Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Purcy Flaherty Jan 2018
Initially she began contacting me over the course of a year or so and increasingly over the last few months she started visiting me, helping me, caring for me and occasionally employing me in different ways.

She’d just had a break up a few weeks before, explaining that things hadn’t been right in the relationship for some time!

She presents herself as respectful, thoughtful, gentle, kind and considerate and after what seemed to be a very short length of time; unexpectedly declared that she had feelings for me; regarding love, admiration, desire and some other adventures.

She then began to bombarded me with love talk; occupying around 70% of my time gaining my trust, I was swept off my feet; she took a great deal of interest in me, learning everything about me, what I liked, where I would go, always asking what I was thinking feeling, how she could help and I was flattered and she was charming, though a little awkward at times.

As our friendship grew she started sharing her back story, including some tragic life experiences; she vilified her past lovers, and ex-partners and branded them as crazy, or bitter liars and troubled souls; slowly gaining my sympathy, whilst securing my allegiance, and keeping me on side; keeping me close; drawing on my compassion loyalty & trust!

During intimate moments she would sometimes seem a little awkward, false, over enthusiastic or a little insincere, and I made allowances for this given my knowledge of her backstory.
Re: (tragic events & experiences)

She began to choose and buy me clothes; outfits, take me shopping, gradually altering my outward image and appearance.

She introduced me to her friends; but was careful to keep me and them at arms-length, I realise (((Now))) that she was building an alternative profile of me in their minds and that the people she introduced to me rarely exhibited the behaviors or characteristic that I was led to expect.

She soon started to embroil me in her own rituals and compulsive behavior's, explaining that tasks needed to be performing in very specific ways to prevent her getting distressed!

She made many promises : ‘The hook’ It was my expectation i.e. waiting for some of those promises to materialise, that kept me hanging on the hook; As this increased her control and I think exited her too.
(Next to none of her promises came to fruition!)

She gradually had a hand in almost every aspect of my life i.e. my home, my work, my friends, family, my finances, the way I dressed, the food I ate and many other things besides, much of which I didn’t realise until our relationship was finally over. and I was left empty.
(In every way)

She often took immense pleasure in duping, individuals or companies out of something through theft, shoplifting, or getting something for nothing, a profiteer, a chancer!

To question or challenge her authority would result in seeing her facade slip and watch her decline into meltdown. It's at that point, she would lose composure, and I would see her irrationality come to the fore; revealing the real person underneath; childish, contrived and very fragile; It’s as if control is the glue that holds her together, without it she just falls apart, during this time she can’t be consoled and it’s impossible to calm this escalating situation; in fact; at this point that she would attempt to regain control by ‘gas-lighting’ me, she would distort the truth; re: who said what; in an attempt to damage my self-esteem, to make me question my own mind, my words, my intention and any actions, apportioning blame, pointing fingers, making me feel guilty, use rejection, or using hurt, sorrow, tears, shame and even threaten liable or legal action, and then use *** to pacify or regain control over me and my actions.

These episodes would appear often; though irregular and without provocation, I would always be deemed at fault!
I found silent compliance was less stressful than engaging in discussion.    

She never took responsibility or made any apologies for her conduct.

She would set me tasks, and go out a lot, and lie or bend the truth, as to where she had been; I never once challenged this behaviour!

When the relationship was finally deemed over; I was both devastated and relieved.

I began to see my new position in the cycle; as she immediately begin to vilify me in order to give credence to her new backstory, I felt very confused, disorientated and emotionally fraught, shell shocked! questioning, how much of our relationship was true and how much was a lie? For everything I thought I knew was now knitted together with a very complex web of loyalties, lies and half-truths.

Her pattern of repetitive and controlling behaviors have seemingly remained unchanging throughout all her relationships;
(I was covertly contacted by many of her previous partners and various other casualties since leaving her, and they offered shared many familiar experiences.

Within two weeks of being apart (ostracised) she informed me that she had fallen in love (And that my replacement) some-one she admires, someone kept just within the circle, a mutual acquaintance and she even thanked me for bringing them together.

My assumption is that: The grooming of her new lover will have commenced some time ago; her M.O. (Her pattern of behaviors, her techniques have remained fixed.)

She’s incredibly self-conscious, her biggest fear is that other people will find out about her true demeanour, as her image and appearance is everything to her. She's afraid that people will shun her for being so very, very different.
She is a wolf, that’s not to say she is a malevolent creature par-say; she is awesome, beautiful and beguiling in many ways, but you don’t want to be pray.

Full circle:
I too have joined the ranks of the discredited; labelled a liar, troubled, bitter and crazy; she contacted members of my, family, friends and some fellow musicians; and a few folks shared some of these conversations accusations with me.)
I suspect that she may even attempt to vilify me with authorities or threaten some form of legal action; as she has to other lovers in the past.

Despite everything I'm still drawn to her charismatic boldness, her awkward ****** power, her intelligence, and so…I have blocked all means of contact to curtail my own almost pathological interest, for despite everything that’s transpired, her lies, her infidelity, her deceit and appalling behaviour, I'm still drawn, intrigued, bewitched, beguiled by the person hiding underneath the façade.

Now the dust has finally settled; I’ve somehow remained sound of mind.

I don’t feel guilty or loyalty anymore; I’m aware that I’ve been manipulated into thinking and acting in ways that don’t truly represent my character; and that I’m just one of many people seduced by a sociopath; (((another natural human variant)) a person devoid of empathy for others, an entity that’s developed a narrow set of skills and mirroring behaviors, that allows her to blend into mainstream society in order to feel safe, secure and in control.

She would have preferred to keep me hanging on, like many other dependents, adding me to the hareem; a bank of beguiled individuals that she occasionally calls upon to perform simple tasks, or perhaps to monitor and re-assess her clever handwork.

The last time we met she opened with nervous politeness and finished with pleasure and veiled cruelty.
I left feeling drained, uncomfortable and quite fazed.

I’ve written this diary account to help further understand what had transpired during this complicated relationship.
(I’ve published it here with no names, because I think it’s worth understanding, it’s not a warning or a vengeful act.

In any case, Her next lover will ignore any pre-warnings as just bitter ramblings, as most individuals are driven by the natural pursuit of love, which consists of caring intellectual loyalty, *** and romance rather than following advice of some seemingly bitter ex. ( And rightfully so)

Good kind or exciting people further enhance the image and status of a sociopath and they will orbit your small shiny star, tapping into your  valuable energy before  slingshotting into a larger, more attractive orbit of a lager star.
Sadly love, *** and desire is simply a tool for manipulation and gain, it's all about prestige.

I wish her well, like every creature.

Expect high drama.
She loves to watch you come unstuck
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
and would i ever get embroil myself in a morning of: coffee,
croissant and a newspaper? i find it strange how newspapers
are printed for workers - sold in the morning,
and read in the hazy hours before the mind
catches up with the body at noon
lead to nothing but village sentimentalism -
and dupe sensationalism -
they really know when to baptise them:
a few weeks into their lives (most never
object to confirmation, i, for one, started inquiring
about the Gnostic cults, and said: nah, you'll
alright without me) -
baptism is a bit like newspapers:
i really didn't ask for it... sorry, i was in diapers,
i knew that i'd be wearing diapers
if i went to my confirmation by the Bishop
of Chelmsford - imagine what a cardinal
could do to me... but that's what newspapers
are, they are written in reasonable comfort,
i don't mean the sort of journalism
akin to all the president's men -
that's valiant... i mean the opinions sections,
i read a newspaper and think of only one thing:
****! i threw away something i actually
need in the recycling pile of garbage...
so you go back to the bag and sift through it...
which is what it's all about:
newspapers pulverise the half-awake readers
on the tube... making newspapers free is also
a tactic... i read newspapers, about this time,
nearing midnight... i've spent the entire day
occupying myself with colours, squares and clouds,
i leave my desire to see phonetic encoding a - z
till last, when i can relax, and actually recycle
all the opinions of the day...
shamefully, others pick up a newspaper,
early in the morning, and just nod, agree, nod, agree,
pigeon on parade... makes it easier to earn
a few more disciples when half of them (if not all)
are still trying to remember a dream at 7 a.m.,
all the opinions sections are fabulous!
mental health matters... like **** it does:
you're saying a box inside that storage room that's
your brain aches like broken arm...
you go to a doctor, and he replies: it's all in your head...
well, d'uh, metaphysical health was always clumsy
with what became spaghetti entanglement
for philosophers - the one never translates into
another as honing in on, and synonymous -
but that's life... but the two were never supposed to
be at odd, or, quiet simply: parallel -
after all, thinking, if a limb or an *****,
is more than what the automation of the brain is:
receptor to nervous stimuli - if there's an *****
such as a mind, and it's verb optimum is sick...
it's like seeing the desperation of someone doing
cartwheels on a tightrope, while deciding a next
chess move playing someone down below,
and smoking a pipe - thought, in the end,
is a dilemma where to many verbs are associated with it:
it's so spatial in that it tries to encompass a near
exponential number of ? / hmm hiccups -
                              as it does encompassing a near exponential
number of ! / eureka hiccups -
the German Chancellor and the fourth cottage -
and the opinion: nacktarschuzdeckenwunsch
(the desire to cover their own naked backsides) -
ah, newspapers and the morning,
whoever reads a newspaper in the morning is a sheep...
who doesn't even thinks that comics didn't slowly evolve
to be comics? they are pristine Geminis -
i wouldn't read a newspaper in the morning,
because i know most of these articles are written in
the afternoon, notably the opinion sections,
by people donning kimonos, drinking wine
and smoking Magritte's phrasing of: not a pipe.
i can't treat them as trash either... i call them
midnight literature... after i've spent the day not
looking at phonetic encoding symbols,
i finally zoom in, revise my eyes and ease into a crescendo
of appreciating newspapers, for whatever they're worth,
which, according to the Thursday's edition of the times:
£1.40 - but reading newspapers in the morning
is horrid - too much world, too much care,
too much moral acting - too much conversation...
the world is too big, and i'm too small...
so i do what the writers of these articles read:
although i have a stronger solvent to read their preaching
parody of Mt. Sinai - but what i found, apart from that,
well... couldn't poetry steal something from
the journalistic medium? in the way art is appreciated
without critics? shouldn't poetry be the only medium
of art where other art mediums are appreciated?
for example, i find that when i'm hearing the clicking
of the keyboard, and there's a record in the background
i have a full meal in front of me,
i forgot how good tubeway army's album replicas
is... as a second course meal... nothing of the top 30
canape charts of nibbles of artistic output...
poetry can congratulate over mediums of art,
it can steal from what journalism encompasses -
namely the critical pieces of the journalistic anatomy -
art, doesn't necessarily have to be a matthew arnold
moment of as soon as i returned home, i pulled off
my coat, flung myself on the sofa, and wept the
bitterest, sweetest tears
: after coming back from
a Liszt concert... really?
i think that ballet is supreme sadism and Bach
had wax in his ears... fame and the adoration of women?
too lazy... like drinking too much, and listening
to what i like: without adverts selling me car insurance
and German shampoo.
yes, i am bothered, i'm seeing something in England
that's worrying, something akin to a Marx & Engels'
study of Victorian England - only this time it's
existentially tinged - not economically -
and yes, reading a newspaper at any "sensible" hour
of the day is rather pointless...
you can get very impressionable in the morning,
at around midnight, with a whiskey and a cigarette...
while everyone is already nodding off in Luna's
embrace - never understood reading newspapers
in the morning... or in the early afternoon -
it's better to digest the **** of the individual by the world
while everyone is asleep... less democratic constipation
of everyone having a go... or as Auden said:
all the ****** of the world write at night...
well, during the night: everything is apparently black
& white... the vacuum of the space, and the punctuation
of Zodiac are what this sort of writing best describes,
given that, we are the mediators of two opposing
chasms... to be honest... poets hate colour,
the whole spectrum of colour, from
red (λ nanometres 760 etc. and Herr Hertz, whatever)
to violet (λ nanometres 424 - 380) -
    so tiny, this puncture... equatable with
the size of the universe and that spec that's called earth -
to me? all of this is a massive accident -
as the gambling king said (god): oops... dunno.
but from what i can see... poets have colour -
hence the white page where all colours are entombed,
and better than scattering the white into the visible
spectrum, beginning as Newton with a needle hole
and a prism... no... we're probing it with something else,
intent on it being given to us in total,
a sum of all parts... or as they say: shying away from
the people in grey suits... virtually taking risks on meeting
the people in white coats - and how to slur and
window-lick our way into confined spaces
perfecting our skills in Paper Mâchés and Matisse-like
cut-outs.
Third Eye Candy Jun 2013
our withering is changing. we have new lungs and the sour mercy of our discotheque is no longer
earth shattering. new bells that'll ring, ping the sonar of thus far, and right now. our iguana
is bothered but our cactus is out of practice, so we malice the wrong people. brown scotch
botched in the locust plume of our nothingness.
all in the night jar.
we palm the coin of many realms but snooker the genie into 4 wishes for kicks.
we split the bucket list and enlist strange agents to embroil the liturgy of our silence
with the umbrage of our slumbers.
where rumbles the blunder of our measured steps
as we stumble through the rapscallions of our private thoughts in the after hours.
we empower our oblivion
by kissing on the mouth.

this is how we keepsake sacred, but escape velocity by way of quiet... this loud.
It is only I that hear your voice
oh heavenly father, so divine
and to my end I have no choice
for through my death you shall refine.

Such weight I carry on my mind
will lift when I do breathe no more
for I am weak from such unkind,
my body scourged so red and raw.

Forgive them father for they know not
of what they do to your sweet son,
they shall reap what they besot
remember then, this day is done.

The gift I leave them in my wake,
a better world as thee bequest
you pass your son for their own sake
for all too know and all too zest.

For follow me, they will and must
when life does end their mortal toil.
For if in God they place all trust
then they shall walk that final mile.

To paradise you will commit,
untainted by the scourge of sin
and at your feet then they shall sit
inside thy glory they will win.

But should they turn away from thee,
take wrong direction as they choose,
for if the blind could only see,
then they would know of what they lose.

Eternity they will then embroil
in Satan's caverns down beneath,
where one encounters with the vile.
That place, where no-one gains relief.
2011
Nigel Finn Apr 2016
This is how you write a poem;
First; forget everything
You ever learnt about poems,

                                Such knowledge should be reserved
                                For the minds of critics, and
                                Professors in dusty halls

                                                          ­­           Of universities, where
                                                           ­          They are dissected and re-
                                                             ­        Constructed against their will.

Second; embroil yourself in
Love; it is the only thing
That poetry is born from.

                            Even the saddest songs, and
                            Most bitter lines, are fueled
                            By what we once loved. Loss is

                                                            J­­ust a love that has been lost
                                                            ­­And anger; a love scorned. All
                                                            y­­our words will be born this way.

Thirdly; find a quiet spot;
It doesn't matter much where
As long as it brings comfort,

                             Be it an old desk in a
                             Darkened room, or a field of
                             tall Sunflowers or bluebells,

                                                     ­ ­       Or the last place you saw a
                                                             Loved one, before fate swept them
                                                            ­­ Away to distant valleys.

Next you must make a promise to
Yourself to be brutally
Honest. Only the truth must

                              Be written here. There is no
                              Room for flowery words that
                              Must be thought over to much.

                                                          ­­   If it is true it will be
                                                             Beautiful, and your pen strokes
                                                         ­    Will guide you towards greatness.

Finally, you must hold your
Writing implement of choice
As if it were the most loved

                                 Of possesions, or mighty
                                 Of weapons, or a  child's hand.
                                 I cannot tell you which

                                                          ­­ But you will undoubtedly
                                                     ­      Know which when the time comes. It
                                                           Will strike you as obvious.

Upon following these steps
You will have become a
poet. From now on there

                                Is no turning back. It will
                                Consume you, and thoughts will take
                                You by surprise in lover's

                                                        ­­  Embraces, in sudden deaths,
                                                         ­ Bird songs, and the words of of those
                                                          Y­­ou once thought to be strangers.

Each word will be a gift to
The world, whilst remaining un-
doubtedly yours to own.

                                        Use your power wisely.
                                        Remember; without love
                                        Your poems will start to

                                                             ­        Fall into disrepair
                                                       ­              And, without them you will
                                                            ­­         Lose your capacity to care.

I wish you well.
                                    I wish you poetry.
                                                         ­      ­           I wish you love.
I'm planning on giving this one a rewrite, but I rarely get around to doing such things. I'm posting it mostly as a reminder to myself that I set out to do something. There's a good chance it will remain unfinished though.
Why can't I just wake up there?
Why must I wake up here?
Too young to stay,
Too broke to leave,
Feels like all I can do is bleed
My bitter disdain for this place.
It's here that I slept in my car
Hours after becoming homeless.
Here that I was dejected
By soughtless dreams.
Here that I suffered a miser's
Misfortune,
Having lost my family.

Then again,
I found love here.
In a place so vile
She somehow made me smile.

Maybe things aren't so bad,
Maybe I'm just spoiled.
Regardless of what I want
Yours truly most toil.
That way one day
I can embroil myself up north
And stop soiling my clothes
In this lemonade sunbelt
Of a South.
an ostentatious wipe
this referendum is treed
while rather bolting a humanity
so Barcelona is superfluous and has encased
but once in Granda they'll enjoin a last bit circle
and to embroil grout in their tires
as a run within this emanation
on the plain to graze again
save Girona still crankiest in bluff
Deposed  Catalonian leader is in jail fighting extradition for crime s and funding need help from this community.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
i could almost wish nothing of understanding
the noun: collateral...

         i will not bother with the definition,
although:
  something pledged as security for repayment
of a loan, to be forfeited in the event of a default...

why bother with the definition...
when you can simply skip the definition and
embroil / invest yourself
with the alt. to a definition...

     a synonym usually helps...
collateral the alt. of:
                   security, guarantee,
  pledge... bond... now that is much simpler...
isn't it?

but then coming across collateral
as... an adjective:
   hell... the grammatical terms...
i hope to simplify them...

noun: name... what something is called:
or put to inquiry / question:
the end of a curiosity...
        adjective: accessory... well...
   let's be flamboyant... once upon a time:
the brothers grimm tall tale of the adnoun...
in addition to:
     a dog... there would be something
beside the tail... hangs... leash...
                the barking and the growling...
in addition: to be attributed to it...
   a higher quality...
                              a woman's attire...
her dress... yes... her shoes... yes...
but a purse? is that... an adnoun of...
a woman's attire? lipstick...
     stockings...
                  we'd need the fundamentally
basic rubric of what constitutes
a woman's attire...
         back to the dog: a mad dog...
frothing at the snout...
                   a picture enchancer: detail = adjective
to tier: the coarse earth...
the tenderness of sky...
                
verb: a bit of a pickle...
   the synonyms are...
             deponent (and a rich history at that...
i always seem to concern myself with
history per se: etymology...
                                and whatever the world
owes someone like genghis khan...
is beside the matter, nor the ticking clock
and the glowing yawn of the universe...
            loquitur: he or she speaks...
                            not exatly loquor)...
           gerund (when a verb can act as a noun...
beside calling the tongue an oyster...
and limiting its capacity to waggle and utter
a speech... talking: but in sign language)...                
   (the) infinitive ( more or less a ditto of gerund)...
             participle....
   now we have something interesting...

an adjective and a noun... is a bit like...
a participle and a verb...
                    a mad dog... that sat all day and
all night... but mostly the nights...
and guarded the burning scribbling
                                   (b-oing-oing)...
              this is most certainly wrong...
                      the burning scribbles of... an ailing
mind that sat and contemplated a candle
come noon...

                        grammar... if it was only so much...
how grammar never enters
into philosophy books...
                       guarded the burning scribbling...
the burning scribble... the yearning scribble of
a burning candle...
i guess a noun can be a name...
but... you try to simplify a verb...
                          apart from the obvious examples:
eating... scheming, breathing... or out and
about in order to merely: walk...
               with that "said":
a noun is a name for - more or less fixed things
in our heads... a crow doesn't, necessarily,
have to croak... or fly... perch on a tree...
         a crow among... fixed things...
             inanimate objects... a candle a chair a bed...
that the chair cannot croak a crow's croak...
is beside the point: a wooden chair can creak!
which is just as well as a croak...
          
         a verb is therefore almost like a noun...
which it is... but it's a name / noun for "concerns"
of an animate dimension...
            a name given to transition periods of...
a beginning and end: and most likely a...
period return and... replica... again, again and again...
perpetuation...
a verb is motion... a noun is stasis...
all in all: it's still a name of a name: for a name...
that something requires naming...

an adverb through: unlike an adnoun (adjective)...
well: a mad dog looks very colourful indeed...
all adnouns are... compared to adverbs...
the accident implied: accidently these words...
          not because i planned to write them...
of that: i am very, sure....
                        the quali-fir...
                                        much ado about... nothing...
          is there a need for a cf. with a quanti-fire?
     there's the accidently:
in the "middle": "somewhere"...
               between... all          and some...
                         none...                                   nein...
- for if i were an english grammar parrot...
   if i learned english via the atypical inorganic route...
from a teacher... with grammar being
an inorganic fossil barge...
                a heap of bones and mountains' groans...
then i could fence with a philologist...
      - but since i, have learned grammar:
thrown into the deep-end... and since i came out
from the english pedagogy system without:
having learned a... centimetre of the worth of dirt
behind my fingernails after an afternoon spent
digging earth in the garden...
                                                of grammar...
it is less a topic of serious inquiry: more...
a triffle... a... curiosity: at best - at best it's a curiosity...
because i will not: parrot grammatical iron maidens
and watch these sentences be:
sentenced to a gramma-tical-zoo!

back to a previous "concern"...
collateral... notably outside of pledge, security etc.
when used...
  in that war-lingo of...
                   'collateral damage'...
     something... inevitable or... something more or less:
necessary?
    a "happenstance": a gamble?
  an oops of how champagne or lysergic acid
were discovered?!
          collateral damage: as a pledge
or as... additional / secondary: not wanted?
leftovers, yes?

       by collateral damage do the canibus bellum:
the dogs of war... say...
which version of collateral?
   and when was the last time two armies
honestly met: in a field...
akin to a chessboard... when was the last time
two armies honestly met:
faced each other:
             and by pawn i am right in supposing:
the infantry rather than: civilian...
unless of course... a pawn in chess is either
a civilian or... the infantry...
            when was the last time...
two armies - honestly met -
     and battled and sowed and reaped -
two crowns: without... collateral?
                 again: is it a guarantee in a "good" /
it's unavoidable... or in a "bad" / it's necessary...
way...

              whaterver this was:
let it just remain as that... an exercise in writing /
chicken scratching.
hfallahpour Sep 2016
It's time to reveal my life's secret
how can I keep it in the dark
while It's weighing on my heart
Do you wanna hear it
First you must promise to keep it
I want you to mark my words
I know you won't believe it
It's the matter of an incurable disease
it's difficult to deal with it
I should hold back my tears
not show any sign of weakness
I fought and found the strength in my weakness
I do believe that it will fade away
I changed my view on myself
I've accepted the way I am
but you are not in the same boat
you should go for a better life
now you know why I am remote
I wrote it here to let you know
why I told you leave me alone
it was of your own interest not mine
I don't want to embroil your emotion
but you need to face reality
I should break free
I wish you achieve all your goals
But I have a request
please forgive me
and don't shed a tear for me
Jill Tait Sep 2020
On and on runs the rolling river that journeys to the sea..winding whilst wandering and meandering free..as it tangles in puzzles of perplexity, raging then relaxing within it’s visionary..Such a labyrinth of fluctuation with waviness and sway, naturally beautiful, a picturesque portray..Twisting and turning in an intricacy of coil, swirling and whirling betwixt an imaginative embroil..

Oh yon rippling rivulet as you trickle through that vast valley, yet spilling blood and guts to reach your utmost finale..easing memento as gorges stifle your stream, then oozing through an open vein in a nightmare of a dream..There is nothing on this earth that could stop your waterflow and no man could put asunder where hence you will go..Midst a mindfulness of determination from Mother nature’s commands,  you follow through the shadows from her herculean hands
Adrift her world no obstacles no dreams to moor, immobilized and still  
she sailed through stardust particles then glode into the nil
Into the fire of night she tousled through, by daylight saving time a strew  
a scattering of stars appeared leading her inside a flower garden made for two;
The scent of Angel trumpets, gardenias, evening primrose
blended with a fragrant voice, she simply had no choice  
as she pressed her little hand against the lunar soil's embroil,  
foam flowers, chocolate daisies, and Liliums appeared;
A shift, then suddenly beyond the reach of earth a blessed gift of lift
she flew inside that dwelling place where benevolent souls ignite;
Fawning love plush against the evening breeze
even stars of night choose their light protease
when a small child enters an evening Kingdom,
like a Grandiflorus cactus, falling backwards into time...
rhema subedi Jan 2017
When everything that happens, happens too fast;
And everyone that loved you once, leaves you at last…
While you drown in the river of fears and in the sea of despair,
Can you see the faint ray of hope that’s still up there?

While your own imagination rips you into shreds,
Are you still able to hold your own in everything that you dread?
As in-head conversations, and nightmares, and reality, all just get mixed up…
What can I do to stop myself getting lost?

When I spend hours torturing myself, believing that someone is dead,
How can I just ignore all that’s going on in my head?  
You tell me to look at others’ misery and just be glad that I’m not there;
But why do you think I can revel in another’s despair?

While I spend all my time, trying to think straight,
You don’t even tell me, that I can change my fate.
As I just embroil myself, in absolute terror,
Why can’t you tell me, that things will get clearer?

Every new fact that’s found, leads to more fear,
And all at once, I’ve shed every single tear.
Now I’m too tired to even just sit and cry,
And all of my emotions are slowly running dry…

I can’t recognize any feelings anymore,
I just know that my heart is so sore.
And I’m angry, afraid and sad all at once,
And all I can do now is hope life gives me another chance.

Another chance at a carefree tomorrow,
A chance at a day not filled with sorrow.
A day I’m not terrified of everything unknown,
One day, when my heart doesn’t feel like a heavy stone.

I just wish that I could lose myself in imaginary places,
Places where all I can see are friendly faces.
Where anyone can hold me close when the panic sets in,
Where someone, at least, can say the right thing.

Does that place exist outside of my mind,
Is that place real, somewhere I can find?
Dare I to hope that I’ll be there someday?
Until then, may I ask you to stay?
Megan Sherman May 2017
Lover - is composed of Light -
'Tis becoming to a babe -
Not all the dark could sully him -
Nor ravages of Age -

To Lover - heightened hark -
Betrothe the path - to thee -
Let flowers planted in hungry Hearts,
Embroil there - seismically,

With rapture - and applause -
You sing to bells of God,
All at one, under the sun,
With the Angel squad.
We are depleting our planet little by little while taking what we need
perhaps this is the time to give back to Mother Earth and plant a seed
Imagine yourself in the forest picking chanterelles, like times of old
Wild animals running free, deer panting by the river with eyes of gold
Take a deep breath in, (hold) breathe out
Giant trees with leafy arms that encircle you with love and breeze
they talk to you in whispers, about the magical ignite of precious soil
Best part of you is now immersed inside this magical embroil
you are part of the whole, part of everything that breathes
Take a deep breath in, (hold) breathe out  
Place your back against the trunk of a tree and allow the energy to enter
Up in the heavens the angels are sending you rays of golden sun
Your creator is re-shaping you like a soft pliable piece of clay
he wants you back tot he original shape of the creature you once were
Take a deep breath in, (hold) breathe out  
You own blessed hands, a blessed heart and a capable body that works
give thanks for the gift of living, give thanks to Mother Earth
and the One who has given you life, you are loved beyond all measure.
Megan Sherman Oct 2018
Cruel times prevail, the hand of doom disdains,
The mouths of mothers, fathers and their child,
Bread and Peace for all a distant dream,
The glory of the worker's dream defiled,
By strutting Kings and tyrants of blue blood,
Prussian blue, opposed to Russian red,
The revolution, world yet ours to win,
The dream from which the honest battle bled,
Marx's words shine bright and cast a light,
Upon path of destiny, worker's delight,
A flame to lead us from beleaguered night,
Of Capital, its horrors and its fright,
We must take path of struggle, justice, toil,
The quest for righteousness it does embroil,
All human hearts in sweet, earnest endeavour,
Across the world's bright nations, sands and soils.
rhema subedi Oct 2016
When everything that happens, happens too fast;
And everyone that loved you once, leaves you at last…
While you drown in the river of fears and in the sea of despair,
Can you see the faint ray of hope that’s still up there?

While your own imagination rips you into shreds,
Are you still able to hold your own in everything that you dread?
As in-head conversations, nightmares and reality, all just get mixed-up;
What can I do to stop myself getting lost?

When I spend hours torturing myself, believing that someone is dead,
How can I just ignore all that’s going on in my head?  
You tell me to look at others’ misery and just be glad that I’m not there;
But why do you think I can revel in another’s despair?

While I spend all my time, trying to think straight,
You don’t even tell me, that I can change my fate.
As I just embroil myself, in absolute terror,
Why can’t you tell me, that things will get clearer?

Every new fact that’s found, leads to more fear,
And all at once, I’ve shed every single tear.
Now I’m too tired to even just sit and cry,
And all of my emotions are slowly running dry…

I can’t recognize any feelings anymore,
I just know that my heart hurts at its core.
And I’m angry, afraid and sad all at once,
And all I can do now is hope life gives me another chance.

Another chance at a carefree tomorrow,
A chance at a day not filled with sorrow.
A day I’m not terrified of everything unknown,
One day, when my heart doesn’t feel like heavy stones.

I just wish that I could lose myself in imaginary places,
Places where all I can see are friendly faces.
Where anyone can hold me close when the panic sets in,
Where someone, at least, can say the right thing.

Does that place exist outside of my mind,
Is that place real, somewhere I can find?
Dare I to hope that I’ll be there someday?
Until then, may I ask you to stay?
INTO THIS WORLD OF LOVE I HAVE BEEN PLANTED
LIKE A PRECIOUS SEED DEEP BENEATH THE SOIL
I GREW UP FULL OF HOPES AND DREAMS,  
BREATHING AND LIVING IN THIS BITTERSWEET EMBROIL;
I BELONG HERE IN AS MUCH AS THE SUN, MOON AND STARS
IN THIS WORLD OF LOVE, I TOO CAN SHINE
ALL THE KINDNESS AND LOVE IN MY HEART,  
I IMPART & GIVE TO THOSE WHO NEED IT MOST...
posited puzzling apt aperçu...

While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand nineteen,

unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring scrivener
only now I became keen,
which theoretical, rhetorical,

philosophical... predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking

puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate
impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession

case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy

love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,
viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional

mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming - I narrate

oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figurative alluded
to mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,

whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using ****** Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal
hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil

ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between pop eye
at lightspeed as if
greased with olive oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!
Bursts of blooming colors in my garden fair
every bud is beauty, born of love and toil  
Rays of sunshine easy days and breezy air
cordial flowers flushed with color coil

Nature sings of all creation its here and there
a joyful world of wonder heart's embroil
Calliandra feather sweeps of angel hair
silver artemisias slick as linseed oil

Garden art, its all about the artist's flair
every shoot and floweret is alive with dare
radiant things growing on blessed soil
like cordial flowers flushed with color coil

Bursts of blooming colors in my garden fair
rays of sunshine, easy days and breezy air.
Sue Collins Jul 2020
Once I established my territory, I was able to take care of business. No one would be allowed to stop me or shame me.
The boundaries were set in stone with the help of those curious creatures who now had to strain to remember the before.
I have given them this duty in order to make them understand that this is my world now. They are but players in my mind.

Think of me as the chess master, always in control of the board. I don’t overload these agents with facts but with spurious thoughts.
Embroil them them in fear and anger so they will look to me for their salvation. Facts are beautifully malleable, aren’t they?
Am I evil? Will my day of reckoning come? Is karma real? Ah, but I have a great and wonderful back-up plan. Just you wait and see.
posited puzzling apt aperçu...

While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled wide, whirled
webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand twenty two,
unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring wordsmith
only now I became keen,
which unflagging vexillological,

theoretical, rhetorical, philosophical...
narratological, linguistical, judgmatical
historical, fantastical, didactical,
and bibliographical predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking
puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate

impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession
case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy
love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,

viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional
mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming -
affinity towards English language

I loopily, quirkily verily narrate
oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figuratively alluded
to wicked mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,
whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using ****** Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal

hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil
ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between
comical characters such as
Popeye and Beetle Bailey
at lightspeed as if
greased with Olive Oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!
2020 presidential election
already promises seat of pants suspense
hint of (post apocalyptic) coming attractions
see – https://www.aol.com/article/news/2020/09/25/
probe-into-discarded-ballots-becomes-campaign-
outrage-fuel/24630731/

supposed poll worker(s) accidentally
(yea right) fomented kerfuffle
imposible mission witnessing
transgression Republicans wont muffle
reasonable rhyme legitimate votes

purportedly some how amidst
waste paper bin (laden) shuffle
crumpled beyond recognition
easily mistaken (without
mushroom for error) for truffle.

Among electorate (debacle trumpeted)
includes nonagenarian widower papa
just biden his time before he doth die
Boyce Brandon once formidable guy
(no sir name included – nose hurry)
bedridden his shrunken body dost lie
regarding treating Normandy Farms
estates (elder care) neglect an outcry.

However hospice care consideration
thankfully option included within fee
to occupy said accommodations he
(thy male parent into cyber spatial void,

I lament spirit hoop fully heard
by long deceased dearest mommy)
strong possibility because condemnation
rankles sensitivity of yours truly namely i.e. me
aforementioned predicated upon obloquy.

More to the point paperback writer wannabe
aimed to communicate courtesy thee
humble wordsmith, concerning alarming acme
of storied chain of events horrific see
thing unfortunate voting wretch,
who supposedly disposed free
(half dozen) mail in ballots.

One need not be a brain scientist
or rocket surgeon to interpret gist,
whereby golden opportunity never missed
to embroil commander in chief
whose critique he could not desist
concerning numero uno pet peeve kissed
regarding fraudulent claim to White House keys

goodbye, viz to shortchange said totalitarian wannabe
as dear leader for life linkedin with staged imbroglio,
whereat supposed auld Don Trump ****** his fist
into air out of defiance absentee mode grist
for mill casting choice other than standing in long line
coughed on, cuz registered eligible voters ******
off, and disbelieve coronavirus (COVID19) real.

Even me dad suffering mild dementia
avidly watches television news,
who hopes to live long enough
before paying Charon mandatory dues
(to cross the River Styx)
papa ardently, confidently, fervently..., and hankers
to hear "Joe Biden" named forty sixth president
and could see right thru above concocted ruse.

— The End —