"evoked" poems
Just how does one define friendship?
Oh, I already know what the Dictionary says.
It's far more than merely one word, or two.
You could apply many verbs to describe it.
Few, on their own will justice due.
It is more about one's emotional perception,
than a mere sentence of words, though descriptive.
For sure it's a feeling, a strong visceral response
evoked by respect, even love of a thing above all other's.
Friends come in many shapes, sizes and colors.
They can be inanimate or living breathing.
All inspire in us a near electrical resonance of reassurance,
a sense of peace, surely comfort. Maybe it starts with
the rhythmic beating of our own mothers heart,
the sound and vibration of our first true friendship.
A little later her breast and the nourishment it gave,
became our first outer world dearest best companion.
Mother's milk, served warm, sweet and tenderly,
Love's personification.
Yes of course Friendship can be an extension of a
strong lasting bond with other people, yet even more.
Our family's are our closest best friends, if we are lucky.
But what of the others?
I have been befriended by books, movies, dogs and
many other non human living friends, I even have
a old film camera I packed completely around the world,
that I count among my closest companions.
A soft warm favorite wool blanket acquired down in
New Zealand, also fits nicely that same description.
An old bamboo fly rod that belonged to my Father,
Is a friend I would not part with for any amount of dollars.
And less I forget (No pun intended) our memories too are
right there, with the best and oldest of our dearest, lasting friends,
Conjured up at a minutes notice.
And perhaps last of all, (you may have more on your list),
I can not leave out the most important friendship of all,
It's the friendship we have with our selves, to which I'm referring.
For if that very personal friendship is not strong and on going,
It's truly doubtful that we will have, or sustain for long, any others.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
From the BBC today,
Excerpt
Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?
"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.
Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG
Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."
That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.
But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.
Excerpt
Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
Rebuttal
Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG.
Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.
Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.
One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.
It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.
If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.
If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.
You are not an artist.
You are an employee.
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ
BECOME
EVERYONE ON EARTH
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG
HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE
HOW BAD
artist?
or employee?
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
My thoughts screaming out loud...
**** me daddy...
I need it bad, I want it, I crave it like a sin waiting to be unfolded inbetween my thighs where wetness needs to be explored.
You seem like trouble, temptation that I can’t help but have no control over.
Teasing you senselessly and wondering why I seem to have such an effect on people.
My eroticism speaks millions of sensual nightmares waiting to be unraveled and seeked upon.
My curtains are shaking and trembling waiting for pleasure to be evoked.
I scream to loudly on the inside wanting to lock away this part of me.
My ****** and ****** nature got me in bad spaces in the past, locking and hiding away that part of me for so long , I forgot what it felt to squirt... to feel drenched in your sweat, to leak forbidden sins...
Calling me your **** I love it when you provoke me, wrap me, and hold me.
It’s been a long time, I need a reminder of what it’s like to be bad again...
I’ve been good, keeping my habits controlled.
I want to feel you and **** you so bad it’s driving a drill through my chaotic sinful mind.
My words so raw and unfiltered, I need it bad...
Daddy, punish me for all that I have sinned...
Don’t forgive me, kiss me harder and penetrate deeper into my mind.
**** me with your words then show me what a bad baby I’ve been....
The devils ****** monster is lurking within, waiting for a sign....
Hungry and seductively parched.
Bring out my demon and allow her to drive you ****** insane...
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 12:59 PM UTC
Betwixt an atmosphere of a holy nature
By a classic serenade of Christian lullabies
Unceremoniously my body sways to the beat
For every moment that elapses
More and more I become electrified
As in the wake of your presence
A song of budding amour is evoked
Try I may to suppress this sensation,
Though upon a lie I'd asphyxiate
Please do not allow me to suffer
To languish within a plethora of
A sheer and utter coating of blindness
Darling forgive me if I impose
I avidly seek for signs of proof
To know if this is real
What would happen?
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 7:04 PM UTC
A part of me smoulders within..
When the world is serene
And the eye resists a lonely tear..
The loneliness embraces my conscience,
and the lullaby of memories lures me to the lane..
Where the mothers's lap complemented a nap..
Where the Dad's jokes evoked pathos..
The friend's smirk,
The brother's ****
The bickering girls,
The lustering guys,
The barbie attire,
The teacher's satire,
And the useless tinkling laughter..
And when I drag myself to the prevailing adolescence,
All I think for,
All I lust for..
Is the sweet lullaby of memories..!
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.
Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.
Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.
Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.
Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.
Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.
This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.
Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.
Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.
On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.
A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone
Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.
I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
“Beautifully Oppressive”
she called my work
“beautifully oppressive”
did she mean like the stifling pall
of equatorial heat?
what lines had I writ
to elicit such truthful and prodigious
adverbs and adjectives?
I can not recall being more flattered
or believing more that it mattered
what one said of my
delirious desultory delusions,
my petty pecking indulgences…
I believe I was recalling a dream
that spoke of elusive, fickle salvation,
the perennial curse of the chosen ******
and their haunting hunger for implacable peace
when I evoked that response from her
“beautifully oppressive” to feel such a fate?
the promise of heaven for those trudging through hell?
what other beautiful oppressive story could I tell?
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
Is my appearance uneasy?
Does my darkness expose—darkened spirits,
And a vessel in need of mending?
Have my scarlet relatives,
Evoked only the most cherished desires?
—blinding you from my deaths.
When I whither,
I turn from crimson reds,
To the blackest of blacks,
I was not meant to live forever.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
I turned the corner, entering the Italian sculpture collection at Le Louvre, delighting in the smells and quiet sounds of the museum. I walked slowly down the creaking wood floored corridor, ignoring the Dirce, the Nymph and the Scorpion, till I came to Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss.
I gazed at it lazily, longingly, savoring its sensuality, love, and tenderness. It was beautiful, beyond belief, exquisite. It evoked so many emotions, to the point of being overwhelming. I stared at it, losing myself, in time and reverie, wishing I could love and be loved with such intensity.
“It’s beautiful, “I heard a feminine whisper in my ear. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. “Yes,” I replied, slowly, instinctively, coming out of my trance, and turning towards the voice.
Our eyes met, locked, I couldn’t look away, as if bewitched, her incandescent blue eyes fathomless, tender, worldly, looking, seeing deep into my soul. I could feel her in me, like a new born kitten exploring every nook and cranny. It was slightly unnerving, knowing she could wander, at will, unfettered, and yet calming, even comforting.
As I regained my sense, I recognized her and stared, incredulously, until she said, softly, sweetly, “je m’appelle Seraphine.”
She moved in a bit closer, cocking her head towards my right ear, and whispered, “It is my favorite, it's so tender and passionate, the way he holds her, kisses her, the way only a god could.” I noted her tone, the way she said it, with such confidence, as if she knew, from experience, what it was like, to be kissed, loved, by a god.
She gently pulled back a bit, looked me in the eyes, like a child looking at a puppy. She was beautiful, preternaturally beautiful, a paragon, goddess like. I just stared at her in awe.
“I think we’ve seen each other around Paris”, she said softly, smiling, “and may have bumped into each other in the Metro.” “Yes, I think we have,” I replied, as she extended her right hand, as a queen would, to a knight. I didn’t know if I should kneel and kiss her hand, or shake it. I took her hand in mine, it was soft, warm, moist. I could feel her youth, femininity, life in her hand. I shook it, gently, stopped, slightly released my grip, our hands slid apart, touching, sliding, caressing down our fingers, stopping ever so slightly at the tips, before releasing. The ecstasy of her touch. I longed for more. I heard her sigh, my eyes moved from her hand, to her lips, finally to her eyes. I smiled and said, almost in a whisper, “Je m’appelle Damien.”
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
Memories, memories,
Demons destined to remind!
Memories, memories,
Extricate them from my mind!
Alas! They echo toward me
As ripples in the brain.
Evoked by love and roses
They prickle me insane.
Oh, I remember…
*The hour summons a restless, withered afternoon
During which I succumbed to ravenous decay.
I desperately chased feelings like an unhinged loon,
Swifting through my pond in fear, panic, and dismay.*
Impeccable beauty
& fanciful expectation:
I was thwarted by both.
Each summoned its own
Distinct, rolling shadow.
Oh I remember…
*I was washed forth by whistling tides of tomorrow,
Clinging to a heart I could not own or borrow.
My feelings, whisked in transit, dizzied by the fray,
Yearned for second chances to conquer yesterday.*
Gelid gloom would
Permeate my heart,
Tearing me apart.
Haunted by a feeling
I could not possess,
I drowned in
Darkness.
Oh I remember...
*Loneliness was chronic; slowly it tapped time;
My life become a poem lacking voice and rhyme.
As silent afternoons would coalesce into years,
My dreams burst into smoke & hope thawed into tears.*
Memories, memories,
Are nothing more than that.
Memories, memories,
**** **** ****
I do not wish to remember,
But dare not to forget
Moments that once plagued me:
Moments I regret.
*No matter how strong be my will,
These memories will haunt me still.*
Oh how I wish not to remember...
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
> if the world was ending of course I’d tell you I loved you, I loved you with all of my heart, so much that I couldn’t bear to tell you because even if you loved me a little (i know you do but do you?) I would’ve run into your arms, I’d be happy for a thousand lives over, of course
> and maybe I would tell you that I was never able to think about the love I had for you in the present tense, I loved you and I will love you but I do not love you, if it’s in the past or in the future it’s less of a part of me and that is okay
> if the world was ending maybe I’d tell you that I could never decipher whether the love I had for you was platonic or romantic or something in between and that sometimes I wondered if I only held onto the feelings so I could write more poetry
> maybe I’d admit that I wrote the most beautiful words for you, that sometimes even my own words evoked tears in the corners of my eyes because such a crude emotion was poured into that writing
> maybe I would tell you that recently i wasn’t able to think of you apart from love
> and maybe I would tell you that apart from staying awake at night and seeing you in my dreams I wouldn’t admit that you lived in my heart
> maybe i would tell you that i couldn't look at your face for too long because what if i ended up staring at you and (worse) what if i ended up gazing at you, that would not be good
> if the world was ending i'd reveal that the only way i kept a lid on my feelings was limiting how i felt to 'maybes' and 'what ifs', anything more was embarrassing
> maybe i'd tell you that you're my soulmate and i've never met anyone more alike to me who could at the same time be so different
> and so i'd probably admit i think i love you in a friend way but i've never had a friend that i couldn't bear to let go as much as you
i would tell you that you're my person, and i wouldn't care if i was yours
> (though right now i really hope i am, probably because the world is not ending; everything changes when there will be no tomorrow, everything changes when all we have is the past)
> i would tell you that i've rarely experienced such an intense emotion, much less for a friend, i would tell you that there's something different about you (is there something different about me?) that makes me dread the day that we part
> i would tell you how much i feared that we would drift apart, if i could i would hold your hand and never let go (would you let me or would you pull away?)
Mar 9, 2022
Mar 9, 2022 at 7:27 PM UTC
I am a fragment
of a broken home,
parents that were
never meant for
one another
but tried their best
to love as if
they were.
They tried to
hold it together
for us kids
but life could never
be what we wanted
it to be.
I am a fragment
of my demons,
the voice
in my head
that tells me
over and over again,
"you're not enough."
There are some days
where that voice
feels greater
than my own
and I almost want to
give in.
I am a fragment
of failed relationships.
You told me I was
"too much."
It felt like daggers
in my chest
and suddenly
I couldn't breathe.
Since then,
I have always felt
I've needed to hold
myself back
and not drown in love.
I am a fragment
of the hell I've
been through.
It wasn't easy
to get to where
I am today.
My journey was
a little ragged,
not a straight shot...
but I'm still
standing tall and
going through
this thing we call
life.
I'm a fragment
of the songs
I've played
over and over again.
Some to block out
the pain,
the tears.
Others to reach
a state of nostalgia,
in an attempt
to go back to moments
I wished to relive.
I am a fragment
of those I surround
myself with.
The constant encouragement,
the kind words,
the shoulders to lean on,
the ability to understand
why I'm like this.
Where would I be
without it?
I am a fragment
of the books I've read.
The lines I underlined
to come back to again,
the characters I saw
a piece of myself in,
the events I read about
that hit home
a little too hard.
I am a fragment
of my flaws,
my mistakes,
my imperfections.
They've eaten me alive
for most of my life
but I am beginning
to come to terms
with them.
I am seeing
the beauty I once
refused to see
within them.
I am a fragment
of my emotions.
They were always
valid and real
despite those who
tried to convince me
otherwise.
The smiles and laughs
were just as significant
as the screams and tears.
I tell myself,
"you were never crazy...
you were just figuring
yourself out."
I am a fragment
of love.
Those that I loved,
those that never
loved me.
The times that
love evoked
happiness,
the times that
love caused me
pain.
It's all the same
when you think
about it.
It was all for,
love.
I am a fragment
of the woman
I was and
the woman I am.
I didn't always
love myself like this
but god, I'm glad I
now do...
because this is something
that can never be
taken away from me.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
A thud at my window!
An unseen moment was let go
For there I sat on a throne
Which bore an ephemeral glow.
—Though it soon had been heard:
Our mother's hand not in the least is arbitrary,
For she weaves such a gossamer web
That connects through all things contradictory—
And so I rose above my windowsill
And found, a soft bird perched hither,
So close to this ragged forest
Brave, I thought, she;
She waited for an eye, so it seemed,
To meet with her's—indefinitely
Though it took an eternity for me being there,
The next gaze she stole and flew away from me.
A meaning I saw with no boundaries
For an incoherent silence was answered upon—
Like the yearning of a wave to find a shore
Only then, to retreat back to its sea.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
Stop provoking me
Your absence is choking me
So if I take your breath
You'll know
What evoked me
I'll surpirise you
Showing up unexpectedly
But hows it unexpected
When you left without farewell's
You should of guessed
I'd come down
To raise hell
I had to face adversity
Dumped on
Our anniversary
You say
You want to be
Just friends
But wouldn't a just friend
Lend a hand
When thier best
Was left to die
Why would I
Befriend
Such pain
I know I can't live without you
But if I stay
I'll die
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC
I've been trying to write something of substance for quite some time now,
trying to collect fresh thoughts from newer moments of you
and rearrange them into phrases that would gift me a new remarkable piece of the puzzle that is the immeasurable complexity of your soul.
I've been trying to bottle up this obtrusive, demanding feeling of utter awe that comes when you and I climb into our honesty and wear it to bed, side-by-side.
I've been trying to backtrack slightly, wishing so desperately (though stoically!) for the return of those painfully dire professions of unadulterated romance, reminiscing in the saturation of your love letters and how the color red is breathed into me time after time to remind me how powerfully you've shifted the balance of my life.
I love you, I love you, by god, do I love you.
My fears are still the same, though, Darling, and I feel that with the redness of passion shall also come a redness of a quality that pertains to homicidal gore,
for you have, still, that scalpel in your hands,
and my heart blooms every moment of my life, not for its love of me, but for the hope that it may one day bloom for the last time cradled in your blood-soaked palms.
I've been trying to say anything else for a week but nothing will break from the gates and give me a solid night's sleep anymore.
I can't tell you how mad you've actually made me.
Though I do dare to hope that I've evoked similar sentiments in you.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Love was the lone window lit,
in that long wintry night,
beacon light of his winding path,
the lips that softly whispered and
evoked dreams, that'd become real,
for his wonderment, later, much later.
When he slipped and fell in to
the deep pit of long, endless silence,
love was his ladder to climb
to the rainbow bridge of hope
she used to frequent in evenings
though won't recognize him
not once, even for the old times' sake.
Love compelled him to compose,
soulful songs that'd stop the flow of tears,
his eyes never went dry until then
even while sleeping, his head was
on pillows of fire.
Love was the stone wall, that shielded
him from the raging fire of misery,
the rain that came down in torrents
when his long torn, desolate heart
was parched dry in cruel drought
too was love itself.
He was washed ashore alone,
when he heard the whispers,
love was speaking to his psyche
from near in a comforting tone,
then love held his hand,led him
across the marshes and swamp
sharp thorns and stones wounded him
gathering nightmares chased
and haunted him.
And then, love came along, in a disguise,
but his eyes waiting for long recognized,
love, comforted, chanted potent mantras
that helped him endure pain, gave him hope.
Love was his brave charioteer, the messenger
who told that all that was thought lost
is still in his possession as light within.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Seven score and eleven years after the Emancipation Proclamation;
I'd like to thank my community for finally acknowledging his memory.
Wanting to view historical document written by Rev. Martin Luther King,
logged on and took a virtual trip to our ever expanding National Archives.
His views on day of historic speech, "Heartwarming to see this marvelous,
gigantic group of people here from all over the nation to give witness."
I'm giving credit to ABC news for being allowed to hear the man's words
from his own mouth without having to read them in black and white.
There's no argument in regards to race differences and that we the people,
have miles to go before we are at similar mindset in climate of opinion.
Spotlight should shine brightly on how far we've come as we the people,
away with all the negatives of no hopes of ever achieving racial harmony.
If MLK were alive today he'd see many positive changes and would see
his dream is still alive and well though we have miles to journey's end.
Yes, Dr. Martin Luther King, you are appreciated as we honor your day.
I have many reasons to thank you and all who paid the ultimate sacrifice.
My children are allowed to attend any public school they wish without fear.
I can now sit in the front of the bus without fear of arrest or a mob beating.
There are no laws preventing me from front door entry of public buildings.
Thanks so much! I'm free to date or marry any person of any race I choose.
The list above is just a small sampling of all the changes his life evoked.
I'm thankful he was gifted to our planet in period of time he was needed.
He is missed by the planet and those of us who are grateful that he existed.
Dr. Martin Luther King was true Visionary with foresight to see great things.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
Forming words to say what no one ever thought you would.
Spoken word gives people a chance to ride the waves of the syllables that roll off your tongue, to be engulfed into an ocean of self expression.
Spoken word is a story. A story that no one would have even believed if it was never conveyed in such a way the evoked so much emotion.
Spoken word is the ability to reach out to people on a different parallel.
when you open up its spread light, it allows people see an entire world that they never knew existed.
When you become transparent and turn all of your if’s, and's, and buts into something great you show people what they need to see, not what you want them to see.
And the words that so gracefully roll of your tongue become all of the things that they have never wanted to admit, Being vague has never allowed so much emotion and desire to aroused all at once.
Spoken word is an art that is within everyone's grasp, but only few have ever taken the advantage to capture it.
you can’t exactly see what is but when
you stretch your hands to reach for the creativity that wants to swallow you, The world that you once knew changes.
All of your thoughts become poetic, and there becomes a consistent need to tell people what's going on and it feels so amazing.
Spoken word is an expression
abling people that would have never thought they would have the power to say things about their lives unleashes a magnificent world that we would have never been able to see.
Spoken word is an art the doesn't just open eyes but shocks all of our senses. The ability to take someone on a journey without even having to leave the room, Making them experience your story in a way that you never thought you could.
Spoken word is not just poetry,
Spoken word describes all that I am,
All that I can, and will be,
All that I was,
All that is me.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
he ran away from his unborn child,he thought in his mind he was too young to raise a young child,couse he also was a child.
All he wanted was to be free,young and wild.
As he took two steps back he felt relief,then he believed he could leave,so he left with his believe.
Runing away was like runing to jail he knew not.
Planing to go in drunkiness and in revery that two he knew not.
The mind kept spreading more lies to the morning bread he eated,he was just too weak so his heart was defeated.The unborn child forgotten.The weeping girl weeped and whipe hear tears,but his memory remaind,a picture of him that can never be ereased,that each and every thought of the child evoked the unbearable feelings,the bast of fury flames touring her mind,shouts encrepted in the her heart,on the bed twisting n turning,wakin and sleeping but still she found no rest,internaly bleeding,emotional abused by his pictures
then she thought
thought that abortion might be the solution to the situation that she is in.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
hate, like flames in someone's eyes,
anger which makes you want to hurt,
vexation provoked by fury,
and fury held inside.
The state of being annoyed,
displeasure arouse by grievance,
a taste of bitterness caused by outrage,
and outrage internally kept.
maddening violence
aggravated by exasperation,
indignation evoked by irritation
and irritation born privately.
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 6:54 AM UTC
In the shower of glory, I hang my head.
In the light of beauty,
I am ashamed.
evoked guilt
screaming for retribution
my face,
unable to be kept fragile
puffs and ages
oh what guilt!
oh this guilt!
oh gift me a shroud!
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC
so there's no more laughing
at an evening fire
no more the crackle of flames
to echo our desire
for summer is on its way
yet all i feel is the cold
sat staring at the dying embers
of a love once known
your reasoning remains certain
and so easily evoked
those moments i recall now
mere epitaphs i wrote
what of that first kiss or
that walk upon your stairs
the warmth of our breath
as i slide through your hair
cast aside as mere memories,
lost shadows in this game
as the ashes burn out
through the endlessness of blame
summer does beckon as you
heed its call to take flight
redefining your season
escaping my darkness to light
alone to search deep inside
and what will I see
complicated and broken lives
but only one truly free
for no mirror will ever conceal
my self inflicted lies
decisions and failures welling up
in these guilty grey eyes
a sentence delivered through
the coldness of silence
yet I will appeal to take solace
in some other summer dress
to mask the responsibilities,
to seek shelter for this shame
it is I that must carry the burden,
bear the endlessness of blame
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 5:44 PM UTC
There she goes again
She pops another pill to find bliss.
Her hallucinations of the mirages she perceives to be real make her free..free from the chains of reality.
If she could make a wish
She'd wish that this high would be eternally.
She had a beautiful smile
though she was in the dark
it evoked thoughts of fire flies.
She pops another pill..her emancipation from reality
It's the only thing that keeps her sane and afloat in this sea,her tears.
She smiled again
And ironically I saw her beauty within.
Slowly she fades away
As I woke up from my dream
A beautiful dream.
She was a deity. A beautiful deity,that awaits me to save her when my conscious to this world is no longer awakening.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC