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Amrita G Jan 2021
“He doesn’t even care to keep the knowledge of her possessions a secret, not the least worried about it being stolen”
“What’s worse, is that everyone knows his treasure exists. It’s common knowledge in town”
“How long will it take to get stolen?”
“It’s a matter of days, if you ask me.

He was, however, smiling in the corner. He coerced the enemy into being his friend.  This is why he doesn’t actually disclose himself to anyone, because she might be misunderstood, like what was unravelling right before his eyes. This time however, the misunderstanding just helped him protect his real treasure, something he thought no one could possess because……………

What if you need to think a certain way to know something; and you can’t think that way without feeling or experiencing something else. If that’s true, so much of this world remains hidden in sight, and we don’t even know its hidden.

You can, to an extent, disguise what arises from material belongings immaterially. That’s what makes the key to your locked doors. The keys to your secrets and trust. Our experiences may dictate the way we feel. Look closer however, and there will always be these cracks on the edges of interpretation, these nuances in feelings, small differences that stem out into larger and larger branches until you have at your disposal- uniqueness.

So, here is a complex network of questions and possible answers deconstructed to portray different perspectives of personality, trust and secrets.

Let’s start with trust. It should ideally start with mutual respect and admiration.   Most things fade away, so in reality you are not trusting the other person, you trust yourself to be hopeful enough to believe trust will not wither through time, which is why it may seem like it’s your fault or centered towards you when you are betrayed of trust.

Even the reasons for choosing why we trust others is vastly different for each person. It goes to show how ephemeral our mind is at the microscopic level., almost like no one can truly know us. The reaction of others and their understanding of you may be an external input. But after that the interpretation is yours. And interpretation is slowly built over cycles of overlapping feelings and subtle thoughts.
Can we use this as a “key” to explore parts of ourselves whilst keeping them invisible to others? Can we recover old feelings or find out what means a lot to us, but we remain ignorant to?

Many things that matter deep inside, tend to have a personal lock, like an unspoken connection, or a bittersweet memory we like to visit. The most interesting part about these is that the key for some of these is unpredictable! Any future incident could somehow serve as an access to it, which is what makes personal locks so magical. No one can possess it because of no one, sometimes not even yourself, knows it's meaning to you. Such a key is truly unique, two people may go through the same thing, but for one person alone, that experience could serve as a key.  Here, an experience from the outside world can awaken memories, thoughts that we inadvertently treasured. It can, in a sense, almost transport us to a different timeline.

The phenomenon of getting goosebumps from listening to a piece of music (called frisson), and experiencing a surge of sensory feeling could be a doorway to some great things and could be a sign of higher levels of creativity. When you re-listen to a song you hadn’t listened to in many years, you can relive the time you originally heard it to startling detail. You may notice newer things about memories, be aware of nuanced feelings. Essentially, it becomes something that’s only yours, because you can’t predict how you yourself will be. The only key for such a secret is a unique reaction to an external input.

When you listen to this song, even ambiguously (not attaching it to any particular person or experience), even then when you later hear it, it will be infused with meaning. Why? Because the environment around you at that time possessed some emotional meaning, even if you didn’t know it. It became like recovering a part of you. Like recovering your own perspective on what’s in front of everybody.

Suppose instead of attaching significance, you simply create scenarios in your mind. You just imagine instances and do this repeatedly. Over time, the song’s original meaning will tarnish away. Such imagination gives temporary satisfaction, and even though one can imagine a variety of different scenes and emotions; imagination itself, feels the same. It does not carry any value by itself. It would seem that listening to a song a couple of times and then years later seems to be the world’s best time machine, but when we overplay it, and tamper it using imagination, neural networks get diluted and may not be serve as a very effective train of reminiscence anymore. *^


Mulling things over in our mind in loops can change almost everything about it- it may change a happy sentence into a sad one, a normal experience into a special one, and now these emotions that have been created by you, are like small filters that complicate further experiences.
Consider that two people go through the same experiences from birth. They may not feel each experience to the same degree. The second point is that subtler feelings are experienced by each of them. One may react more heavily, and the other may have auxiliary feeling in more magnitude than the other. Though these differences may be minimal at the start, these subtle thoughts become triggers, just like the initial experience.
Look at what’s happened. Now the seed of subsequent thoughts and emotion is no longer EXTERNAL. Its internalized. As they grow, though material interactions give rise to initial waves of thoughts, our lives are culminated by infinite intertwined feelings and emotions- so for each material interaction, a hundred immaterial ones are processed subconsciously. A symphony can’t be broken down to violins, piano, and drums separately. The feeling that arises when they are played in unison is simply “different” though its just a conglomeration of its parts. This is similar to our mind, and the concept of “The whole is greater than its parts”. What’s more is that the thoughts occurs in different order, and a different order creates a different story.
The concept of “personality” is viewed as abstract sometimes”.  Like character is something that describes the mind, rather than the experience. But this is contradictory, as “Personality” is immaterial, while the experience, the derivative, is material. So, there is a possibility that during this invisible conversion process, our internal reactions and what we make of things in our mind may gradually shape our personality more than the experience itself.


In a strange way, that makes us original. Perhaps not completely original, but it’s possible that no two people are the same, even if they have gone through the same things.
But since the development of originality is subconscious, let us look at conscious examples to put it into application:

Often, there is a part of a song that appeals to us, a favorite part.  When we ask ourselves why that particular melody appeals to us, it may be hard to pinpoint the source of what produced your liking in that part.  Sure, it may mean something like “freedom” or “joy” of remind you of a memory. But why does it mean a specific emotion to you? This is an example of how something that has no direct connection with a memory could possibly trigger a feeling. This is a magical occurrence. It’s extraordinary that a melody can awaken in you a unique emotion, that others may not react to in the same way. It goes to portray how subtly different our minds are. Furthermore, when we create things out of that feeling we derive from the music- make a story based on the feeling, write a new song, or even play it on an instrument- now you have made something that is unique from the depths of your mind. Your own subconscious interpretation.  
Frequency of frisson was positively correlated with overall Openness to Experience, as well as five of its six sub facets: Fantasy, Aesthetics, Feelings, Ideas, and Values. *This may also mean that extensive feeling, or sensing is related to creativity.

Sensory influx, the visual imagery, nostalgia, all point towards creativity, and many renown creative geniuses draw on their sensitivity to fuel creative processes.

Highly sensitive people tend to be more creative, as the depth of feeling offers scope for exploration. The interpretation and emotion felt greatly corresponds to the creation of ideas, and is similar to how interpretation even creates association between senses, or synesthesia.
Infact, drawing on nostalgia can increase imaginative processes


You might have heard of the term “synesthesia”, where sensory experiences get interconnected. A person with grapheme synesthesia, for example, associates letters and numbers with colors. A person with musical synesthesia sees colors effuse out of musical notes. Some synesthetes taste words, smell numbers, etc. It is also a fact* that Synesthetes don’t necessarily share the same sensory experience-though there are commonalities ( ex: most synesthetes associate either black or white with zero), the difference in perception is linked to the environment of growth, childhood*, and if its occurrence is natural, then synesthesia is developed in childhood or at birth.

A Symptom of synesthesia is also reading sentences that seem personified, as though a stranger with different personalities are narrating them. It is interesting to relate this to how there might be different personas in our own head, and sometimes constantly make commentary on our life! It’s like seeing yourself through different perspectives, except these perspectives have defined forms, which makes it easier to assign little quirks to them. If this helps us sense and perceive the world better, and makes us see through multi-colored glasses, it can be very creatively satisfying to have internal conversations, in a positive and uplifting way. We can be a stranger to our own experience, and wouldn’t a change of view be enlightening?

Synesthesia also, may be linked to creativity and metaphors, * and is in a way a example of consciously coming up with original sensory interconnections, a creative process that becomes part of character.  It's connecting something unrelated and different, and an original combination of connection.

So the rearrangement of feelings, and extent to which people sense and feel can contribute to original creations. It is no surprise that many artists and musicians have synesthesia.

Such experiences, with music, nostalgia and conditions like synesthesia are examples of a how we interpret and sense can consciously contribute to originality.


The bottom line is that synesthesia obtains its roots from childhood, but morphs into something complex enough to blur lines of emotion. The proportion of how things are mixed is unique. That proportion is the starting line for all character, and the proportion can be random and unique.
Thoughts feel so diverse and interwoven, that experiencing different facets of it itself can seem synesthetic. Seeing a neon sky, for instance, may not just bring happiness or excitement, but very specific sentience, and a connection to memory, even if it has never been a part of your life at any point of time. The neon sky could mean regret and eccentricity, and flashes of senses may correspond to it. You may feel the aesthetic of a place to strange degrees, and sometimes a simple scenery can seem “wrong” or “sinister”.


  “Why does the neon sky seem eccentric?” “why are roses connected to a past memory that had nothing to do with roses?”

These questions have some intangible meaning behind them. So, it’s not just that people perceive things differently, it’s that their reality itself, a culmination of perceptions is unique, and so are thoughts. And don’t thoughts and ideals shape character in some way? Don't these interpretations become a part of you? A filter for how you perceive the world?


Some song forms a golden thread link with some intense feeling which is connected to a memory you never knew you possessed (this memory may be fictional even) which is linked to a whole little city in your world.  Everything means differently. And as we think and think, these meanings become fine-tuned, and create emotions, thoughts and perspectives that shape our individuality. The essence is that your character may have obtained its roots from the world, but your proceedings, both on the inside and outside, are truly yours. And gradually, proceedings reflect character. More than the roots. It’s a many layered mind that could seem impossible to strip down.

Memories can be similar, but the sequence of memories and thoughts, will likely not be the same.


Here we gently skim the daunting surface of the philosophical idea of “Fictional realism”. A main idea here is to try and question what the definition of something has to be to be considered real. We say “It was a dream, not reality” But did it not feel real? When we read a book, or a movie, and voraciously delve into fictional landscapes, does it not truly feel like we are integrated into it, or rather, it is integrated into us? In that case, since we are real and it is now a part of us, can it be real too? Or can it be real, simply because it exists in our minds? Love and loathing also exist in our minds, but we regard them as a real thing, pulsating with its repercussions. Do we regard something as real only if it has a scope for action? Or if it’s something we can touch or see? In that case, the world will be limited, and there would be a loss of explanation for what gives rise to those actions. It would be like saying “imagination seeds reality”.

Memories and thoughts can be similar, but the sequences of them, even if  slightly  different can grow to be hugely dissimilar. If we can consciously create things when exposed to sensory information, why can't we consider the possibility of subconscious creation of individual character?
Brent Kincaid Oct 2016
Almost all my most popular poems
Are the ones kicking Trump’s fat ***.
I know after November sixth for sure
This particular issue will lose gas.
While that will slow me down for sure,
It won’t make me loathe him less.
He’s a charlatan, a liar and a ****,
In almost every way a total mess.

Donnie, Donnie
You are such a creep!
Only fools would elect you;
Good people would lose sleep.
It simply doesn’t make sense
They don’t know what they’re doing.
A Trump-like presidency
Would bring this world to ruin.

So I will have to maunder around a bit
To find a juicier source of poetic satire
Than the Big Cheetoh has often been.
He’d open his mouth and spew hellfire.
He frothed and threatened and whined,
And for the most part the scorching
Ended up being his own big ****.
And never was an *** more deserving.

Donnie, Donnie
You are such a creep!
Only fools would elect you;
Good people would lose sleep.
It simply doesn’t make sense
They don’t know what they’re doing.
A Trump-like presidency
Would bring this world to ruin.

He’s arrogant and babbles lies
One of the nastiest people ever seen.
He only seems to make sure his face
Shows in photographs in magazines.
He has little understanding of the job
He thinks he wants to be chosen for.
He expects everyone to bow and scrape,
To compliment, effuse and to adore.

Donnie, Donnie
You are such a creep!
Only fools would elect you;
Good people would lose sleep.
It simply doesn’t make sense
They don’t know what they’re doing.
A Trump-like presidency
Would bring this world to ruin.
Anderson M Apr 2017
Puzzles are frazzling
Oblique and opaquely designed to
Effuse effectively in earnest someone’s
Mental juices, in most cases to futile ends.
#npmacrostic
Marshal Gebbie Mar 2011
Stop right now and NUT IT OUT
Which way you wish to go,
Do you want the wealth and stressful strain
Or blithely flick and throw?

Do you preen yourself with smiling pride
Owning shining  chattels new,
Whilst shallow OTHERS OGLE
With those envious eyes on you?
Or do you seek the clean four winds
Untrammelled by concern,
With sleeping bag, a crescent moon
Whilst crackling bonfires burn?

Have you thought to chuck it all
The car, the house, the boat
And cause your superficial  friends
To snigger, leer and gloat?
To simply live in HUMBLE CIRCUMSTANCE
To wake without a plan,
To greet the day with unconcern
And breathe a new, fresh man.


Is the courage there to TAKE THE CHANGE,
Can you make the first big move,
Or does convention stay your hand
To stray from comfort’s groove?
Have you thought about what others think,
Reactions from the crowd,
The clamorous cacophony
Of objection rendered loud?


“Absolutely NOT, my dear”
Pygmalion my ****.
To throw it all away, Silly,
Simply would... betray your Class!
“It’s all so rudimentary
This thing of living rough”
“Reminds me of the great apes,
And other basic stuff!”


There’s loads of reasons why YOU CAN’T,
The mortgage at the bank,
Insurance is essential
And while we’re being frank...
There’s the tennis club subscription
And the afternoons I’d miss
Sipping lattes with the ladies
..though, the gossip’s SO remiss.


Perhaps we’ll put it off for now
Another day perchance,
When devilment and joi le vivre
EFFUSE another prance.
When the dream of having freedom
With the cold wind in my hair,
Will drive me to release
The inner WILDNESS hidden there.



Marshalg
Victoria ParkTunnel
4 March 2011
Cecelia Francis Jun 2015
There was no hope
for Dubliner Dedalus:
a shift from naturalism
into the bizarre

Not enough to effuse
or diffuse: a hero
in the firmest sense
Aaron Mullin Sep 2014
52 Weeks: Whitman

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

52 Weeks: Mullein**

The Red-Tailed hawk swoops by and catches just a glimpse, he tilts his head Dionysian style mouth slightly agape.

I too am a wild thing, I too am untethered,
And I sound animalistic in the dining halls of the tamed.

The final missile thud holds me in a sweet caress,
My likeness rockets earthward … tried and true and tired and truer,
I am coaxed into existence once again.

I maintain my aetheric ties as I know this is the roadmap back to you,
It’s nice to be enmeshed in the living once again even though they drain,
To drain is to live, one gives eternity to be mortal - it’s the only thing that ever made sense.

I won’t depart, I dig in my heels,
And I turn my back on the organized.

I am of the earth because I understand my antecedents … my mother’s mother’s mother …
And because of this knowledge of ante’s I can set prece’s, hopefully precisely.

I hardly know who I am or what I mean (on a good day),
But I am good for you none the less,
As our tastes and sounds and smells and touches intermingle.

And always I wait patiently,
for me for you,
for us.
An adaptation of Whitman's final stanza in Song of Myself
PK Wakefield Dec 2012
stoked lightening, does where your fur stroked unmeeting skin
a ribbon grow heating wetly (at fingers tightly coiling sin)?
does where from stocky steam ****** ***** effuse drunk blood,
a stagger of giggling ****** giddily unstoppably bud?
perhaps, or, does (i know) your unknowing skirt a mutter
a rill of sweetness (acrid) as like honey and butter?

A query, i think, your parting question answers.
At cherry pressing; at crimson lancer.
PJ Poesy Jan 2017
How I precipitate within and around
trash to steam factory's super chimneys
Ideas *******
amongst rising glow of cantaloupe colored sky
And why am I?

Beholden to a notion
of fanciful or foolish, concept of nuptials
puffing pother  
or why bother to effuse such ******* encumbrance
Trouble sweats unease

Cold feet, that can't afford proper socks
know the sludging embankments
of Camden Crick (colloquialism of creek)
As it were, a driving force of elopement
An eschewal of plastic bottle heap

Knowing fictile landscapes
with condensations murky in skies,
chance entices
Grasping for refuge
from refuse
Pondering the good intention of an elopement. Reasoning a way out, or a way worthy.
Emelia Ruth Oct 2012
I was a fire,
burning,
crackling,
bursting.
Many have tried
to effuse
my vitriolic flames.
But I was too strong,
too powerful
for their deterrents.
I could've take on anything
everything.
I'd burn,
scar people,
just so that they'd remember
who I am.
Strong,
independent,
ultimate,
indestructable.
But then,
in a moment of weakness,
I was extinguished
into nothing
but a pile of ashes.
A stolen soul.
A broken heart.
And all it took
was a missive.

It was then
that I realized,
I'm not the fire.
The true bearer of this flame.
The fire was from
the one person
that I respected
that I trusted
that I loved.
They fueled me.
And they
were the one
that killed me,
that left me dry
with just the words
"Good-bye."
Brent Kincaid Dec 2017
I sat there, a callow youth
Shallow, unwieldy with the truth,
And fearing to be caught in a lie
My words never gave the by
To my attempt at insouciance.
I gave away the game with my name
And hoped that my meager fame
Would decry any need to explain,
But social curiosity laid its claim
And suddenly I was the luminary
With a silly, boring past to bury.
I knew I should have been more wary.

Why was  I here when it was clear
These people and I were disparate?
Was I so desperate that I needed
To risk an embarrassing removal
To seek these stranger’s approval?
Was I such a egotistical *****
I craved applause when there wasn’t any?
I knew coming here I didn’t know forks,
More accustomed to dinner with sporks,
My napkins had heretofore been disposable.
Socially my thumbs were unopposable
Yet here I sat feeling totally unacceptable.

Yet I was the intended near-inlaw,
Feeling much to be the social outlaw
Recognizing glances and non-glances
Of those who were game to taking chances
To see if I remained seated to brazen it out
Or had I, with an excuse, or better, a shout
Stood and wilted, or scuttled away theatrically
Empowering chatter for those women who natter
And seem of no matter at all to the men
So they can return again to their talk of money
And find nothing in my existence slightly funny;
Finding it necessary to ignore me all the more.

But, raised as a child of little parental concern
I could teach these paragons with so much to learn
That every individual is exactly and precisely that.
They would be wise to take their feet, tip their hat,
And effuse with gratitude, issue some platitudes
And beatitudes that I could so easily obliterate
Their tendencies to pontificate and exacerbate
Their images as characters in a humorous play.
I might receive them of that burden this day
By letting them listen to the tales I could say
Transporting them from this table to non-fables
About what it means to exist with little food.

But I spare them this education, my declarations,
Because I know they desire not any perorations
From a person of my painful lack of pedigree.
I knew I must be satisfied with the planned perigee
Of this cometary gathering, the blathering and chat,
The acceptance of the crucible of where I sat
Like the Cheshire cat, smiling as if this were fine
And my status here were not firmly on the line.
I watched my intended blanch when I said
Or did something she didn’t have in her head.
I counted, the times I was addressed unpleasantly.
I knew this romance was to terminate presently.
itanola yusuf Jan 2016
I am the fearless butler
sent on a journey to the
land of no mercy to plant
a tree of memento

I see them and I smile cos
the cause of their joy is pain
I brought them the bitter sermon they rebuff but they ignore all in the name of their egoistic believe

I wonder why we have
few diamonds in the sky
there exist those we call life
but they cannot tell me what will be of me

I see being trying to set my
broth ablaze all in the name
of my trancedent bliss,
as the scorching heat from the
sun of the creator  beats them, so will the unscrupullous rain of life join and to all those creature that
effuse creation,and to all those being that exterminate the spirit the creator is given a dead smile as a signal that they will all seek mercy when it is quarterr to,when all will be too 'soon' for them

nature as revealed to me that which is the written candour
and here i give it out without
any hidden charges; to all those creature that know not their right from their left,I beseech ye my beloved run not the race of this world to get a name and fame
in this world which is ever ending
but run the race of this world
to get a name and fame in the world here after which is never ending

To all those that heed the warnings of the fearless butler
they will see th sun smilling shinning it lights in their darkness  but to all those that don't the sudden dark of yesterday will light no taste in their tomorrow.
now ye go content with what ye
have choosen, today is yours but tomorrow may not .
Alan Brown Apr 2016
Every so often,
When I find myself in peaceful solitude,
I face my looking glass in reverie,
Reflecting on my past,
Contemplating my future.
All is tranquil.

Then the clock strikes midnight,
Rendering apparitions from their slumber.
They effuse benignly from the darkness,
Only to pounce on my limpid mind,
Stupefying me with shadows of yesterday.

They transport me back into lonely squalor,
Encapsulating me in an arid existence.
Here I battle neglect,
From both myself and others.
Torment bubbles within me,
And like Hamlet,
I cry for the agony to melt me,
Eradicate my soul,
And reduce me to air.

But before I slide to the point of no return,
Hope pries its way within despair’s rigid gasp,
Releasing me from my trance.
The clock strikes again,
And I’m relieved to find morning
Peeking through my window.
The shadows recoil in sight of the light,
And all is calm once again.

I forget where I’ve been,
And remember where I’m going.  
The sheen of tomorrow beckons me onward.
And all the while,
I hold my looking glass close to me;
A constant reminder that I’m a survivor.
Fay Slimm Sep 2016
The Few.

A tribute to those who man Lifeboats.

There are the mere few
........................ still used by the many,
Who always refuse
...................to turn back from danger,
And in whose wet shoes
.........................not many would walk.
Who never misuse
............................the credit of heroes.
They need no excuses
............................to face raging ocean
And those it's abusing,
....................yet fight with small boats
For souls they won't lose.
...............................Life-saving angels
Are whom we would choose
.......................to wrap in God's caring
When sea-storms effuse
..............................their terrible worst.
alaya Feb 2018
a black boi/girl prays that they aren’t so black and blue in the new year,
they write the manifestation and burn it over orange blue flames.
in the evening, blue-black girl’s stomach is swollen with wine,
they sit  and think of the blue-black boi with the heavy eyelids
and the dark Pisces eyes they have been dreaming of drowning in.
day-dreaming of the warmth of their breath, short of breath,
warm mouths, shared cold showers between the two of them.

we get our start in liquid – do you remember the states of matter?
     solidliquidgasplasma
drowning in you sounds like a game of memory,
a nostalgia for beginnings, the dreams of a fontanelle filled with memories yet to already become, a yearning for something that has yet to have happen
a futurity encapsulated somewhere inside of our dna.
I want to drown in her brownness and let it saturate my
     lungsmouthnoseears.
I want to taste you on my lips when I first wake. like you fill my every inch. I want your essence to effuse from my pores, to feel like my teeth are still at your ear.

do you remember when we first found each other? my heart broke from the levees and you opened your arms. you felt like the warm stillness before the storm. you remind me of the way that the summer time humidity hangs in the air.
i’m not suffocating in it, i’m drowning.
When we all lived in a simpler age,
Before internet and smartphones were quite all the rage
I used to write letters, it’s true, by the score,
Along with thank-you notes, and Birthday greetings galore.

But now we have email, an incredible invention
Although perhaps it was not the original intention -
That we’d be overwhelmed with messages on such a scale,
That a glance at our inbox can make us turn pale.

But it’s free, we all thought! No more stamps, no more post,
Yet we overlooked the factor which mattered the most,
Because what is free has no value, so quality can be poor
And to meaningless communication we opened the door…

So to with our phone calls; where once they were measured,
Paid for by the minute so each one was treasured,
Whilst now they’re unlimited, no boundaries, no restraint
And unsolicited contact can lead to complaint.
Because who wants to be reachable anytime, anywhere?
When we’re pressed from all sides and have no time to spare
Why would we call someone up for a chat?
Surely, it’s better to use text messages for that?

And on the same subject, we have social media of course,
That tremendous development, a huge market-force
And we’re sharing our photos, our updates and more
We post from our home, from our work, from the store,
All the while commenting, reacting and sharing
What we’re eating or drinking or thinking or wearing.

Though there are certainly some, who do not think highly
Of concluding a sentence with an icon or smiley,
We mostly assume that it’s assuredly fine
To publish our day-to-day doings online.
And perhaps it is. Maybe it’s better to effuse of our glories
Via well-captured selfies and cute little stories?
Because in reality; we’re perhaps not all that keen
On revealing the true image behind each small screen…

And our photos too have met the same fate,
Where we used to take care, the right shot to create
Because new film and developing came with a cost
And we couldn’t afford any pics to be lost,
Now we just point and press, take multiple snaps
Embellish them with effects and filters perhaps
But many go unseen; though they come without price
The vast majority will not be seen twice.
Of course, we could print them, select just a few
But we’ve simply so many and oh so much to do…

And knowledge – ‘twas once to acquire and master
But now the internet just gets us there faster.
Such a wealth of information so easily available
That hard work and learning become semi-replaceable.
It’s all free, it’s on hand, so easy to view,
With images, tips and videos too
And we find we trust less in our own expertise,
As we quietly check to see if Google agrees…

And above all we feel busy, our lives in fast forward,
Striving towards an unattainable reward.
Endless pressure, frustration and stress
Maybe we need to take time to assess,
How we took some of the value out of our lives
When we added the technology for which society strives.
Why something for nothing is never the best,
And that instead of advancing we might just have regressed.

Before it’s too late we might need to appraise
How this tech is determining the course of our days,
And whilst the entire system is not without merit
Is this really the legacy we wish our children to inherit?
And the issue which we ought conceivably to address
Is that we might have to slow down, if we wish to progress…
Aditya Roy Apr 2020
The voiceless shores of Ancient Greece
If we are constituting heroes in Greek mythology
Tiresias what do you saidst the will of Zeus
One, the one hath been blessed
Like the music in my ears
That who doubt my prophecy
Worldly truths tell of a boy of otherworldy strength
Nether broad, but, pure
Hera burns in red blush as her eyebrows furrow
The sin is complete and so is the milky way
Where the divine milk hath flown
Iphicles may cry a plenty tears
The charioteer Iolaus is born from the split
As bright as the azure complexion of the sea
Heracles runs like the blue skies, now
The wind fastens him and his power
Two snakes may fast approach their demise
The day fast approaches when his virtues outlive the vice
A broken lyre abrogates his penance towards music
A golden apple rests on Megara's tunic
The daughter of King Creon in Thebes
But the God yields to anger of his ego
As this lover faces her happiness endeth
Heracles rests and pursues the Nemean lion
First of his hard labors under Eurystheus' scion
Proceed the Lernaedan Hydra of immense spine
Two for one and a head for all
Twice ahead and none shall fall
As the final call, Hera sends the mightiest of them all
Iolaus aids in the downfall
A captor may miss the Golden Hind Of Artemis
Buttressed arrows shall never lose or run amiss
Heracles runs as the wind does, however, carries some abuse
It eluded him a year till vast effuse
The pavilion was set on trust quite ostensibe
To conquer every existing monster
In this primordial nature
The Erymanthian boar, who dare deny
The world was ruled by forests once
There were lances as Pholus took his chances
A gift from Bacchus held the balances
Often, the strength of such wine needed tempering
The hero of the peregrination asked for him to open his cask
The wine attracted centaurs far and wide
The divide made the labor a slightly precarious task
Many of the centaurs died from the arrows
The teacher of Achilles' took them in
His name was Chiron
He was the wisest of them all
As well as civil
Poseidon is beguiled to rage and cavil
As Hera reconciles with her child after many, many years
Developing a fond kinship with love to attest to
Heracles also lost to Dionysus in a drinking contest
One may say the voices are still heard
From the remnants of Heracles apotheosis
Came a soul worthy of Mount Olympus told by sages
And lovers that existed and stood the tests
Illud erat vivere
The embers of the golden summer spent in joy
Burnt out with the sacking of Troy

— The End —