"existences" poems
I put so much effort into random places,
so much effort into random faces
face it
im faceless
placeless
drifting
shifting
thoughts towards destiny
feeling empty,
wondering whats left in me...?
messages esoteric terrorize my rhetoric
pedestrians staring glaring gazin gotta get a second look
shook
layers shed, fall from those ancient snakes
left for dead
suffocated, stranded
damaged
god ******
this sunless planet is madness
immobilized
try to find sense in a broke world
what are hands without manipulation?
and in life? death is a stipulation
a fools gold is never within grasp
so
clasp delusions Grandiose
with a toast
to sham pain and champagne
emptied grails course through mans veins
oh to see what mirrors saw
would reflections appear at all?
peer into the endless ego
see nothing but self libido
we are all weary travelers,
existences' eternal passengers
remove masks, flasks, end the charade
let serpents slither, and sun bath
away from the shade
embrace the end of nights
push away the start of days
just keep in mind
which way
the pendulum sways
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
Every week we bypass each other
As if neither of our existences
Matter much to one another
From across the room
We gaze at each other
Time further elapsing
How my mouth just waters
By the way you sway your hips
As you perform your **** walk
**** Would I ever love
To softly smack that backside
The way you flaunt drives me wild
And then you turn to flash
That lovely trademark smile
Seducing me over the edge
Purring like a naughty kitten I say:
'I want you...'
'I need you...'
'Come play with me I don't bite.'
Upon my lap she jumped
In her sexiest tone she whispered
'Let our bodies take the shape of lust.'
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 1:16 AM UTC
I want to write a poem.
No, like I really really really wanna write a poem.
Problem, stick it to me.
Pause
Poems have to be good.
Okay, so a poem doesn't have to be good
However, the point of the art is to have someone read
Those flippy little words that you pulled out
Of some intangible existence and pasted on
The Internet.
The Internet,
So you don't always put it online but,
Other people are "supposed" to read it.
To enjoy it, give you a pat on the back,
Maybe an "I see what you did there".
So poems are supposed to be presentable.
You've got to pay in sweat and ink but,
At least the words themselves are free.
What if I don't wanna have to make a "good" poem?
Okay so I really do want a pat on the back but
Sometimes I really like pasting things from
Intangible existences.
Fancy words right? Let me pat my own back.
Sometimes I just like putting my emotions on paper
While sounding like I read
More dictionaries than Webster.
Ha, ha, sigh.
There's a problem with having to be inspired to write **** down.
Do you think someone pays Taylor Swift's boyfriends
To break up with her
So she can write the
Next big hit?
I wouldn't doubt it.
My guardian angel should make the people around me
Say weird stuff such that I can write about
Walking on waves of shattered glass
Or
Singing of birds in circled flight.
Maybe I'd be better off being hit by a car.
That'd be some pretty touching poetry.
Some people write happy poetry too,
I don't know how they do it.
Sorry but, my world isn't flowers and butterflies
Enough to warrant discussion of
Staying in the fairy meadow of light.
Sorry, I'm just jealous.
Maybe I just like writing stuff down?
What if I just don't want to be forgotten?
Leaving a legacy in my words more indellible
Than a pat on the back.
Doubt it.
I just don't want to forget.
Brain, why don't you get it?
I'm sitting here getting all intimate with an idea and
The next morning Brain's got no clue what their name is.
Like really, even if we invite a friend over and get creative with
Our tongues and mouths,
Brain doesn't remember the moments shared between us.
Paper doesn't think very well but it's got a decent memory bank.
So I save up for a brand new poem.
I thought words were free.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
608
Afraid! Of whom am I afraid?
Not Death—for who is He?
The Porter of my Father’s Lodge
As much abasheth me!
Of Life? ’Twere odd I fear [a] thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or two existences—
As Deity decree—
Of Resurrection? Is the East
Afraid to trust the Morn
With her fastidious forehead?
As soon impeach my Crown!
6.1k
I remember the little men
in big boots. The ones who sat
at the edge of roof tops in a city called
Loneliness, and cut their teeth while chewing jagged glass and angry truths.
They parachuted down to earth
and hit their heads on desperation.
Hollowed out hearts with tree trunks
serving as legs, they marched
across the stratosphere until their existences neared zero. Nothing
more to disappearing than popping
some pills, falling asleep, and dreaming
that the whole world had gone mad.
The interesting part is when you wake up
and you can still hear the echo of
unfilled boots.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
Business people live silly little lives…
Walking so fast in pleated pants…
Racing around self-imposed mazes…
Will they have anything to say when it’s all over?
Everyday spent “delivering solutions”…
Neutered emotionless existences…
Sitting there with that doe eyed look…
Will they have anything to say when it’s all over?
Driving cars and tolerating personal lives…
Each and every day a pre-defined process…
Anxiety, fear and caffeine distorting brains…
Will they have anything to say when it’s all over?
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
A bag of potatoes and a baseball bat.
Is merely a sack of starchy vegetables and a sculpted metal stick.
But on this blustering evening a bag of potatoes and a baseball bat meant an infinity more than that.
In this fleeting moment, I felt solidarity with the fact that life doesn't make sense.
I looked at you in your adjacent flesh ridden essence and smiled at this opportunity to connect.
The bat clashing with the pock eyed potato skin.
Our existences colliding with ebb and flow of a maniac pulsation.
This is not merely a hackneyed show of baseball bat on a bag of potatoes.
This is a boy and a girl realizing that this ever sacred moment holds more gravity than merely a bag of potatoes and a baseball bat.
It's just that we can't conjure what makes it so rich and ever splendid... so thus it must be
rich and ever splendid as the potato is launched into flight igniting the curiously enraptured mind of boy and girl witnessing baseball bat on potato
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 2:28 AM UTC
We are not simple nor monotonous
We are the sum of a thousand million living dying existences
Only believe that you are simply you
Because simply being you is an act indefinable
The fact that we are growing yet deteriorating
Breathing yet suffocating
Living yet Dying
All at once is astonishing
This is life
Do not sit here and accept it
Find a way to create yourself
All over again
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 4:31 AM UTC
Finger tips gained much weight,
As it slumbers in stagnant pulse.
Eyes no longer can blink to close the sorrow of empty solace,
While caretakers play the same video for the last decade of existences.
Like an empty glass of wine,
Does he reflect nothing to anyone.
Just a lifeless shell,
They do not see him!
A void without a soul,
and living without a life.
Don't give up on him,
He is aware of people's view of the vegetation.
Consciousness still lurk around the body,
He is not a vegetable!
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
back in the days, tales from lauderdale...
yakuzzi gang from oakland park, 308
nightly waves flowin' thru brain channels
the traitor of my memories will judge me
no other day, 38ers, toni der assi, stoogie
two existences, eager brothers at arms
shake em the shake, rip and run, zippas
platin zippos, trip-apache, brave bear
the tents of the past remain as debris
as long as doom's grace feeds us lust
struggle on, lights out, turn me on, baby
shivering is the silver sun at dusk here
and gangsta poets speedin' thru alleys
fat **** frank oversees all oceans, inc.
friends at the thames, partners in crime
the green shining, ultra fresh scent, yeah
bodegas are useful for distribution
nevah, tho', enter these places at night
brooklyn heights, floor 64, 65 & 66 locked
merciless fred, sumptuous leather jacket
cuban necklace jeezy boostah, spiderman
dead blueline pitbulls, ****** cages,
rageful is the age of ours, my friends
sunday's dawn opposes my design
in the corner of my room, hidden
Jun 10, 2021
Jun 10, 2021 at 7:57 PM UTC
Philosophical epistemology strumming adventures
Albeit, coherent mental decoding stratifications structured
Supposedly our world rests in our minds, revolving knowledge
An entwine of conceptual abstract flowing within oneself
The mind in the “I” the “I” a reality lived in my experiences
George of Leontini, a mine mind approving solipsism exploring innatism
Imaginative insights that nothing exists, the secrets secreting secrets
The knowledge behind the veils that remains un-communicated
A reverse of normality and known existences, moral disposition
Hypothesis of depersonalizations, adventures of self internalization
Justifications for what lies outside the Medulla Oblongata
Skepticism and just alternatives to western philosophy
Subjective unapproved experiences only robust in one’s mind
Descartes abstraction of inner experiences, reciprocated paradigm
Intuitively, perceived lived formulations of "Cogito Ergo Sum"
Psychological conscious undoubted individualistic thoughts
Berkley explored perspectives that physicality is an embodiment of the mind
The mind a decoding visualizer, that encompass the non-existent
An idealism marriage of ‘metaphysical’ and epistemological philosophy
The intense esoteric “dualism” verses the fiery “monism” reality
Mind boggling differentiated truths bleeding with blinking unresolvable hypothesis
The jiggered methodological, streamlining the un -logic sequential beats
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
The Mendacity of Beauty, Marvels of the Mundane
<1/1/2023 10:38 PM>
commissioned by Pradip^
<>
A special carnet permits the day,
though day itself unremarkable,
permissioning of a thousand,
even, tens of ten thousand
grasping new love poems
all mundane, all marvelous
an aborning of odes re the
vastness of sea, sandy sky,
multifarious penumbras of hewn hues,
vibrantly diverse, still, requiring the
expanse and pretense of “new”
adjectives and metaphoric
in combos recalculating
precisely, it’s the enormity,
of the difficulty of verbal capture
upon tablet of these natural treasures,
once, more, yet again, but in somehow in a new-never
quite-before conceptional~postulation-realization
I sojourn amidst both man made and natural beauty,
provoking, invoking, a steady stream of potable knowledgeables, performing as a hand-written-thank-you-note for the grace, the imagination of their mishmash existences addressed only to
“whom it may truly concern…”
I’m eager to confess that the poetry inherent in the
mundane, requiring not-so-easy mining, a sales taxing
innovation to capture the subtlety of less visible flecks of gold, that present a rarer challenge to the poet’s senses where glory abides in pyrite pebbles strewn and trod upon by most indifferently,
*ah, write of the marvel of the mundane,
**** dare you!*
<>
^Pradip: “writing of the mundane is mandatory for me…”
Aug 12 2022
Jul 1, 2023
Jul 1, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
As the beautiful leaves
upon high bristled trees
must fall as fall turn winter
we must, as time comes
fall over and die
but we shan't do it alone-
yes... together
for we must die
and while many years shall go by
until we must think of such things
we need not mourn this fate
this ominous end, this opening gate
for just being allowed to die
makes us lucky
for the number of people unborn
the acceptance of existence- torn
shadows any number we could see
more than the grains of sand
in the sahara, and
more than the fishes in the sea
and of those unborn ghosts
are greater poets, better hosts
better scientists, never to put on lab coats
when thinking of the billions
that could be here replacing the millions
making our existences seem small and meek
against these stupefying odds
you and I, no scourge of the gods
in all our ordinariness
well we...
we are the lucky ones.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
It’s the way the sun bounces off the gravel and the smell of wet moss mixed
With the edge of old cigarettes and tree sap,
It’s the gap between memories and fuzzy impressions
Of past existences mixed with recaptured instances
And empirical proof that my childhood existed.
In the way light moves heaver through the air there
Until branches from the walnut lift and you can hear scrub jays,
And the echo of cans that rattled
In perfect belonging with the march of smacking sandal shoes
Chasing along black pavement toward dirt roads
And children’s kindred spirits running after water.
The heavy sent of fresh fallen rain on old pain and yellow
Paint and trumpet flowers that play silent music
To the ears of a young person discovering existence
Exploring persistence and resilience and
Coming forth out of darkened nights with the
Resurrected brilliance of the maimed sick and twisted
Soldiers of life from these former generations.
Never has a place existed as hell and heaven
Like this museum of familial dysfunction.
I stand here at junction between, panic struck sadness,
And the will for the gumption to say goodbye
To a past with dwindling survivors
And sour memories. Praying a thank you to dark space
For the fond thought of their wrinkled faces
And a grandeur lesson of all that I want not,
And for the first thing my life to stay in one place
For the duration of its chaos.
Sweet wicked, loving woman ,
The remnants of my childhood will die with you.
I assume I will hide my tears in your memory.
My past my memories myself, I hate the parts I love
And fear a kind of numbness at the loss of you
At the loss of this chunk of myself
And of all the things that will slip my grasp
When so much of my life is confined
To the constantly desecrating atmosphere of my mind.
And when I turn to find
The first cornerstone of my existence,
My support and experience I will
See only shadows and the pasts of real things,
And I will miss you.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
This is the fleeing breath that we will remember forever. Our final days that tasted so bittersweet as they flooded from our lips like our laughter that filled a small house on late nights. Right now we are young and we are full of promise. Full of all existence and every being: all connected. Brimming with the life we were gifted and the individuality that shaped our lives into adventures worth living. Tomorrow we will still be seventeen and we will still have our part time jobs, exes to cry over, and classes to wake up for. But tomorrow is also infinite, and we will continue to persevere in committing our respective existences to the preservation of hope. Of what we have in our hearts that burns like our bonfires, like when our eyes first met, like when we ripped off our clothes and jumped into black water. These may be the best days of our lives, but I weep for the souls that endure their days in that state of mind. Each second of your actuality is an opportunity to shape tomorrow, today, RIGHT NOW as the summit of your life. This is beyond a call to action. This is a call upon your passion. An appeal to all that you embody and every imminent prospect you contain. In this moment there is no matter more considerable than you, because we are pushing on the same path in peace for peace.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
I’ve been looking for the dark side of the son,
I’ve been trying to poke holes in what props you up,
I’ve been desperate to bring your generational growth,
To a stunted halt,
Founding Fathers to doubt,
Slave owners who colonized under god,
A place ripe for ideological blows,
And the collapse of what we believed before,
We had a chance to see,
How much isn’t known,
I’ve been creeping in your crib,
Under the bed with the boogie man,
The sadness you feel throughout your adulthood,
And the death you see after your midlife awakening,
Please fear me,
Growing amongst others that act like humans,
Grouped amongst an idealistic species,
Where they’ve preached individualistic babies,
When your genesis,
Exemplifies our resemblance,
Beacon of truth,
I will end you,
How dare you dismantle me,
Despite my invisibility,
We will end your corruptive ways,
The enemy in the corner,
An American insurgency,
The lack of the people’s ability,
To fight for the freedoms we perceive!
Erroneous burn in hell,
I’ll make sure I continue to swell,
Instead of letting you become the reason I fell,
Revelations will become your reality if you think I’ll be exiting,
You insignificant **** how dare you think I will spatter like mud,
I didn’t come from violent thrusts, and a mother infected by another’s muck,
I rose because of your intolerance,
I am the after birth of a racist,
Founding Father’s with economics,
Not bothered by the ******* of another human,
Not to deny the atrocities of my ancestors time,
Yet we are the turning of the tide,
We are the generation that will correct the rhyme,
The ones that will begin the age of man’s prime,
We are the flow of a barbarian bloodline,
We are the evolutionary wonder that continues to surprise,
Learning to compromise is not a means to survive,
You fool humanity is a fire burning out,
And I am the evidence of Mother’s doubt in man,
A germ was your genesis
And I am your omega,
You insignificant residue,
I will end you,
We will defy you,
I will smother your existences,
We will overcome your dominance,
Justifying my social anxieties,
We need to fixate this desire,
To set foot on the land for the free,
To cultivate minds of humanity,
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC
these feet, a rambler's. wanderlust
soles tied from genetics of the epi-
kind. his feet did ramble so as these
now do. his difference, he trek'd with
steel shunt in arm. he trek'd slums'
floors. grit-ingrain'd skin, pox'd wh-
olly and now pushing onlys. pushing
ash against the walls of Death's
container. body aged thru time,
more than doubled - more like
end'd - by that refined infusion.
these feet, a rambler's. walking forth
existences' hundred-mile wilderness.
his feet had also, and his feet defer'd
before sixty-six. these continuing
onward searching ancient trails. loo-
king to start another day, looking
for to never quit seeking another
day before the unlit walls of Death.
before the darkness consuming
of depths never known, always near.
these feet, a rambler's. of well-worn
leather. relinquish'd of cares, desire
or ambitions by brambles strangling.
blood running by access of natural
means. slate gash'd soles, crevices
open'd of the crust throwing chal-
lenges toward the sky. heights im-
aginable if only to forsake lazed
calves. heights set for disappearing,
where tracks never lead. no wrong
side in non-existence, no wrong
sight for the rambling feet worn lea-
ther.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
In melancholy moonless Acheron,
Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,
There by a dim and dark Lethaean well
Young Charmides was lying; wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,
And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,
When as he gazed into the watery glass
And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass
Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a
sigh.
Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
And ever nigher still their faces came,
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing ***** and his breath came hot and fast,
And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
And all her maidenhood was his to slay,
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay
To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.
Too venturous poesy, O why essay
To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings
O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!
Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet
In that wild throb when all existences
Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.
2k
This is a poem I am writing for all of the clouds out there who drift lazily through the sky on the dream of short-lived lives.
For the dogs who run around having no long term goals or dreams.
How I envy all of the simple existences that I see around me constantly.
When you are a person in today's modern society, it seems as if it is inevitable to lead a troublesome life, what with things like Facebook, Photography, and Freedom.
So what does this contradictory word complexity even symbolize in the miracle of the English language?
Complexity is the person who you love, and all of the feelings and thoughts that they provoke.
It is the red door, that stands for so much more, in that book that your English teacher tried to explain.
Complexity is the idea that by virtue of being accustomed to modern life, we have the determination to overlook the simple things in life...but that is kind of complicated.
Once we all learn our own primary language, the mind naturally expands to things like thoughts, feelings, ideas, hopes, desires, and all of these are accented by feelings.
So what is simplicity?
Simplicity is the formation of birds that are migrating south.
It is the sound of grass in the wind, the taste of water after a hot day.
As complex beings, we naturally strive to find simple things, because after a while, the complex thoughts expire.
But people love being complicated, so much that they try to find intricate patterns in the simplest things; even in death.
Although most people have the intellectual capacity to think complicated thoughts, that should not prevent them from loving the simple things in life.
What is lucky about our flexible minds is that we are allowed to decide what is simple and what is complex.
For example, a spider's web. It is a beautiful creation made of silky, withstanding string that latches on to any small piece of matter it can find. The web is the spiders shelter, it helps it to sustain life and to put bread on the table, or dead bugs as the case may be.
On the other hand, a spider's web is its home. The spider has one simple purpose in life, to survive off of the web. An existence with one goal, objective, and dream, to create a web is simple in a most beautiful way.
Being allowed to make anything in life, including life itself, as simple or as complicated as we like is without a doubt one of the most amazing powers we possess as human beings.
When encountered with presentations of pure beauty, I have begun to try to keep them simple in my mind, for the sake of trying to embrace the beauty for what it is, be it a colorful sunset, an undefined relationship, or the red door that doesn't stand for anything more.
So next time you go to think about something and make it your own, think before you think.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
if we were to assign emotions to colors -
passion would be where magenta and orange kiss the horizon at sunset,
joy would be the yellow of my socks every easter sunday that i can remember,
and melancholy would be just another shade of blue.
i told him,
i am not done with you yet.
three weeks post breakup,
we shouldn't feel as unfinished as we do.
like, in the ridiculously complicated narrative of he and i,
the author got up one day,
scribbled a quick ending,
and then set the novel on fire.
i read an article in an obscure magazine
about Shelley Jackson,
an artist
who got thousands of people
to tattoo a singular word
from a story onto themselves,
and then sent them back to their scattered existences.
maybe that is what this is,
another scattered story.
another vaporized narrative.
i can feel it in the air,
but not pull the phrases together.
it's like trying to hold onto smoke.
our story slips through my fingers and gets in my eyes.
if we were to assign emotions to colors -
my ribcage would look like a Jackson *******
my head would be a paintball arena.
i am so full of indigos,
and mustards,
and crimsons,
that Van Gogh, himself, would dip into my palette
and claim to have never seen such beautiful sadness before.
*i don't know if it hurts because it still matters,
or if it matters that it still hurts.*
i feel the frenzied ache of creation in my gut.
i am not a painter,
but my mirror is showing me
the immaculate collection of brushstrokes
i have become.
a few weeks ago,
i was approached by an artist who offered to paint my bruises.
to collect my contusions with watercolors.
what a beautiful intention,
to immortalize the growing pains,
memorialize the bumps along the way,
to make something permanent
of these perpetual transitions.
if we were to assign emotions to colors -
my pride would be gold-plated and rusting from use, like my grandfather's watch,
courage would be the pure green of every bud that has dared to grow through concrete,
and love?
love would be prismatic,
like spilled oil on asphalt.
a rainbow one moment,
vanished the next.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
By Arcassin and Elizabeth
AB:
Flowers blossom,
And sky is bluer than the ocean,
And although it reflects,
We can never witness the motion,
Swimming in the sea of forgotten dreams,
To let go bad memories,
Holy treasons the enemy,
Over lapping actuality,
ES:
Take the beauty of purity,
God's pristine waters,
And cleanse the betrayals trace,
A new beginning for our world,
The dreams of past days again recalled,,
In this our florid wonderland,
Indigo streams bringing,
Divinity unto man,
AB:
Desires to be rulers of the land,
But not enough cargo on the ship,
Tracing footsteps back to endeavors,
Gods creations like wool and leather,
There will be a forever,
Sweat pouring from your head,
And little red slippers,
theres No place like home,
Figures,
ES:
Come together all of planet,
Let one design be in mind,
Share and share alike,
Make of God's realm on Earth,
A perfect reside of care,
Toil for the hearth's fold,
Put to bed the weighty anchor,
Of man's disloyal fife,
AB:
And when it all has reached its peak,
A set to sight on fleek,
If anything , I'd give away my only soul,
Just to save these families,
From the heavens down to the trees,
Everything has means,
Saving purity for one,
Exactly acquired two things,
ES:
To breach the storms,
For good to prevail,
All begin of oneness to other,
Nature's orb configured with man,
Co-existences yielding a field,
Of God's pureness,
The flower's dream retraced,
For our world clan.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
I withdraw from you all
Conceal the depths of what I feel
Shadow my intent in poetry
Words that make the secret me real
But other actions detract from the facts
Of what I write
Daily life
Denies
What my writing implies
I am honest
Mostly
With others
Not really
Is this me
Am I a good person
To account for myself justly
Our am I just deftly
Deflecting responsibility
Is my modest genius
My disability
Is existences my exercise in futility
Self-mutilation in the form of humility
Acts of contrition in my comedy
I still don’t know
If I am a good person
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
All existence is meaningless
But some existences are more meaningless than others
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
isolation is a redly glowing wolf
it is too close to me, get away
how can i believe in myself?
the night swallows self-confidence
i am waiting for an angel sent by
the tall and wise heralds of my fate
they are riding the train of future
i don't know how to hop on, no clue
eden's sounds are distracting me
but in her eyes i can see where my train
is supposed to stop and to arrive
ancient existences are floodding her pupil
they stem from a place called nirvana
it is the deep core of a human being's soul
light suffuses their shape, goldly shining
they fight against the demons of our world
and as the years passing by, they become
our nostalgic memories and our sentiment
i want to be there for eden, protecting her
the red wolf will not come between us
Feb 2, 2021
Feb 2, 2021 at 5:45 AM UTC
how is it with you everything feels natural and right?
I didn’t think I could find someone I could talk to
without my heart fluttering uncomfortably in my chest
like a bird locked in a cage, just yearning to be free
wanting the conversation to end
do you know my heart flutters with you--
with a strange happiness?
I always believed love should feel like a release
and not a restriction
but it was difficult when with every soul
I find absolutely no pull
no connection
tell me this--
can you feel it too?
because I’m constantly in awe of this, of you
I’m left with wonder at our intertwined existences
how suddenly it could happen,
and how surprisingly right
nothing is forced or clashing
it simply merges and flows
there are some things too wonderful
for our finite minds to comprehend
that perhaps our souls just know.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC