"duplicates" poems
There are just so many snowflakes falling from the sky each year,
That you and me, she and he, even your pets could lend their names to the snowflakes,
And not worry about them being duplicates of each other,
Because just like all human beings have different physical characteristics,
Each snowflake is amazingly uniquely structured,
You would run out of names of human beings in all languages,
Numbering each snowflake is a better option,
Mother nature has also made each person so unique,
Why care about the names and origins,
When everyone could have a unique snowflake!
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
People build million dollars homes
Far away from the city dwellers
To be free from ordinary folks
Are well known loners
They even tried to own the high sea
Unfortunately, it belongs to all nation and mankind
It’s known as freedom and seafaring power to all
In hopes of a segregation
without the unnecessary advocating
they build swimming pools;
and Bob wire fences
It’s hard for many of us to create duplicates of heaven
Without the approval of the mighty one
These efforts would remain tantalizingly and unreachable
Like the keys to the golden gates;
Some of the loners that goes down to the depth of the ocean
To do business in the water, have failed miserably
after they have seen the works of the all mighty
However, with all their money and the power
They is no escaping from your neighbors
There is only one thing that separated us
is death
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
Philoxenic appetence
Misplaced
Disproportionate benevolence
Dissipate
Myself: an object, given away
A transient drifter with always somewhere to stay
Exuberant sorrow ever-wishing to deject
Distortion
Deception duplicates
A heart burnt black
Focussed on the lacking, unable to bounce back
Mouths to feed
Needy hands grapple to extract
No fact needed
Smoky contortion
Inhaled greedily
Ready for the downfall
Open to the wind
Upward spirals shy away from the world they crave
Mischievous nymphs dance merrily on a stage,
Unmade
Then lay down to cradle their babes
Slaves to the slovenly
Behaviour of unrest
I know they’re trying hard but is it their best?
Sing a song of sixpence, your fingers in my pie
Life is not serious
We’re all destined to die
High.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
The best things in life are free, a sunny day, you and I, lying backs to the sky, thinkin of what we have and what we had, and what we will, a smile creeps to my face as I look at you and say
Chorus:
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
The clock tics and tocs, together we walk, sit and talk, time passes by,
My mind flies the sun lives and dies to rise again and again and again.
Like the breaths we take and the choices we make I’m gonna jump in the lake that is your soul, swim through our lives and dive into our dreams. Heaven is on earth today, because..
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
The good Dr said: “Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.” He was right as can be, like a snowflake your unique and one of a kind, The duplicates can me made night and day to say what you say and walk like you walk but no one can do what you do and i say:
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
Like a rusted root you send me on my way, the brightest part of any day you add the color to my photographs and the reality to my dreams. You fill my sails with wind and light the way through my darkest nights. I lay alone and awake and I think:
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
Winter fades and summer springs, just long enough for the leaves to fall and bring me it all, your hand in mine, and like the seasons we weather it all and while all the colors change the constant remains the same,
I just wanna be with you.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 12:36 AM UTC
I want love,
I need love,
Where is love....
They tell you love is in family,
But they hate...
They tell you love is in you,
In order to find it,
you have to look in the crevasses of your heart,
But within you ,
It's reenactments of a ****** scene ,
Tell me again ,
Can't you answer my question?
Where is love ?
I'm looking for love ,
Love can you see me ?
You want love from me ,
I'm not earthly ,
I can't give you what you need..
My love can't even nuture me,
When I'm in time of need..
How can I learn to love you,
When I'm half loving me...
I create duplicates of paper hearts,
Made up of broken sea shells ..
Forgive me if I'm distant but loving,
I'm convinced I need help...
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 1:23 AM UTC
Inhale,
exhale,
and inhale again.
Blood rises and quickens.
Rushing,
like the resin abducting my oxygen
and holding it hostage.
The smoke before me
that twists and dances and
duplicates,
making love to the air.
I look at these strands
past a foggy haze of uncertainty,
wondering how they fit together
even better than we did
when they are not
tangible bodies.
The strands, they don't hold a heart or listen
to each other breathe as they fall asleep.
And I wonder how this smoke,
how these **** dead wisps,
love each other better than
we did.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
wine
cheese
beef. good beef. (i am good, i am good)
things that get better with age.
antique cars
comics
old coins
things that increase in value with time.
rarities
i am rare.
even antique cars
have their duplicates
out there
but i am rare.
(i am the only me.)
i have to tell myself
this list.
there are things that get better
i'm worthless
only to me
only for now
leather gets softer, suppler.
fruit gets juicier, better, with the age of the tree.
a pile of compost, nothing but trash (worthless, worthless)
biodegrades (slowly, slowly)
—soil richer, plants grow stronger.
repeat after me:
i am rare...
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
The head too feels a cold rush
like those cheeks of yours
will never ever blush
again; that the sun is
a sin and yet it sets again.
Tears come to meet the pain,
but the blizzard hand advances
freezing it all to rain.
Falls onto you like never before,
this planet is are dungeon;
can love give any more ?
Nothing is planned for it is just.
Death must win and life must rust.
Your friends will break it all again:
rotting in eternal flames.
Because it is written
yes, it was said.
God almighty makes us dread
his bony fingers slipping
through the register of death
holding captive every name
and soul at rest.
A simple word in a ****** book,
is forever and ever there.
Miserable duplicates we have been,
going about an earth of spleen,
teeming through porous holes,
scooping through life as would a mole.
Reckless mammalian salesmen/experts,
speaking, sleeping eating, and guessing in vain
to someday meet his horrid train:
If angels were men they'd be robots
blinded by the barrel of a gun;
fulfilling an order for order's sake
flying about as they awake.
All part of the cold infinite sludge;
everyone an equal precooked piece
of the holy celestial cake.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
The past is such an interesting notion.
Events and moments transpire.
Then seemingly.
Vanish.
Yet we collect them.
Hold them close.
Or far.
Attaching some form of meaning to them.
These memoirs can guide.
Inhibit.
Transfix.
Suffocate.
And any number of other descriptions to wield.
In many ways.
The time after.
Are just duplicates of the latter.
With placed meaning that's "different".
Archived seperately.
So much irrelevant information.
What can our history books truly retain when perspective is so...
Objective.
We are a society hell bent on understanding what was.
Constantly walking past what is.
And lamenting what will be.
Making it truly a wonder.
That any of us.
Are present.
At all.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
Thoughts create separate realities to foster their ideas.
Water droplets exploding into fragmented molecules,
Hundreds of liquid duplicates based on the derivative.
Worlds implode, brilliantly crafted glittering jewels.
Shards resonate in darkness and float along a current
Far reaching, swiftly flowing, clawing at your mind.
It's a never ending flow breaching into many forms,
Encapsulated in a pristine visage none of us can find.
But the source is never the answer, only a beginning
To yet another story that never received an ending.
A cyclical experience that helped to break the circle
When it found itself too proud to continue bending.
Look within yourself when you ask all the questions
Realize that you have wisdom beyond your sight.
An infinite amount of knowledge with which to be
A candle amidst a world full of so much night.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
I take pictures, but own no cameras
I view the world through these brown eyes
And it comes out of my mouth like Polaroids
At first glance it might not seem like much
But give it a few seconds, it'll come with time
I look back and I see a road paved with memories
The bad images were captured in each river that flowed down the salt-built irrigation system on my cheek, click
In each broken promise and empty lie that I thought was full of meaning, click
I lived in the past so often I confuse it with right now
Dwelling in the way I felt when I took those pictures
Like that girl, her sun kissed skin so hot it still burns me, click
Like in school when my grades dropped so low my heart is still sinking, click
Like my thoughts how sometimes they still haunt me it's overwhelming
And when I felt I couldn't take it I wanted to stop thinking, click
There's some good images too
I just can't remember them
They were lost in the endless pile of pain, regret, and disappointment
That's when I realized how all those pictures were just duplicates
So I looked forward and I saw my visions and dreams
I started looking at the world in 35 millimeters because those Polaroids took long to develop
Before I could see they just weren't good quality
I need to see the beauty of life through negatives first
Because then I can choose the images that get printed
Like the image of my bride as she comes down dressed in white, click
Or the image of my degree as I wear my cap and gown, click
Or just the image of my smile that I wear for no reason at all, click
I finally had control of how those images were recorded
But I don't see in panoramas so it's easy to see how I missed the big picture
There's a reason it's called the past
Because it passed my present to my future to be presented as a gift
And help me learn to cherish right now
I was lost down memory lane refusing to let go as each new moment passed that I kept forgetting to capture
You see, life is full of moments
Will you capture it, or just let it slip?
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
I’m Sorry
You are my most regrettable sin,
Forever with you, I shall sit alone…
In a field full of fractured seeds, waiting to be sown.
For you, I will grow a thicker skin.
Just so that with you, I can suffer through this grin.
My father took me to a circus.
It was one of those old fashioned ones. They’d used animals, still.
I’d seen that animal within its cage, its disposition all too similar to my own
It mattered not if I was onstage, or offstage.
There was not a moment where you or I did not ‘cheat out’.
Stage left.
Stage right.
Back Stage.
Onstage.
You and I were the clowns who ‘played’ everywhere.
For I, the jester was the only personality that I could encage
It didn’t matter in which way that they would stare
As long as my smile could be seen, it didn’t matter if it was more
than I could bear.
In my act of selfishness, It was you that I had made
Because I could no longer wear this jester’s mask alone.
And for this sin, I know that I shall never atone
I stole you away from your promenade…
Peeled you from a novel that was never mine.
Brought you into my life, where you were never meant to shine.
But I couldn’t bear it…
This biological function
The need to never be ‘alone’
If I had only known… god, if I had only known.
That my idea of strength was ‘sad’
And incomplete, like a forgotten draft upon a sketch pad.
Those childhood memories could never resonate within you, nor I.
We were xerox copies, printed within a black room
Duplicates, whose polaroid had bled, stained with obsidian dye.
I made you with the selfish request- to pick up the mask when I could no longer bear it
‘Please protect me’, I’d said. What a horrible sin that I commit.
For I should have known. Even ‘good’ memories are made at the expense of others.
The animals who put on their show, only to lay, as if dead within their cells.
The young actors and actresses, who will never again see their mothers.
To the ring leader, who wonders… Why does he deserve this hell?
Finally, that smiling jester… Whose world as long since lost all of its colors.
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 11:14 PM UTC
I saw them, I sw**r
Sometimes they were in line,
Sometimes scattered everywhere
I saw them around me
They were on the ground
Leave them alone and
They'll never make a sound
Touch them the wrong way
And if they’re close, they’ll crumble
In their downfall
In the end, they'll always lose their humble
I can’t see the difference
Is it just me or they are all the same
They’re just clones of each other
I can feel their pain
I couldn’t tell them apart
Without my fingertips
They’re all duplicates
A species of a looped never-ending clips
What if
I am just as bare,
Another domino
I can’t recognise my own reflection
So I guess I’ll never know.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 6:39 AM UTC
You're a locked door with the sign 'do not enter,'
but there are duplicates of the key you lent out once.
The sky becomes a blanket, and the sun is no longer out;
and strangers come through the door -gone by morning.
There's only so much company that can be found in an empty bottle,
so you make it two empty bottles, and grab an empty hand
and dance under the flawed moon,
and like an hourglass fall slowly into familiarity
-by morning you're left with the same empty feeling
(and a terrible headache.)
They come waltzing in uninvited,
friends of the unconscious mind,
and enemies to the sober.
You're a locked door with the sign 'do not enter,'
if I was offered the key I would not take it.
I patiently knock.
(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 11:06 PM UTC
Just how long must one decay.
Before enlightment knocks.
There must be a more sensible way.
Than merely staring at a sign.
"Under Construction".
Filling up the time with duplicates.
Hanging them to corresponding sites.
One for growing up.
A few for responsibilties.
Or just one to cover life In general.
Would it seem too ironic not to even finish the sign..
Or maybe just pesimism.
There are just too many negative adjectives to choose from.
With hands stained red from paint and blood.
One would be hard pressed to touch anything more.
Perhaps this is epifany in the making.
But to reach out to turn the pages
Means the story has yet to conclude.
So does remaining immobile.
Strip away existence.
Or just stall the darkness a bit more..
Either way.
The protagonist still draws breathe.
It is just a matter of how many more pages.
Until the last is drawn.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
Words are just carbon duplicates
of intertwined shapes to insinuate a specific instruction
Trying to make sense of it all, intricate complications seem to follow the very next sound
Wrapped in their secular meaning and internal definitions, we don't know the true pieces inside them
Does it mean light, dark, weird, crazy, confused, red, green, or gold?
Left, right, or upside down, who knows.
Its a guessing game of sorts. What do you see? Is it the same as me?
Linguistics interrupting unusual interceptions of crossing patterns within mixed mediums
See Jack Run, Red Fish, Blue Fish or 1,2,3
What does this all mean? Is it all free?
Signs of simple or insane complexities
surrounding mental restraints.
Turning the page, what do we see next?
Oh ok, now I get it !! Letters of different languages placed within the confines of a verbal, visual, or audible prison
"Call me Ishmael"
Nov 16, 2024
Nov 16, 2024 at 12:54 PM UTC
Plato, Socrates, Glaucon
sat and talked
about a chair and bed,
Discussing
What was real and
Was not.
"The originals
Are safe
With
God."
"Anything after's
Imitation;
The Carpenter
Creates a representation
Of the Real
But never duplicates,
And in some way
Honors the Original."
"The problem lies
With poets whose ideas stray
In artful Imitation,
Sort of a third-hand
Bit of Gossip
About Truth."
"In a perfect world,
Original thoughts
Exist only the mind of God
And artisans create
One-off visions of
The Prime."
"To stay near Truth,
Let's banish poets
And their poems
And create the
Ideal Republic."
then ee cummings
sauntered in -
said - boys
i see a universe
next door
Lets g o o o o!
Glaucon shook his head,
Took cumming's arm
And followed Dada
Off the stage.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
Not the heart that beats in the heat of desert milk!
Not the milk that duplicates and does not sink into searing sand!
Please! I see it now! The Pale Sun rising above Klee Temple— inspired by lines of dread.
The maddening has begun!
We shall rendezvous with the camel spiders, those who pince at the moon within chambers of the dead.
Mar 18, 2024
Mar 18, 2024 at 10:59 AM UTC
I don't know why a story should start with a boy hanging himself cause he was giving freedom to see life & have a kiss with his lips!
Then, the pages moved on and on until their shadows recreated another smothering duplicates of them trying to survive in this forest called life.
I don't know why every morning wakes up to see boys scattered like grains of sand on ground.
I don't know why every chapter of a story would have boys trying to suffocate themselves in the thickest quest to be a man when they can just remain children.
I don't know why each page of the same book will show boys with guns on their left hands & holy books on their rights, killing the dreams of others.
They are portraits in a graveyard called jungle &survival.
Portraits under the palms of the cruel sun
loving miscreants.
They found this soft solace of wildfire splitting between their lives,
Finding a street that will make them scream out loud like a cockerel.
They created themselves in themselves trying to imitate nature in its entirety of manslaughter.
I don't know the genesis of creation, if I could regenerate the genesis of my boys, our boys; I could have ask nature why boys like me suffered in the womb before they were born.
They leant to drive the birds to confusion before
Concluding the squeezeness of pressure
They squeezed dreams into nightmares
Cherish every nostril that flapped wings of lured lost into the cathedral of abyss.
Some boys learn to fall into the shape of their mothers
Some have the fragments of their fathers shadows & images as sharp as the streams of their thoughts.
We opened the jungle gate for them...
Missile becomes toy in the hand
Anger an issue with a patterned crystal lines,
A never ending story of circling class of time.
Employment lost in their favour then politicians came in play converting them to beast of thugs.
They became undertakers of aborted foetus.
Undertakers of dreams among children.
Each story started with their amonition & anger
Firing and slaughtering in the darkness.
These pages made them so cause the story started with their albums of sorrow and agony trying to survive in a particular senero of jungles for boys.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:46 PM UTC
how can anyone
in a world filled with
duplicates
ever be an
original
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
The bones break
The fleshes bake
The horror around
Am nailed to the ground
The filthy beings
Never before seen
Chant my name
Playing their game
My hands tied
My eyes desparately cried
My egos lied
My conscious died
I see myselfs all around
Duplicates of me surround
Identical, hard to make
Whose real, whose fake
More noise in my ears
Letting go off my fears
Brushing off my final tears
Same dream over the years
The days get shorter
The nights stretch longer
My inner soul gets buried
In the darkness, when carried
Gloomy begs under my eyes
My conscious console's with lies
I try to forget my dreams
Yet, I hear their siren, screams...
©sim
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC
Everywhere I turn he surrounds me
Du-dupli-duplica-duplicates
Of the heart I used to love
Up in my bloodstream my blood screams
Release!
Release!
My organs are failing one by one
The one that matters is down, wounded and bleeding
You stabbed it with words as barbed as the knife I tuck under my pillow because
I am no longer safe in your arms
The knife you promised would protect me forever has turned against me
And the cut is deeper than the love I felt
People stare, hesitate
They never come to my rescue and I am wide open for all eyes to see
I am a spectacle you created with your icy heart
Mine slowly turns to stone
Smash pieces of ice of you all over the sidewalk
Let the heat of the sun melt you in the heart of summer
And perhaps you will evaporate
And perhaps you will fall once again
RAIN ON ME
I will open my umbrella and
With no heart to speak for I can still promise you
Can never touch me without my consent again
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC