometimes, on occasion, her face haunts my sleep. Still, I like to picture her, kids playing in a sprinkler behind her, digging in her garden, wearing gloves too big for her hands and a smudge of fresh dirt on her cheek … it makes me smile.

-Sam Webster
Brooklyn, New York
OK, you can stop scratching your head. I'm sorry if you feel like I tricked you or was playing a prank … That was not my intention. This piece is experimental writing, of sorts. If you are wondering, it's titled “Somewhere … Out There”. But I didn't want to put a title at the head of the page, as that might have clued you in too early.

I also confess that “Sam” the narrator is, on no uncertain terms, based loosely on myself. But hey, what better way to string you along? Besides, as Stephen King said, you “Write what you know”. As far as I 'm aware, using poetry within a short story like this, or in this manner, has never been done before. Welcome to the future!

It really belongs in my “From Thee Edge” Collection with the rest of my Twilight-Zone-esque short stories. (You can now read some of these fiction short stories here, posted in my "NoPo@HePo" posts, along with some non-fiction essays. I hope you enjoy them.) But, because I pieced together several of my poems to not only tell the story, but as a vehicle to carry it along as part of it; I wanted to put it here on Hello Poetry just to see if I could convince you long enough to get you through the story … while having you believe it was me speaking to you and that it was all very real to me. Thus, making it feel real to you as you read it.

Was I having you along right up until it was signed by someone else? Or, at least until the narrator addressed himself as “Sam”?

If so, then I accomplished my mission. I'd love to hear your comments on it. If you've been reading any of my other posts, I'm sure you've figured out that I like to run wildly outside of the box sometimes. This was just, as I said, an experiment in a different way to tell a story … fiction or otherwise. As always, I hope that I took you on a journey and, more importantly, that you enjoyed it.

~Jeff Gaines
(Lower Alabama)
Andrew Guzaldo c Aug 2017
Doubt vs. Faith Doubt sees the obstacles,
Faith sees the way,
Doubt sees the darkest night,
Faith sees the day,
Doubt dreads to take a step,
Faith soars on high.,
Doubt questions,'
Who believes?
Faith answers,’ I'”
amber Nov 2014
There's no doubt you're a lier
Just a boy who plays with fire
Not a fraction of desire
To aim any higher

There's no doubt I'm an inspiration
Playing on your broken-hearted situation
I could never cancel the operation
But from you, I never got an explanation

There's no doubt you're pleasing
Played with your heart, my hands are freezing
My mind in your hands, you're squeezing
But never would you be so appeasing

There's no doubt that I'm a cheat
With your soul with mine, we'll compete
You know I'll never admit to defeat
Even while I know we're bittersweet

There's no doubt that we're fighting
Our minds are colliding
Even though none of this is exciting
Your arms will always look so inviting

There's no doubt we like to pretend
That maybe I’m more than a friend
And you’re just a hand to lend
But everything has to come to an end

Theres no doubt you were a lover
Helping each other to recover
At 1 am, you’d make me shudder
Maybe theres time to rediscover
kevin morris Jan 2014
This is a fictional account of the abuse suffered by a young boy. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1

Lady Macbeth remarked “Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil”. All children have their terrors. The bogeyman who lurks in dark corners patiently waiting to harm the unwary child. The ghost who haunts the attic where, even on a bright sunny day the child fears to go alone or some unspeakable terror, a horror with no name which lies just below the surface of every day life. In my case the ghoul who cast an all pervasive shadow over my childhood was Colin, a man small in stature but, to a child a monster of epic proportions.
I have, on occasions tried to comprehend why my abuser acted as he did. As a boy I had no desire to understand Colin. I hated him with an all consuming loathing. He was the devil incarnate who, if it had been in my power to do so I would have destroyed with as little compunction as a man would show when exterminating a rat. As an adult the hatred remains although now tempered with a desire to understand why Colin abused a small, defenceless child, physically and mentally over a prolonged period.
Was Colin abused by one (or both) of his parents? And, if so does this help to explain (but in no way excuse) why he took such great delight in inflicting pain on me? I met both of Colin’s parents and stayed with them on several occasions. At no time during those visits was I subjected to any kind of abuse. This does not of course prove that Colin’s mother and father where not abusers. It demonstrates that they did not abuse me, no more, no less. However, looking back at my visits to their home and, in particular the fact that neither of Colin’s parents abused me, I am inclined to believe that he was not ill treated by either of them. So what turned Colin into the monster who took delight in twisting my arm so hard behind my back that I thought it would break? The answer is, I have no idea. What turned apparently normal Germans into mass murderers in ******’s *****? The answer is the same, I don’t know. As with the concentration camp guards who committed mass ****** I can speculate that some where subjected to abuse as children and that this led to them becoming psychopathic killers. However not all of those abused in childhood go on to commit abuse, while many in the SS experienced apparently happy childhoods untroubled by abuse. Colin may have been abused by someone other than his parents but even if this is the case this does not explain or justify why he became an abuser.

Chapter 2

I was born on 7 February 1971 in the north of England. Soon after my birth it became apparent that all was not right with Donald Myers. I cried far more than any normal child ought to. In addition I banged my head against hard surfaces on a frequent basis which, obviously gave rise to concern. My mum, as any good mother would took me to the hospital only to be told that there was nothing amiss. However a mother’s instinct told her that something was terribly wrong with her son. She refused to leave the hospital and demanded a second opinion. This was provided by a Polish doctor who, having examined me diagnosed a blood clot on the brain. My distraught family was informed that I required an urgent operation and even if the blood clot was successfully removed I was likely to be severely mentaly disabled. Fortunately the blood clot was removed and I am not mentally deficient. The clot did, however leave me with very poor vision (I am registered blind and use a guide dog as a mobility aid although I possess useful vision which assists with orientation).

Chapter 3

As a young boy I spent a great deal of time with my grandfather. This was due to my sister, Janet being ill and my mum not being able to look after 2 young children simultaneously.
I have fond memories of playing in what I called “the patch”, a piece of the garden which my grandfather allowed me to do with as I chose. I recall making mud pies and coming into the house caked in mud literally from head to toe.
Being blind I relied on my grandfather to read to me. Most weekends found us in a book shop. Whenever I walk into W H Smiths the scent of books brings back happy memories of time spent with my grandfather, me sitting on his knee as he read to me.
My grandfather was a dear, kind gentle man. Had he known how Colin was abusing me he would, I am sure have gone straight to the nearest police station to report him. However he never knew and, being a small child I never confided in him.
I am amazed when I hear people ask “why didn’t so and so report the abuse?” As a small child I was terrified of Colin. Had I told anyone I was sure that he would deny everything and the abuse would intensify. I was not aware of the existence of the National Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Children (NSPCC) and even had I known of their existence I would, as a frightened little boy have lacked the courage to pick up the phone and call. Colin would, no doubt have accused me of lying and in the 1970’s and 1980’s children where rarely believed when making alegations of abuse.

Chapter 4

I used to dread leaving the safety of my grandfather’s home to spend time with Colin and my mother. My heart would sink when Colin or my mum came to collect me from my grandfather’s. On one occasion I deliberately dropped the car keys behind the kitchen worktop in the forlorn hope this would prevent my mum taking me to stay with her and Colin. Oh vain hope, the keys where discovered and I found myself in the lair of the abuser.
Colin took care never to abuse me in the presence of others. He was, however adept at tormenting me when my mum or other people where nearby but couldn’t see what he was doing. One incident is indelibly etched on my memory. I was sitting on the sofa, in the living room. The room opened straight out into the street and I was seated close to the front door. My mum called to me from outside asking whether I wanted to accompany her to the supermarket. I replied “yes” but before I could leave to join her Colin, who was sitting on the same sofa twisted my arm behind my back and whispered that I should tell my mum that I had changed my mind. I continued to attempt to leave but Colin increased the pressure saying that if I didn’t inform my mum that I had changed my mind he would break my arm. Naturally I called to my mum that I no longer wished to go with her and she left without me.
Being outside my mum did not see the abuse taking place a mere few feet from where she was standing.
On another occasion, while Colin and I where sitting in the living room, he forced a chipped mug into my lip which drew blood. Again my mum was present in the kitchen, which was located next to the living room but did not observe the abuse. On entering the living room and noticing the scar a few minutes later she enquired what had caused it. At this point in time I don’t recollect whether Colin put the lie into my mouth or whether I concocted the story in order to avoid further abuse. In any case I informed my mum that I had cut myself with a chipped mug, a version of events she accepted.  
At times I thought that I was going to die. No small boy likes washing but I used to dread bathing due to Colin’s own unique method of assisting me to wash. This consisted of holding my head under the water so that my nose and mouth filled and I felt as though I was going to die. I would emerge, terrified coughing and spluttering.
Colin obviously derived tremendous pleasure from half suffocating me. On numerous occasions he would place a cushion or pillow over my face and hold it there until I felt that I was about to die. Years later when I attended counselling with the mental health charity Mind, the counsellor asked me why I thought that Colin had not killed me? I replied that he probably derived more pleasure from having a living child to torment than he would have gained had he murdered me. Also, had he murdered me the prospect of detection and Colin spending a long period in prison would, I said have acted as a disincentive to  him taking my life. .  
Colin was a sadist. In adition to systematically abusing me he also abused my mum. I remember him hitting her on a regular basis and on at least one occasion pushing her down the stairs. He was (and is) a ******* of the first order.
Colin didn’t confine his cruelty to people. I recall him flinging the family cat at me. The poor animal stuck out it’s claws to gain purchase with the result that it scratched my face badly. Like all bullies Colin was, at bottom a coward. I never once saw him abuse the family dog. I am sure that this was not out of any affection for the animal, rather it stemmed from the fear that had he done so the dog would, quite naturally have bitten it’s tormentor in self defence. Oh how I wished that the dog had sunk his teeth into Colin.          

Chapter 5

We all have nightmares. As a young boy one of my recurring bad dreams concerned being chased by a hoover. To anyone unfamiliar with the abuse inflicted on me the relating of my dream will, no doubt result in mirth. However my nightmare was no laughing matter as to me the vacuum cleaner was a thing of terror. We owned an upright hoover which Colin would, periodically place on my head while the motor was running. I well recall the terror as the wheels of the machine ran across my head. Colin was nothing if not inventive as in addition to putting a working vacuum cleaner on my head he also made me hold the machine above my head. My arms would ache terribly but I dare not put the hoover down until ordered to do so by Colin. For many years following the ending of the abuse “the chasing hoover dream”, as I refered to it stubbornly refused to go away. While the nightmare no longer plagues my sleeping brain, whenever I use a vacuum cleaner the recollection of a terrified little child being tortured by a hoover comes back to me.
In another of my childhood nightmares I would enter the spare bedroom only to be grabbed by a clicking monster which wrapped it’s hands around my neck attempting to strangle me.
Colin choked me on numerous occasions. One incident remains vividly imprinted on my memory. It was evening and my mum, sister, Colin and I sat in the living room. All of the family accept for me where watching television. I was listening to a talking book about a footballer which contained many amusing stories. I laughed uproariously throughout much of the book. Later on that evening, following the departure of my mum and sister to bed Colin choked me telling me never to laugh like that again as I had “disturbed” people. As I recall Colin’s strangling of me the old terrors reassert themselves. At the time I felt that I had, perhaps done something wrong. However the logical part of my brain told me that I had done nothing whatever to justify Colin’s barbaric treatment of me. He ought to have gone to prison for that incident alone. He was (and remains) the personification of evil to me. To this day I can, on occasions feel self conscious about giving in to the natural desire to laugh at a great joke when in the company of friends. I can (and do) let myself go and laugh uproariously but Colin remains in the background, like Banquo’s ghost putting a dampener on the feast.

Chapter 6

Colin possessed considerable charm which is, perhaps how he came to entrap my mum into marrying him. I remember sitting around the dinner table with guests present and Colin holding forth on Charles Darwin amongst other topics. Although not university educated Colin was by no means unintelligent and could, if one was unfamiliar with his propensity to abuse, appear to be charm itself, a man whom it would be a pleasure to have over for dinner.      

Colin possessed the capacity to make people laugh which he used to devastating effect when making barbed comments at the expense of my mum. I hated him for his comments but laughed none the less which is proof of the idea that hostages frequently try to please their captors by forming some kind of relationship with them. I can not at this juncture in my life recall in detail how, precisely Colin undermined the confidence of my mum, I suspect that this inability on my part stems from the fact that I was, quite naturally concerned with my own suffering and the abuse perpetrated on my mum was of secondary concern. My own pain preoccupied me. I had little time for that of others.

Chapter 7

My counsellor and my dear friend, Barry have raised the issue as to whether my mum was aware of the abuse to which Colin was subjecting me. I have thought about this question long and hard and I still can not provide a categoric answer. I am sure that my mum never actually observed Colin in the act of abusing me. She was, as explained in the forgoing chapters, never in the same room when the abuse took place. The fact that her son showed a profound disinclination to be alone with Colin should though have caused alarm bells to start ringing. Colin was clever. The only time I can recollect when he caused me to bare a physical manifestation of abuse was the incident of the chipped cup related earlier. On all other occasions the marks where deep psychological wounds not visible to the casual observer.
I have tried discussing the abuse with my mum. Her reaction has osilated between stating that the abuse occurred a long time ago and that I ought to forgive and forget, to questioning whether it did, in fact take place. My gut feeling is that my mum does not doubt my veracity. The anger she manifested on discovering that I had informed my wife of the abuse perpetrated by Colin demonstrates that she does not doubt me.
Shortly prior to my wife and I separating we went to stay with my mum and sister. One morning my mum, my daughter and I went for a walk during the course of which my mum received a call from my sister. Janet said that my wife, Louise had told her that I had informed Louise of the abuse to which I had been subjected to by Colin. My mum rounded on me asking “why the hell I had told Louise about the abuse”. There ensued a blazing argument during which my mum hit me. On returning home the argument continued with Janet stating that I should talk to Colin about the situation. The fact that Janet did not defend Colin and state that he couldn’t, possibly have abused me indicates that she was, to some extent aware of the abuse.
I love my mum deeply and have no doubt that she loves me. Yet whenever we are together the elephant in the room (Colin) stands between us, seen by both but mentioned by neither. In my case I fear the eruption of a blazing argument. I have always shyed away from arguments which is, I suspect down to me having grown up in a family in which vilence and arguments where commonplace. As a small boy I developed strategies for minimising the likelyhood of being abused. My main strategy was to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I became a master at sitting quietly, not speaking unless I was spoken to and doing everything in my power not to antagonise Colin. While I don’t fear being physically abused by my mum I shrink in terror at the prospect of a verbal tyraid eminating from her.
In my mum’s case she does, I believe feel guilty due to her not having protected her son from Colin. The fact that she refuses to discuss the abuse to which I was subjected shows her inability to acknowledge to me her own sense of culpability at her failure to prevent Colin’s behaviour. On at least one occasion my mum has told me that the abuse could not have taken place as, if it had she would have been aware of it. This is contradicted by her statement (refered to earlier) that it was a long time ago and I ought to “forgive and forget”. Both statements can not be correct and in her heart of hearts my mum knows that I am telling the truth, she lacks the courage to admit her own failings and apologise to me.      

Chapter 8

At this distance in time I can not pinpoint the precise point at which the physical abuse stopped. At some indeterminate point (I think during my early teens) I began to challenge Colin’s behaviour. I remember wishing to join a social club and Colin informing me that I could not do so. Full of fear and trepidation I said that I would join to
Grand Piano Aug 2014
Everyone has there doubts right?
Of course I know it's not just me
Who the **** am I to think i'm special
Clearly you didn't
You said you loved me!
Hell I should have known
Anyone can say I love you
But only few really mean it
Now that's something I didn't want to feel
I ignored all of the warning signs
I was blinded by love that you never really felt
I started thinking
Does he really love me?
Am I really beautiful?
Are we really in this together?
Doubt sunk in so deep and dragged me under
But who was there to pull me back up?
Not you!
Not anyone!
I was alone
Am alone
Trying desperately to break surface
A part of me still hopes that you'll be the one to rescue me
Help me out of this dark place
But you're not here
All I have now is doubt
You see your friends told me that you had complaints. But I can't tell since you are always in my face. If you can't be a man you know what you can do. Pack your bags and leave the cash because baby we are through.

There's no doubt that I've had it up to here. There is no doubt there will be no more crying no more tears. There is no doubt about the way I made you feel. ******* you know that my love was real.

I am sick and tiered of you running your lines. Get up out of my face because you are wasting your time. I won't hold your hand the way your mama use to. I have no time to sit and deal with this drama. Since you can't be a man you can stay with your mama.

You know what? I've had it up to here. No more crying no more tears. It's all about the way that I made you feel. Because you know that I am the real.
This was written over 15 years ago. It is something that people still deal with today. I hope that someone has the ability to use it to grow up. While others use it to move on. -Sweetlemon

— The End —