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zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

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Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

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SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

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OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
1165

Contained in this short Life
Are magical extents
The soul returning soft at night
To steal securer thence

As Children strictest kept
Turn soonest to the sea
Whose nameless Fathoms slink away
Beside infinity
Scott Mitchell Dec 2012
Discernment of facts escape a blind eye
Incalculable deceit fell upon naive assumptions of decorum

Virtues so easily replaced by a blanket of colorful chattel
Now, countless blankets dance about, as ghosts
on a paved route chosen with intent of endless future passage
And now, to escape the realm of falsities
every eventide is exchanged for repose and closed eyes

Pleasure, promises, and poetry she gave
only to have something to take away
In vengeance of a caustic past
Aphrodite unleashed artful malevolence into a fallen heart

Oh, how so much exists
where there is nothing
Emptiness can be full of such desire
And oh, the bitter taste of sweet words
from the unrestrained lips of a liar

An offering cloaked with savory fruit in cordial hands
Swearing to give it all in the big apple
and then seducing to her roots in the yard
Absorbing a soul
Only to create a martyr of forlorn cause

An abomination can appear so sweet
when emptiness needs filling
A demon from below,
delightful,
before killing

Nostalgia, a trail of footsteps in the mud
Like a fingerprint with an unquestionable owner
Arduous wails reaching the extents of one's universe
as a pawn and patriarch share reflection in the stagnant tide

knowledge of good and evil, once a desire, now a curse
yet, finally held
Gratefully numb with inescapable acceptance

Scott Mitchell
09 Dec 2012
POETRY AND ITS IMPACT ON HUMANITY

Today the word poetry evokes images of love and sentimentality, but the term romanticism has a much wider meaning. It covers a choice of developments in art, literature, music, dance and philosophy, spanning the late 20 th and early 21 st centuries.

The romantics would not have used the term themselves and the label was applied retrospectively, from around the middle of the 20 th century. Man was born free in this virtual environment of real life but, everywhere he is in chains. During the romantic period major transitions took place in culture, as dissatisfied intellectuals and artists challenged the establishment.

Almost all the romantic poets were at the very heart of this movement. They were inspired by a desire for liberty, and they denounced the misuse of the poor.There was a highlight on the significance of the individual; a conviction that people should follow ideals rather than imposed conventions and rules. The romantics renounced the rationalism and order linked with the preceding clarification era, stressing the importance of expressing authentic personal feelings.

They had a real sense of responsibility to their fellow men: they felt it was their duty to use their poetry to inform and inspire others, and to change the humanity and their social attitude. Poet Rumpa Ray Ghosh believe in this theory on life and poetry of this time.

A PASSIONATE POET OF THIS TIME

For Poet Rumpa Ghosh, even a quatrain is what in a verse, which makes someone to cry or to laugh, or just be silent, makes your twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own.
Poetry is taking at the heartstrings, and making music within our solitude in life. Rumpa Ray Ghosh is a poet of profound obsession towards composing lyrical form of poetry. Her poetic enthusiasm makes her verses, extremely impressive and highly alluring. She is fast budding poetess of wisdom and emotional response. She had completed her Masters degree from University of Calcutta, though she is from Calcutta currently living in Mumbai.She started composing poems since her young age.

Intentionally or innocently, many of the poets are most often trying to fill a vast space with things that cannot satisfy fully. We look forward to fill the void with our own possessions for comfort, but unfortunately we normally end up wanting more and more. We try to fill it with relationships or pleasures, but we end up feeling even more empty and further more depressed than from the point where and when we commenced the discontentment as these thoughts were well presented by Rumpa Ray Ghosh in her poems, namely, “ The Roof”, “ The broken house “.
The only place that we can really find true fulfilment and gratification is in the hands of divine God. We need to recall and allow our convictions, not in circumstances, to govern our sense of contentment. The anthology freshly illuminates many excellent lyrics and short poems and are highly valued regardless of its freestyle genre.
For both the poet’s, self-consciousness is connected to the new eminence established to poetry by the feelings of the self, which truly resembles the title of the anthology, “ The Musical Marvels of Self “. Her poems are lyrical, close to heart, soft and romantic. The scrupulous flow in her rhyme magnetizes the readers. Her works were widely published in many national and international journals. She is a regular blogger. She takes the images of her writing from simple every day incidents, uses metaphors and imagery to add grace in her skill of presentation.
Her language is simple, easily understood by lay man, quite touching and heart rendering. Her first book " Musical Marvels of Self ", an anthology of 43 poems came out through Zorba publishers.

The anthology was a combined effort in association with honourable poet Dr Ujjwala Kakarala during September 2017 Besides, being a talented poetess of lyrics, she was an excellent singer Proficient in Bengali folksongs, Rabindra Sangeet and Nazrulgeeti and ghazals and has sung in numerous local stage shows. Rabindra Sangeet merge gracefully into Tagore's literature, most of which—poems or parts of single scene plays alike—were beautifully transformed or converted to lyrical formats. Influenced by the “ Thumri “ style of classical vocal music, this has made the entire scope of human emotion, ranging from his early songs-like Brahma devotional hymns to human soul.
This has emulated the tonal color of classical “ragas “to varying extents.
Earlier, She had also the chance to attain a position as Quarter-finalist in BBC Mastermind Family Quiz competition aired on Disney Channel.Poet Rumpa Ray Ghosh, an Indian by nationality, she hails from West Bengal, the “ City of Joy “, but currently living in Mumbai, Maharashtra, India. She is by occupation a teacher, content writer and a blogger. By obsession she is a poetess and a singer. She has completed her post-graduation and B.Ed. from the University of Calcutta. She has worked as a teacher in St. Thomas School, Mumbai, as a content-writer for ‘Pratham’ (NGO) and as an English curriculum developer in Vibgyor High School in Mumbai.
She publishes her writings on her own blog with a name ( fragmentofimagination). She is also a writer for some literary groups. Some of her poems have been published in national anthologies. Recently one of her poems has been published in a US e-magazine "Beyond Borders” in a popular poetry site. She has also participated in an open-mic poetry reciting performance in the Prithvi theater arena in Mumbai. Being Proficient in classical vocal music, she had the opportunity to perform in classical vocal music on various musical events. She is a Sangeet Visharad from Bhatkhande Sangit Vidyapith, Lucknow and is trained under Late Pandit Vinayak Vohra. More tha a Poetess having a deep passion in writing, she enjoys dance, music and teaching his students as part of her professional skills. Stay blessed in all ways at all times.

WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Ariana V Mar 2011
Darling, your eyes on me
send my heart to a place of passion,
a place of intensity.
The eyes that belong to my captor,
the ones that captivate me,
enthrall me to extents unknown to others.

Love, your arms around me
secure the love I have for you
to it's correspondent place,
right to you, where I want it,
where you want it.
Those adoring arms,
caramel, caressing, caring,
tell me that no place other than there
is where I should be.

Dear, those pressing lips
that when first mingled with mine
the universe painted my life
with colors unseen to those without love.
Oh, those tender lips!
How understanding
How mature
How amorous
How passionate
I know from the language they speak,
the language mine speak,
that other lips upon mine
would be lost in translation.

Most handsome, your love is
a taste
a glimpse
a gentle touch
of the universe around us.
Your love fulfills me.
It's worth fighting for.
Its value is greater than that
of the many treasures of the world.
It's mine now.
And, I swear,
I will hold it close.
I will hold it as if
the wind could carry it away,
even though the winds
could never steal that from me.
Your love instilled passion into my life.
Your love has set my soul on fire.
Ayad Gharbawi Dec 2009
I HAVE A RENDEZVOUZ WITH DEATH



Ayad Gharbawi

To the many needing comfort, needing advice, needing passions sincere, to whom do they turn to?

To whom can they turn to?

The days unmask the increasing emptiness between all of us, and the need for revolt is always there. The urge to be solitary as a reflection of one’s disgust with the hollowness of human beings, is always an attraction for some.
The urge to speak one’s mind to all people, to shatter the idiotic niceties and protocol that separates all of us and represses our genuine needs and desires and ardent wishes in life, is always an attraction for some.

The need to transcend the humdrum of our lives daily is there, and yet we feel that somehow little can be truthfully done. That is such a prevalent feeling – that as an individual I can do very little to change my life, so one submits to apathy wearying.

The society of individuals increasingly down cast and alone while at the same time people may increase their social contacts – but, there are no positive results to be gained therefrom, for the ‘human’ is crumbling as a sovereign entity into frightened fragments, self-doubt and confusion.

Ask yourselves, what is the net emotional result of all your socialising? For when the certain hour arrives and you witness that accusatory feeling of ‘What have I done?’ your horrifying reply will be that you have done nothing to fulfil your needs and desires and passions.

The hour does ask you: ‘What do you feel at the end of it all?’ and your emotions search vainly for meaning and fulfilment, for in essence there never existed any meaning and fulfilment in your lives in the first place.

Your life style, your socialising has merely succeeded to varying degrees and extents in covering up your real needs and desires.
Thus, in essence, you are merely ignoring, avoiding and repressing your true feelings; the ‘successful’ day is when you do not feel the urge to express your needs; in other words you have successfully been able to distract yourself from your real self.
However, ones innate needs and desires return to haunt us because they are our essence existentially.

Repression of one’s needs and desires and hopes results in disastrous consequences of the self. We are not being true to our selves. We are masks, we are afraid of ourselves because if we were to face ourselves, then that would entail changing our lifestyles and our frame of mind.

The humans around you are not ‘real’.

They are not what they are pretending to be.

The humans around you are living in sorrow hidden by niceties and good manners and protocol and a million other worthless distraction. The humans around you are losing their humanity, their creativity, their needs and passions while they go about the routines of their various lives predictable.

Man is dying in himself, willingly wistfully to accept his/her resignation from life; echoes of Seeger’s poem, ‘Rendezvous’ can hardly be ignored:


‘But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town
When spring trips north again this year
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.’


           Ayad Gharbawi -
Nessa dieR Dec 2015
Slowly, Patiently*  losing my mind
Screeching and LOUDLY  I'm going blind.
Believing,   I was so naive before
I won't trust anymore.
I waited on a dove of hope
to come and help me out this drag
To such extents did I dared scope...
But it was just a  **Paper Bag
Jeremy Betts Oct 2019
(political)

Our leaders don't instill much confidence with their arrogance and incompetence
The blind leading the blind, leading Trump, leading Mike Pence
The importance of common sense diminishing due to a far sub par influence
Leaving said common sense to no longer be common place, commonly erased and/or misplaced, replaced and praised by the physical embodiment of ignorance
A fact, in essence, is knowledge not acceptance, they rather you had no  remembrance of that conflicting evidence
With no thinking cap there's an absence of intelligence so you find yourself turning your nose up at the science
Thinking you can create your own semblance of order but it doesn't stick cause there's no substance
Empty ideas with no means to an end will never silence a crowd, just spreads around more violence
It's proven every election, they are tyrants saying what we want to hear then going back on all campaign statements
No more compliance, gotta stop thinking we the people can't make a difference
That thought was born from the opposite of arrogance in the sense that we don't know the extents of the power that comes with just our presence
It really, truly is a gift, now we just need to open our presents with a willingness and appropriate acceptance
Gotta quit with the indulgence of the hot air and flatulence that spew from these sycophants
Blind obedience is a dangerous way to advance and go about your existence
To much trust given in this instance, we bought it not 'cause it was a need but 'cause it was on clearance
Now we know the price was to steep but deceit is their quasi brilliance
Pure reliance on these p*ss ants we supposedly elected for guidance is a death sentence
They saw you coming from a distance and detoured your persistence
All the while preying on you from a white house window as you brave the elements
They even got you believin' your thoughts are your own but I can't stress this enough, that's nonsense
Regardless, it's no coincidence that we're falling right in line behind their wicked influence
Every four years we seem to pass on the renters insurance, so there's no assurance
No guarantee that when it comes crashing down like suicide insurgents
You won't be left to foot the bill of their gluttonous indulgence
Face it, you ate it up too, don't lie, can't claim your innocence when there's a witness and clear cut evidence
Evidence you bought into this with no regard for this nations residents
Coining the hashtag my life matters more then those low life pesints
In that regard see, poor is poor, color really, truly doesn't make a bit of difference
That's just used to keep us at each others throats so we don't form any kind of resistance
Saving face is a progress hindrance, we messed up royally when we voted outta spite and defiance
Even before it was official we knew it wasn't gonna be a good alliance
You could just tell by looking out into his audience and seeing who was in attendance
Every stance he took seemed like another foot in the grave but he buys his way out with daddy's allowance
Excuse me, I'm sorry, I mean inheritance, whatever, same difference
And this ADD society can't focus long enough to begin an impeachment prosses much less secure a prison sentence
And with the occurrence of each lie we lose more and more faith in the system put in place to uphold some semblance of balance
This breeds a nation of violence, looking for vengeance, no more tolerance
But we cant be the change we want to see while in a safe space, our soundtrack can't be the sound of silence
We don't want to be left with this blood money inheritance riddled with the guilty parties fingerprints
But at our core we're just looking to make more of a difference by being the difference
And yeah, they should be scared of what we're capable of, the gloves are off, we broke the trance, now let's dance...

©2019
meekkeen Oct 2015
Thank you
For the flashbacks
The recurring theme
The cursed motif
I hailed into the closet
From behind the sheets
I could not comprehend
The depression
Though I knew its extents
The contents
Of its origin
I could not mend
You lengthened the bend
Thank you
For setting fire to my heart
The ultimate pyre
I’ve been reborn
And forever shall your
Essence lift to the tops of trees
And, looking for breeze,
Sink instead to the dirt
And sweating leaves
Of parchment you shall never read
The scripture that strengthens
My soul-
The harmonies that have turned me
Inside out
And allowed me to see
My heart deformed
Reformed
You will rest in rot
Yellow
And
Decay
Thank you for
Dangling the wrench
Challenging me to endure
The extraction of teeth
I am removing
I am re
Moving
My love
And loyalty
And sensuousness
From the snares
Placed in vain
My veins run clean
I am recreating
A scene
A feature
A fissure
Between life
And death
I am
Fire
Rain
The original
Spring
I am swelling forth
And catching flies
I am making prints
On earth and sky
I am giving birth
To myself
I am here
Hear me,
Thank you
For throwing me down
The stairwell
And creating the echo
That woke me
And burned me
And washed me
Clean.
Hold my hand through the bars,
we can learn how to live all over again.

Mind your Ps and Qs, keep them in a penny purse.
wear your orange jump suit backwards,
live out your sentence in reverse.

Crinkled, crumpled and recyclable,
throw yourself away.

You know that it'll take eleven kps
for any real escape,
yet you try nonetheless.

The sticks and stones, the pebbles I've thrown
don't leave traceable dents.

There’s a mountain made of
boxes I nailed shut, long ago
I mailed them to myself, with a shove.

Up to your cell, wobble towers,
tiny boxes creating stairs

The edges curled, cardboard grew ridges,
the cutout dream
caught fire to my bridges.

We couldn't have turned back,
had we tried.

Etched into the walls,
messages to future prisoners;
instructions on avoiding cafeteria calls.

Hiking boots with cleated treads
for steep hills, rocky cliffs.

The extents gone to freeing the caught,
comfortable behind their striped shadows
are left unnoticed and left to clot.

Used napkins on tourist ferry seats,
cheap asian sauce hiding jail blueprints.

Hide in the elevator shaft,
I’ll meet you in the back stairwell.
You bring life jackets, I’ll bring the raft.

We can pretend the verdict swung
and go back to being free enough to visit supermarkets.
Munch Gee Nov 2017
You know they say Accounts is boring
Full of rules and such.
But I see in it a beauty,
One that I miss so much.

Accounting is an art,
Not to be framed or praised.
You will never find it hung in galleries,
And most will not be amazed.

It has in its insipid placidity
A calmness, stillness of being
It prizes precision, stoic obedience
And an unquestioning routine.

In its so called predictability
Many are led to be jaded
To do something the same way over and over
They find that the  novelty has faded.

But to me it is a land
Where man rules with his mind and his hand
Where everything has a place to be
And a counter- part to keep it company.

I miss so much the process
Of allocating what needs to be.
I ache sometimes for that closure
The drawing of double lines, you see.

Because amidst the raging chaos
Of our bubbling minds
Accounts demands discipline
And control of some kind.

I don’t find this stifling
I find in it a peace
A closure most of life doesn’t offer
And with its balance sheets, a release.

It’s nice to make sense for a change
Of our haphazard world
Where everything belongs somewhere
And nothing is left unheard.

Accounts, you are well adjusted
Perhaps too much to a fault
People are tired of your perfection
The balance you bring, the halt.

But I in my maze of a mind
Love to do a few sums
That start of like puzzles
But end up being fun

Mostly because there are answers
That are arguably right
This absoluteness maybe a construct
But I’m willing to suspend my insight

And go along with something
For once that keeps me on track
Accounts you are meditation
You demand concentration that most people lack.

Poetry is applauded
Poetry is acclaimed
But in the real world, it is you who are useful
Although you don’t have any fame.

You are also a quiet achiever
That doesn’t boast of your strengths
Rarely a loud inspiration
That does not go to great extents.

You are not melodramatic
Nor do you lure peoples with guise
What you see is what you get.
No gimmicks and no lies.

You teach me of a denied truth
That reality is boring.
Your philosophy is order and balance
Your karmic world sends me soaring.
midnight prague Nov 2010
XI
lets be honest
let me be honest
when I speak of the precautions
of the extents
where my skin feels the need to come off my body

I dont know if I want to wait till it sheds
or if I choose to be intolerant
and simply rip it off my muscle

the skin that you have touched
let it ware away
anything please
just let this violence settling on top of my being
just ware away

I have been there
in the inner most deep depths of your freckles
and Im meddled
so lost
in your extrgavance
something put me out of this state

and the last time we spoke, I spoke to you with a tone of hatred
and I would never let you know
that, moment was my love manipulated

into something so much deeper than what we were
and why is that
why are you
you
and why am I me
and things trail down this little road of our
personal caotic catasrophe

the clouds bleed out our meaning
everyday
when the sun is out
and its light everyday
and it brings me into a retreat
you make the light do this to me

hopefully
somewhere in between the stories
ill find myself pleading
and then I will find an answer
to this endless mind thought
love forgive me
the passion itself
please

your hands so female
declare suffocation in every bone
Poetic Artiste Jul 2014
The sweetest words escape a mouth full of lies
You think I am unaware
I see beyond the disguise
I know what love means
I know how love feels
I know the love we have
Just isn’t real

Stuck in the daydream
Of a hopeless romance
We started out perfectly
I thought it would last

The passion addicting
The *** –amazing
Your kisses breathtaking
But I was mistaken...
Your exterior perfection
The interior heartbreaking...

You are not who you say you are
My trust now abused
Drawing an ending sooner than we both knew

No more second
No more third
No more fourth and so on chance
My patience for you has now reached its max

I try to forgive
I try to forget
But you lie and you lie
Again and again
I believe you

The audacity you present
To look me in my eyes and say
I Love you
I Love...you
With a mouth full of lies

The facade of innocence long overdue
This deception now expected
Years you've perfected the craft
A true player’s form
Always sure to cover your tracts

But I was always two steps ahead of you
I had only turned a blind eye
Accepting less than deserved
Now I question why
I am finished now

No more second
No more third
No more fourth and so on Chance

Love does not lie
Love does not cheat
Love does not cause pain to extents I weep on my knees

But still I thought I loved you
I thought I needed you
I wanted you
But you are not the one for me
This love not pure
Tainted, young and naive

I too shall move on
I too shall love again
I too shall be happy and live with sustenance

Fall deeper in love than the earth’s core
Meet someone who digs deeply enough they find my broken soul
They will pick up the pieces to securely heal me
Then I will say honestly
To the love who is true
I Love you.
Sincerely
I. Love. You.
Isabel Bonilla Jul 2014
My deepest desire?
Hold you in my arms for one blissful moment, one last time.

My greatest joy?
Watching your rare, handsome smile.

It made my heart flutter to painful extents.

Those warm early summer nights, where our bodies moved as one.
Your taste, your smell, your touch, the feel of your skin under my fingers

Those short, brief expressions of early love.
I knew how hard it was for you to mutter them.

And I was grateful, happy and fulfilled. For it was hard for me too.

Your gentle ways, the absolute pleasure of your company.

Finally, two lone wolves have found each other.

But alas, it was not meant to be.

Distance and time created an insurmountable rift.
The perpetual silences, the lies, the disrespect. The void of confusion.

The love I felt soon became resentment, then anger.
Refusing to go down without a fight, that is my warrior nature.

My words of concern where only met with drunken mockery. Condescending. Smugness.

He never loved me. Something changed. It was useless.

No explanations that would soothe a chaotic heart.

Sometimes, the best thing is just to walk away.

But the rage and confusion remain, like fire embers on a dark night.
Kìùra Kabiri Mar 2017
“To love is to tenderly dig into someone’s mind:
His or her heart and soul to forever find!
Care and carry compassionately in storms and in winds
To love is to find an eternal peace in the one that you lovingly abides
Love is to find a familiar ground that two forever binds!
Love is the joy shared by two that in this journey, true rides!
In love are routes rough, in love are ways tough, in love are rails-grids that grinds
Though, in love are determined souls that never part but remains set in strong stands”

A kiss is a stamp of love
To feel your breath warmth in mine
An emboss, an assurance of love
Our staring gaze, the stupors for each other’s sight
Is a language stronger than words-written or verbal  
Understood only by two fools honestly hungry for each other
The beauty and peace of your voice
Candidly meaning your saying that you love me alone forever
Is an indelible engrave of our love
Music, a sweet sacred hymn to my soul
Like a piper’s pious pipe, it is a song to my ears
A solemn instrumental, sentimental to my heart

To hear the heart beat of your heart
In the strong embraces of your arms
It’s a stigmata to our love, there to be binding forever!
An umbilical cord strapping us together end-ever
To listen to the whispers of your soul in our feelings and flows
To feel the silences of your heart in our emotions and elations
Is to be entangled in eternal love, to be chained in forever love

You are mine, there is no way I will let you go!
I will fight for you, I will care for you!
I will love you forever and ever for our love is forever  
I will love you beyond any Heaven's heights or Earth's extents
Now in its extant and ever even when we are lost extinct
We will watch the earth form and deform together
Nature, magnificently make and despondently delete together forever
Together we will quietly listen to the melodic music of the universe forever

When the sun sad burns, I will be your shade
When storms rage havoc, I will be your shelter
And when the rains pound, I will still be your umbrella
When lightening rudely strikes and thunders raucously scares
I will still be there besides to care, your scares to cure
When snows severely fall, I will be your oven, kiln warmth
When summer and springs sweet sings, I will be your mild melody
And when autumns dull comes, I will be the joy to raise your moistened moods
To who do you owe your heart to? To you I owe my heart
In my heart is my all-my soul, it that outlives me-dust!
Keep compassionate care of my spirit, until I returns-compost!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Meagan Moore Jan 2014
I fall in love with facets, and the degrees and extents to which things circumnavigate about individuals, experiences, and those betwixt and be beyond either. My love for everything and everyone develops about these multi-faceted musings evoked in atomic and energy form about and within myself. Thank YOU for being you, especially the raw things beyond your control - I appreciate you not burnishing your edges/grit.
nin-esque Nov 2013
The iced night kissed the closed window with frost.
There you lay fitting against me like a puzzle piece
As the tangerine fire scintillates in front of our bodies
Leaving shadows of paintings on your skin.
An ocean is flowing through your hand as you trace
The stardust freckles sprinkled upon my face.
Poems of ardent passion are being exhaled from your
Lungs. The moon is playing Al Bowlly’s tunes of 1930 love.
Can you hear? I want nothing more than for you to
Consume me whole right this moment. You quench my
Thirsty body in your red wine kisses. I am wholly yours
In a way I will never be anyone else’s. Feed my soul
Your impassioned heart and dig your teeth into mine.
For my heart is yours, Love. Our cardiac muscles are
Beating in sync with each other. We are one. Molded
Into your skin, and you in mine, our souls meet on
The border of our physical life and the realm of the next.
Euphoria and love is seeping through our bodies making
Our somatosensory system heightened to extents
Of ******* happiness. Your eyes kiss into mine words
of I love you. This is where we belong. You found me.
I owe a great deal
To the friends I hardly knew
For granting me memories
Of happiness and adventure
I thought possible only in dream
To laughter with each meal
Heartfelt tears in Shanghai grew
Sprouting lifetimes of stories
Of a fantasy
Against all odd
To the tunes of Parisian melody
Boasting a Holy Romantic seal
Beyond what possibly may seem

To the friends I hardly knew
May life smile on you
Bring you fortunes
And faithful kinships
To aid you when we part
Know what I say is true
From the run through Thai dew
And admiration of tropical art
It is but I thank you
From the truest extents of my heart
Though lost in Dublin street
Even though we may again never meet
From the highest of Highlands
We will never truly part
Sorrow Cain Oct 2015
[ ]
These mere words can't capture,
The things I hold inside,
They dance and tease, just out of reach,
The monotonous draw just not quite.

The rhyming poems do not rhyme,
The sentences bland and bleak,
The quotes and sayings out of time,
The powerful seem weak.

The story sometimes moves too fast,
Sometimes far too slow,
The characters aren't alive,
The paragraphs don't flow.

The twists are pitiful and turns are weak,
And easy to predict,
The truth as truth is never true,
And sense doesn't click.

It doesn't weave into a web,
But into a chaotic knot.
Where grass is blue, and crystals grey,
Straying from the plot.

My thinking far too twisted,
For people to understand,
------------------------------------------------
for all extents and purposes, this poem has been left incompleted. Partly because it will amplify the meaning of this poem, mostly because I'm dead tired and can't be bothered. Feel free to use it, just put my name on it and send me a message so I can see.

XOXO
S. Cain
Travis Green Dec 2021
When I saw your ****** eyes
How your lips were eager to kiss me
How your manliness was uncontrollably dope
Your tongue sticking out, so utterly addictive
Talking lecherous language that I love
Your hands moving on my bold *******
Your fragrant breath so mind-blowingly impeccable
Lick my thighs, feel my fire, spread my legs apart
Sneak inside my delicious dynasty like a thief
Shove your **** studly stick inside me
Let me feel all of you, engulf me in your passion
Relish my riveting reactions, your manly, dancing smell
All over my skin, whispering words of lovingness in my ears
Your body like a musical, strong wave crashing over me
Bringing me to the deepest extents of ecstasy
Arcassin B Oct 2018
By Arcassin Burnham

Trouble loves to find its way back to your place,
All in your house,
All in your face,
Where the devil plots here and the reaper intervenes,
Where the devil plots here and the reaper intervenes.

Hailing all the way from Florida a black kid with some
Chill, with a lot of enemies he wishes he took the red pill,
Looking for some solidarity and maybe some clarity but I know
That I can't get it anymore, ain't no more heroes left flying with capes
To the heaven's that brings us together even when your sore,
Death tolls take the floor,
Let the Lord wash his hands,
Then Get Back to washing yours,
The laws are raging and it's war,
The prophecy is inescapable for,
Reasons we can't explain and ignore,
Look for the light as it gleams,
Not closer to death than what it seems,
Most of the things in this world would distract to come to
Extents by any means,
Better be swimming through these streams,
Better be knowing what is important,
Ain't a single life that is important than a cultures lifespan that's
Been shortened

Trouble loves to find its way back to your place,
All in your house,
All in your face,
Where the devil plots here and the reaper intervenes,
Where the devil plots here and the reaper intervenes.
©abpoetry2018

https://arcassin.blogspot.com/2018/10/see-lte-2-official.html
NV Jan 2015
I'M OPPRESSED BY AN EDUCATIONAL SYSTEM WHERE CODES OF CONDUCT GET DRILLED UPON A BLACK INDIVIDUAL BECAUSE OF HAIR COLOUR THAT DOESNT QUITE MATCH THEIR TINT.
TO EXTENTS WHERE THEY CAN FORCE YOU TO TURN BACK ON YOUR HUMAN RIGHT TO LEARN.
WHEREAS THE SAME WHITE INDIVIDUAL WHO TRANSFER THEIR HAIR COLOUR FROM BROWN TO BLONDE CAN SIT AND RECEIVE AN EDUCATION WE BOTH PAYED FOR.
Ken Pepiton Feb 12
What is a daemon?
In computing, a daemon (pronounced DEE-muhn) is a program that runs continuously as a background process and wakes up to handle periodic service requests, which often come from remote processes.
------------------------
Did no one ever tell you, child,
never swear for no excuse,
plead guilty,
confess you was beguiled,
indeed. By some when
back then you had kin, what
made time to preform
the secret baby making.

Once upon a time,
we were always orphans,
from first whipper snappers used
to scrape tar from industrial chimneys.

Songs of Innocense in a new age,
learning old religions decay to mythos,

whence new religions tie memorium,
whence each season we return to recall

our broken spirits, how so and so sang,
lala live for today, la la live for today,

some same stories we recall, links,
URLs, to old sessions recording history,

close your eyes and drift away, listening,
much as winds seem to do, returning
on their circuits from collection
to collection, paid attention tokens, believed
to soften the hull on the gospel seed sown
to a cultivated faith, planted to propagate,

the idea of a secret code Truth uses in spirit form,
the Truth of truths, which, if known, even once,
makes the captive free,

mentally, happy as one can imagine,
under unchanging immutable terminii enforcing
order.

Order, called for, order in the court
of geeky oddball poetic discerners of like or love or not,

Thought traditions trades across epochs forming news,
too much to think about while considering sidereal extents.

Desiderata, poetic license, madejathank, Christian Nation,

Conquistadores were still heroes in 1954,
when the generation first born in the United Nations
victory forever standardization of historical information,
- Boomers stepping aside, survivors come to remember
- first were we to be graded by machines for marks
- made in Number two pencils rounded to one swipe
- width, right answers, only, only, one swipe between
- the lines, esoteric practice for precision aim.

to be overseen by servants of the victorious economy,
as pieces resorting to old formerly used rules of conduct,

smell the wind the strange idea carries,
worth weight, pushing power, pumping umph,

known cost of use, userer's fee, faith, the story held true,

with the evidence in the box, the bag, the sacred bundle,
all but forgotten, faith becomes the evidence of things unseen,

children are told
to hold these truths, those being taught you,
as you line up
in patterns
of proven paid attention, facing the flag

child, you should remember, wordless, for lack of a phraze,
thinking What? What am I pledging, what is pledging, I swear

I mean, I swanee, by golly, gosh ****, shucks, I ghucking did not know.
Feeling chthonically frisky on a warm day after a long storm, called an atmospheric river these days.
Ayush Bajpai Jan 2019
In Search of Truth
The path that I had chosen for the achievement of the eternal truth is giving me nothing now. It started asking me questions, tough to answer and tough to listen too.
I overlooked the mesmerized turns and went straight towards the eternal truth but it now seems like it is not the truth which I am looking for.  
I became pliable for those paths which served a lot of misrepresentations and I took them. They cause me to believe that I am close but I am getting further away.
We speak, we talk, we laugh in accordance with that they shall see us in the order but forgets the main reason's concern too.
I didn't have any idea that I shall find myself broken into the various footsteps of the way to accomplish rather I thought that I have my own way to attain the truth.
In search of myself first, I see nothing which has happened to be taken from entering into my own aspects but found it is portrayed by some others.
In the meantime, if there is a way to exit this path I shall pay for it to my extreme extents eradicating eloquent evincing enemies eternally; my own deceiving traits from my real face.
Horrendous hollows hanging horribly in this way, I can choose the other but then the truth shall also be redefined which is not the thing which I want.
So what's the thing going to happen? Let it happen? I don't want it to happen I want some other things to happen happily. But it will happen whether I do anything but yes I can make it happen for my own good sake and for my truth also.
Let the world come against me I shall fight fearlessly and cause a turbulence of revolution in the way and clear away all those fanatical footsteps and let the liberal moves of mine to fill the hollows and construe the way once again that, 'now it is the one which I expected and when all those questions shall become mere rumors of paradoxical ruins and of utmost pomposity. In that way which I believed and make the era believe shall be my way and that clears away all the barriers, In Search of Truth...'
In search of truth is the poem which I have been thinking for a lot of time and it took about six months to write this poem which describes my dilemma of finding the truth or love or aim or success that whether the way I am traveling is right or not; people say that it is right but what my truth or love or aim says that matters the most to me and that's what I decide that the way in which I am traveling is according to me but not the vice versa and at last I am confident that I shall find the truth.
Taylor Aug 2014
For all extents and purposes, you were a skinny boy with long eyelashes that should have been forgotten immediately. Except that you weren't. You hung around in my head for months, and you're still hanging around in there. Making pure poetry it seems, since writing about you and holding you are the only things that satiate my need, and holding you isn't really an option anymore.
jeffrey conyers Sep 2016
Whether you're racist or not?
Accept the freedom of others to protest.
Maybe from your perspective, they are wrong.
Then that's just your opinion.
Then you probably part of that group that still enjoy so much freedom.

Secluded in your neighborhood of security.
Trying to deny other group their chances to achieve their dreams.

The group that use political rules to hold others back.
While they use the same tricks of the trade to get ahead like in the past.
Then, this is probably too much truth.

The Civil Rights Act didn't advantage everyone.
Just stated to offer opportunity to everyone with out your hatred involved.

Oh, sure the group that cries freedom also the one crying foul without realizing where others are coming from?
Then when exposed as a little bit hampering on being a racist.
They like a politicians use they miscontexted my words.

But they the words that you said.

Don't cry any amendments about guns without addressing the freedom to protect and speak.
Strange when companies won't recognize a union that this same group cries foul for unjust fairness to get raises.

And attack those crossing the line to still provide for their families.

THE GREATEST thing about America is the freedom and rights with this country to do your will to certain extents.
Why?
Do you think others travel miles to get here?
Suresh Gupta Jun 2021
karmic eventuality - II
06/26/2021

there, in the midsts of opulence , stood I
floors of alabaster marble, columns of Marquina black,
open in all directions, including the heavens above,
gradual elevation, in key motif, to a higher standard,
seated on Lapis Lazuli, judges of the day

standing in that magnificent hall of justice,
creators, of opposing representation, themselves present,
when one, known by all, in positivity, meaning God,
looks down upon my disheveled appearance,
reflecting true extents of my deeds performed,
asks, “what shall be my judgement?”
I respond, “let my existence cease, that be my punishment.”
then, His brethren, from the nether world, the Satan,
asks, “what shall be my judgement?”
I respond, “let my existence cease, that be my reward.”
Maria Williams Mar 2016
I sometimes live
To the fullest of fullest extents.
I shine so ******* bright
And elevate everyone around me
With positive energy.
Positivity.
But, really
Time is just elapsing.
Time is wasted on making memories.
Only to disappoint you
When I'm not around.
I sometimes die
Inside.
I break.
I break down and fall the **** apart.
I hide in the deepest corners of my mind.
And something inside sometimes screams
Climb!
Climb!
Climb!
But I bite my nails
So I can't latch on.
And my body is frail
So I can't even walk.
I succumb to my fate.
The inevitable.
The welcomed.
The hopeful last breath
I'll ever have to take.
Michael Marchese Mar 2022
Becoming the madness incarnate
Unvarnished
I harness
The darkness
Undaunted
Still haunted
By tremors
Of traumas and dramas
Depicting my manifold
Soul-crushing ache
And I do
Like you feel it
And feel it
And break
Momentarily
Sorrow devours
Empowers my muse
Then depravity’s
Desolate desert
Ensues
And too long has its wanderlust
Rendered me
Barren
Refined and enriched
As a crude oil baron
No care in the world
My compassion is spent
Because every last love
Soon enough
Is lament
To extents only writing
Can offer reprieve
And with this
Elegy
Dead to me
Her I grieve
Jason Cheney Jan 2022
He has heard my simple yet earnest prayer
My heart He has healed with the greatest of care
Through His anguish in Getsemani
I see all He has done for me

My life I will live
A portion of my time to Him must I give
How great is His everlasting love
As His disciple, an exemplary life must I live

To honor Him
I must first understand why He was nailed to that heavy limb
To reflect His image, my heart must I change
My life must I rearrange

My soul hungers to feel of His loving touch
His strong fingers I wish to clutch
When I am weak and I've lost my way
My humble heart turns to Him while I pray

I raise my arms and ask to be lifted up
For with Him I desire to sup
Yet I feel so unworthy of Him
My tears often fill my eyes to the very brim

He hears my soul's lament
He quietly listens as I repent
Then He extents to me His loving embrace
Towards those outstretched arms I do race

He's known me since the beginning of time
We should always remember Him during our lifetime
Within a song, a verse, or a rhyme
We can get to know Him

So as we kneel down to pray
Let our hearts be drawn out today
So that our Lord's redeeming grace
Can be seen in our very countenance

Written by:
Jason Cheney
January 2022

— The End —