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Steven Forrester Mar 2012
Melody
And harmony
Listening
To a symphony
And its playing my song
My time is short
And my thoughts are long
A new face to court
Caught in the throng
I think to myself
What's going on?
Life is intangible
I am incredible
Considered an animal
Living against the dramatical
Keep your eye on the ball
And try not to fall
Lest you find yourself
A vegetable
Notice me
Maybe you can see
Past the words
Into the picture
Furtively
And have the courtesy
To notice these
Literal annotations of beauty
Out of bureaucracy
And in to destiny
The rest of me
Is catching up
But can you see
The hidden meaning
I'm good at this
So probably not
So enjoy with me
This absent thought
David Ayres Jun 2014
If there's one guy who should be banned and shunned from the ranks of society, it should be me. Thanks for agreeing with this stark reality. I'm the worst entity in my entirety. I've zero decency and no need for your sympathy. This sentient being of notoriety shattered the window of existence, screaming with just a demeaning smirk. Gleaming, flirting skirts of variety pass by the dark and ***** corners where I lurk. Just know that I hold no spark of sanity, only humanity's vanity. No silver platter or flattery I will hand about and offer thee. Nothing really matters anyway. People scatter and shout aloud in the fray. They scowl, scoff, spit, spatter, and cough in my general direction. Take a clear look in the mirror of dismay. The only truth you see is the bilateral reflection of a dramatical radical. Blessed by the heart, cursed by the mind as collateral. Below grey skies, I'll cast my line of terror into the lake of your tears. Will you bite and be bitten with lies? Will the bitter night overrun you with fears and the deer hear your cries? Not a chance. Take your stance and take heed of my arrival in the vicinity. Indeed, your survival is a mystery. Ar first glance, I'm public enemy number one and the ****-storm cloud insanely raining frightening lightening upon your fun parade every sunny, Summer-day. Romance the idea of petitions being signed with instructions. Enhanced, grammatical weapons of destruction are lined and designed by the hunter to mark me into your history books. Look at my nefariousness with shaky knees and restless soul, until this crook's reign of misfortune has plundered the toll. I am the troll controlling this area. This bridge of ignorance you roll under is where I raise mass hysteria. I'm an unleashed beast with Master status, Grade A disaster, and hunger whose here to take care of ya. Awakened from slumber, here's some flashy, hysterical, lyrical, *** full of diarrhea ******* on your hopes and dreams, now crashed and torn asunder. What number and blunder will perform next on the screen? You will forever wonder.
extasis Apr 2010
Try men's souls. Provocative mind-whip how you soothe me. I scorn modern poetry...not because it is truly bad or truly good. It just makes me feel as if my pores are ever-expanding with clicking, skittering, masses of insects.

Black shiny minuscule monstrosity.
Beautiful in gritty grotesque.

A lamb lights upon the searing dark-light torch...**** them all with glee

No pity or remorse towards humans humanity human nature,
we are disgusting creatures until I cease thinking about us.
Then we are interesting and subject to more discovering and journeying.

Take the child and expose it to everything at once; it shrivels and mumbles distant screams of flaming cliches combined with a burning shot of plasmatic soul searching. How would we approve of such?

Inside the black brown shriveled parchment child-casing: The other children are ignorant. My crooked cracked being shivers disgustingly. I hate them instantly. Not hate. A rigid viscous feeling. Rip apart the sublime ape. She-he in all splendid obsession. Strive, then, no more to ape the emblems of the spirit that was, but evoke anew that spirit in modern life.

I, we trust none. Drama drama dramatic dramatically dramatical in all appearances, but truly flat-line non expressionist.

I love only once.

Burn them and their wicked kindness.
I will soothe my satisfactions and live love only once.

My Muse is the riptide chainsaw hackslash terror of our generation. Reveling in the natural ones. The rocks  scrape phrases up of graves and trees wickle waveringly with pleadings of insane sleeps.

How beautiful is nature. That it can reduce us to nothing at all and raise us upon our grandest delusions.

I love to despise of women's voices. Androgyny is revelation worthy. Epiphany causing in romanticism.
I love to desire my emotional and mental consumption.

she is grandeur made flesh
epiphany constituted within reach
glorious
*******, you sweet, sweet *******
this soul will rest
not mine, not ours
it will take rest and tendril itself through all

love commissions such things
what ****** soul
She I Cannot Resist
I can't seem to organize this one properly, and it may seem hard to understand, but it requires multiple readings and analyzing...which some people don't feel like doing.

I wrote this for a very androgynous woman that I loved dearly, but she was very insecure about herself and closed herself off from me because she wasn't sure what to do with someone who loved her more than anything.

I wrote this during my time of despairing over the fact that she wouldn't let me close.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i love how i can be Polish
and, literally, have no opinion worthy
of a media outpouring worth
admitting to...
at being: the said ethnicity.
i mean, i could be given cameo
roles in the global narrative,
but i'm shunned...
after enough time passes: i'll come
to embrace being shunned,
i'll learn to evolve into a dislodged
congregation,
            i'll learn to be a people
worthy of no myth.,.. i'll hardly be
japanese when i should have cited shinto...
i should have been scandinavian and
have cited the kept secret of the runes...
or arabic and told to kneel and scrub
my forehead before the koran...
       i come from a pauper's nation
if all the above things are true...
              i am what might be called
a north african spotting me in Amsterdam
and walking away tearful...
       i might have just found heroism once more,
if not in action, then not begun in
thought, and taken upward to the Valhalla
of straining the hawk's dive sound into a ****,
or a kestrel high-minded to perch and not
hollow out the hush...
            music!            music!
if there is anything more edible worthy of kings
it's the **** of sound! sounds can overpower
the mind like sights, if not more!
why, do we: pestle and mortar the whole affair!
we are lumber-jacks unable to make
a single tree fall, and like a graveyard cadle
hushes toward turning dim... say:
            adieu vent...
             sooner addressing a ******* **** than
a myth of the wind playing: the ******* flute!
      peasants! peasants! peasants everywhere,
and i don't mean greengrocers, i mean
marxist peasants, social inhibitors and counter-culturalists!
   why is trans-gender so rampant in western
society and so nodded to, when it's clearly bonkers?
        when the world turns *******
i think of what awaits chinese society and the heresy
of living an agricultural life, long bond with the past
fathers...
                it's a bit like seeing ash turn into graven
images of solidifying masonary of phlegmatised stone...
and then seeing the dutiful kneel before a
                scandal's worth of altar...
        there they all seem to be altar pieces...
     lambs before the slaughter...
   competing crucifixes with ellaborate squiggles of
koranic hand written stances...
                       there's no shame in seeing a *******
these days... there's more shamble verse in
claiming that such a specimen could ever
     guard you against clinging to a cross...
                      as i have not done so...
there's clarity in claiming that a Pontius Pilate
resides in each of us, than there be a crucifix ladden
offering, if not for the Golgotha crowd, then
for the paparazzi ****** hard-on.
                       what dicta are we to hear from a nation
that heard no Mongolian stampede?
heard no burning of libraries, or of churches?
                heard no Mongol settle in the Ukraine and
be called Tartar, as a steak might be called
when served, raw?
what are we to make of these arguments?
        suddenly Britain turned to isle-bound escapism,
and created a polarised scoot-land...
                    was it because objectivity was
objectivity because of the numbers?
                      and when the numbers were cited
objectivity could no longer be respected,
and each citation upon citation was held up
with disbelief?
                                     i can't but see objectivity as a
talk of numbers, but also see how quickly enough
numbers can be turned into propagandist material,
how easily, given enough numbers,
  the numbers cave in...
                and when one objectivity said:
1,000,000 ought to be enough to dilute our message
and give us respectability...
  sooner or later subjectivity said:
1 ought to be enough to concentrate our message
and give us accountability...
   sooner or later the two cited a numbers' convergence...
  objectivity with its 1,000,000
     was as worthwhile as subjectivity and its 1...
        opinion-making behaved as it usually behaved
with enough chaotic organisation:
   there's a plateau of opportunity on the other side...
i never could stomach this,
that objecitivty was governed by
the fact that 1,000,000 could congest a space,
  and be nodding with approval to a unanimous
        claim for a censo est
                 non censo, ergo veto: supra omni:
                            regina stasus quo
...
and that subjectivity was governed by
the fact that 1 would invoke a space,
and be disawoved and dismissed outrightly
as bringing up the concern...
                in the first place...
      if the matter is so simple as to call it
objectivity = 1,000,000
           and subjectivity = 1...
                then whatever arithmetic one discloses,
makes no sense on the rigidity of the given, original
number... the two will continually parallel each other,
and never concentrate at wanting a discourse,
and forever will dialectics be a shunned example of
convergence of the two...
                  forever at odds will be the ratio
of **** aexemplum (man, an example)
   at odds with - ex aexemplum (from an example),
  to no discredit of man or god...
                                     for the ex aexemplum condition
states: there is neither man, or god
to state an example... non **** ex deus (no
man from god) / non deus ex man (no god from man) -
          (if i didn't listen to dramatical music,
these words would sound better congested
into a a soaked ****) -
       but given they're worded to a glory-futile score of
music... i'd love to dedicate these past seconds to
   the sound of a dog telling a: knock-knock joke
with: woof-woof! who's there? howl!
Damaré M Sep 2013
History in the making 
We make history because our love isn't basic 
Basically we're going to grow branches on our family tree 
Just to clear up any historicity 
And/or animosity 
You know what's catastrophic? 
Love isn't logic!!!
So you can remind yourself 
But if you don't align yourself 
You can find yourself by yourself 
So look what's behind yourself 
If it has always been your fault 
Then shift in your ways 
And hope that you can escape the aftershock 
Enough of the lessons 
Back to our blessings 
We can travel a thousand islands 
Or we can live on a ranch 
And for our dressings 
Vests and dresses 
Suits and knee-high boots 
Overalls; we can be free as the nevertheless too 
That's artistic **** 
I'm a simplistic dude 
Simple beauty is what I'm into 
Your mind and your organisms 
Your smile when your stomach tickles 
The way in which you sneeze when your nose sniffles 
When you're coughing you always act like you're headed to your funeral 
Then I have to tell you to stop being so dramatical
Love and history is grammatical and non-fictional 
It's true 
So truly historiography should only be studied by those who love biology 
The study of life and living things 
Human beings with cells and rib-cages
Meant to lock themselves up with attached strings 
To shoot bowing arrows
Loving each other all the way down to one another's bone-marrow 
She said I'm gonna miss you so I used my thumbs in act for tissue 
Our love will be on the cover of the book of love, volume 1 the first issue
Somethings are still left
Unsaid
But always wanted to be said
Distress
Sometimes i feel everything
And on the next movement I feel nothing
I’ve made a fictional thought
But there is a reality
Who fought
How creative god is
Sitting on those clouds
Watching us
We’ve been so loud
Oh Wow
Still not a single crease on God’s head
How beautifully god created
Us
In this dramatical fuss
Some with love
kindness
beauty
happiness
knowledge
& joy
And in return we gave him
Hate
Misery
Greed
Bloodshed
Fear
War
Slavery
I guess Only trouble
God desired us and made us
Named us
Humans
One of his most beautiful creation
God give us sun
Give us nature
We made his fun
God made humans
With grace and humanity
Look what we did with
This sweet opportunity
Neither less
Nor high
God give us a complete structure
To fly
And we thought god just made us to
Lie
God never had a gender
In his mind
Man forward
Women backward and behind
Who made us
We made him
And differentiate him
In form of man and women
Women with hijab
And man with strong muscle
I think sometimes God might have a thought
On his own innovation
No, it’s humans created hustle
I hope one day we all will understand
We human
And mother earth is
God’s grace
So we just have to embrace
KV Srikanth May 2021
Missing means lacking
For a fellow human being
Emotional weakness
Projected sadness

Mocking and joking
At people in mourning
Not real but acting
Can be no real suffering

Move on is but natural
Limit to being sentimental
Being very vocal
Unnatural and dramatical

Attitude of mine
Which I defined
A matter of time
The postman rang

Idolized as a teenager
Happenstance much later
Have as an employer
A decade spent together

Last visit home
3 Sundays ago
Had I known before
Would have relished the moments more

Dropped him back
In the car sitting on the back
Driven by my nephew
Who knew?

Deep inside myself
Void ballooning itself
Phone calls daily
About movies we both were crazy

His presence replaced
By photos in place
Does not offer Solace
Answer in Gods grace

Time will heal
It always does
Works by default
Not by design

Memory is time
Captured in a roll
The brain cells hold
For the better or worse

The show must go on
Time to remain strong
The only real balm are in
The lyrics of any poets song

— The End —