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"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.
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Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
Friendship
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.
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39
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?
0
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
Article: Taylor Swift and why rhyme sells,
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?
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36
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...
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Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 12:59 PM UTC
Punish me
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...
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20
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)
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Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 7:04 PM UTC
Ballerina
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..!
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Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
The Lullaby Of Memories
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.
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Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
Note to Self (Part 2)
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.
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95
“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?
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Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
"beautifully oppressive" (to victoria)
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.
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Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
Black Rose
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.”
0
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
Séraphine, Chapitre no 4, Le Louvre (vampire erotica)
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.”
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8
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...
0
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
Memories, Memories
> 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?)
0
Mar 9, 2022
Mar 9, 2022 at 7:27 PM UTC
[to you] if the world was ending
> 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?)
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14
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.
0
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
Fragments of me
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.
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139
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.
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Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
Musings Evoked By A Bird
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
0
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC
X'd
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.
0
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Blooming
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.
0
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Holding his hand, love lead him across the swamp
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.
0
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
Martin Luther King, the Visionary
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.
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24
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.
0
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
Spoken Word
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.
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19
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.
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Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
Unborn child
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.
0
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 6:54 AM UTC
Insideout feeling
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!
0
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC
to beg
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
0
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 5:44 PM UTC
the endlessness of blame
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.
0
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
Beautiful Dream Deity: She Awaits Me