"extrinsic" poems
My soul yearns
My body turns
Mind racing
Intrinsic thoughts
Extrinsic emotions
Where do I belong
What is the purpose
L.Cole
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
1279
The Way to know the Bobolink
From every other Bird
Precisely as the Joy of him—
Obliged to be inferred.
Of impudent Habiliment
Attired to defy,
Impertinence subordinate
At times to Majesty.
Of Sentiments seditious
Amenable to Law—
As Heresies of Transport
Or Puck’s Apostacy.
Extrinsic to Attention
Too intimate with Joy—
He compliments existence
Until allured away
By Seasons or his Children—
Adult and urgent grown—
Or unforeseen aggrandizement
Or, happily, Renown—
By Contrast certifying
The Bird of Birds is gone—
How nullified the Meadow—
Her Sorcerer withdrawn!
6k
The mannequin faceless,
Clothed in gold
With hands pandering svelte,
Remains an admired inanimate,
Albeit, atop whispers to a girl,
A 4-foot flower 3-feet my right,
Fretting and stumped;
Extrinsic a label – “undesirable.”
The mannequin faceless,
Her and hollow –
A towering nose above, stands
Opaque ivory, scarred come
Synonymous eyes with a symmetrical
Soul, assumed plastic perfection
And more importantly,
Soon to be sale.
The mannequin faceless
Convinced her new friend,
Her lesser, lopsided,
And natural not-so counterpart
To consume,
“Eat me, “eat me,” “eat it all,”
And then, “binge some more.”
The mannequin faceless
SCREAMS,
“BUY!” Amongst the other torments –
Born both fingers that can’t move and
The thumbs that shuffle, “One’s,”
To the girl that was never,
“Good enough;” so shared the
Tabloid’s mouth.
The mannequin faceless demands
And DEMANDS nothing less than to
Buy, starve, suffer and sacrifice
So that every “broken body,”
May embody polymer, and for a price,
A not so fair trade whilst
Considering old man gold,
The curator of conundrum
And the plastic he’s created.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
If you had the opportunity to live a high-risk lifestyle, would you?
I'm not asking this to be derogatory, nor to be accusatory
I simply want you to think on
what it is
to live a high-risk lifestyle.
As a mass, we seem to think of it as an undesirable thing.
Now, isn't that just ******* quaint?
Probability favors a percentile:
That which is unique enough
to leave it's mark
on our realm.
That includes us.
Risk, unless done in ignorance, is the acceptance of probability
More specifically, the pursuit of the more improbable chance.
Perhaps when you think of high-risk, you think of constant parties
perhaps of ***** needles, and/or STIs
unprotected *** or doing psychedelics
but I ask you to ponder
just how high risk Life is to begin with:
Some wish to claim that Life is a granted gift
by some benevolent Father figure who has our back, (but not theirs)
but I say that's just selfish, arrogant and, frankly, quite foolish to claim.
This Universe was not made for us and us alone
as if we were some sort of Sims for a bipolar teenage boy on *******
We were not molded after anything intelligent
with the exception of the Universe and her Nature itself.
The probability of the Universe existing is not %100.
The probability of the particular combinations of atoms within the strands of DNA in your body
are not "guaranteed" to occur. Ever.
But they did.
They. Did.
They.
*******
Did.
As if the Universe were the soil to the roots of our existence
and Her Energy is as the water to the roots
and her Chemistry allows it all to happen.
And her physical laws, for lack of a better term, allow that to happen.
On top of that, you ******* exist! You! In particular!
With your experiences, thoughts and feelings, insights and interests, passions and even DNA!
You! Wonderful, temporary you!
Mortal you. Ethereal you. Spiritual you. Intrinsic you. Extrinsic you.
You exist, if nothing else, in a relative way.
There is no way to be certain.
What are the friggin' odds on anything existing at all, let alone you?
There is no way to be certain.
If you could bet on your existence, would you?
There is no way to be certain.
Nothing is granted; everything is permitted by the brain.
There is no way to be certain.
Perhaps it is deeper than that. I hope and think so,
yet, there is no way
to be
certain.
~Addendum!~
Statistically, about 93% of people accounted for by census information who have lived-
have died.
Statistically, that gives you a 7%ish chance of surviving this life!
That seems like a high-risk Life, to me.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
Dreaming seems to be a cycled reality,
dueling matters of vague interpretation
almost holding on to a fugue
state of delieverance,
that returns to dreaming.
A wakefulness that pardons our stressors,
exploring how sureness of changing tides
have arrived to wash the shore’s footprints;
turning salutations to a once cumbersom
slumber to keeping these eyes closed.
The mind never rests,
it continues to timely act.
Despite the character of one’s gait
submissive to extrinsic. We dream the same.
A neutrality in recognition,
the deepest desire,
the social matter,
and the human acceptance.
We rise to sleep
to deeply wake
the harden reality we failed,
to accept throughout our day,
removing our knighly armor and face
our dragons which have their own vices,
yet our devices hinder. Our true dreams,
blur between eyes closed
changing to dreaming with eyes open.
Realizing all true negatives are true
positives differing only from accepting
that I can vertically add difference;
we can all equate to change
if you keep dreaming in mind.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
I know you
like the last step
in a staircase:
enshrouded in darkness.
I slowly stretch a brave leg across
the unknown dimensions;
do I relieve myself
with another familiar step?
Or do I brace myself
for the cold, naked floor?
Do I leave the routine journey
to step into a world extrinsic?
What will happen if I dare be brave;
will my foot sink through the transparent tier
to tumble aimlessly through the void,
screaming curses at my misplaced courage?
I just don't know anymore;
balancing my leg in the still air--
the temptation to pirouette
shakily and ascend anxiously.
To escalate the last step,
I find to be much easier;
My strength carries me forwards
as the light receives me warmly.
But down below,
in the shadows' taunting musings,
I cannot put faces to the voices
that call me into their reckless abandon.
I know you
like the last step
in a staircase,
faceless amorphous Guile;
your voice... indelible.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
As I walk
I ruminate
on death and life
On why there is so much love
And so much strife
The heart it’s nature intrinsic
Is to seek
The bonds that bind
The soul to the earth
The heart is tied to a nodal beat
And functions to generate ****** heat
To celebrate this life full and enjoy
To love another with complete joy
The soul’s mission extrinsic
Is to simply soar majestic
Created a free verse
It desires to float in the universe
The heart was formed at this birth
The soul existed before birth
And shall exist after death
This difference between the heart and soul
Is the reason for our sorrows sole!
Why then you cry my dear friend
For there is no meaning to our earthly end
There is simply no premise
For the sadness of this corporeal demise
For the soul was born to journey endless
To be merged with *Brahman consciousness
*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brahman
Author Notes
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
We carry it as daily cash
But sooner or later end up throwing it in the trash
We imprint knowledge in its soul
Information we rapidly loose
With every tick of the clock
Refusing to stay in our long term memory
Deciding to fly away
And becoming our worse enemy
How do we expect to succeed in life?
If we set our goals based on extrinsic motivations?
We set our minds
On getting a passing grade in the class
An “A” it’s just a letter
A 4.00 just a quantitative number
A college degree a white sheet of paper
With someone’s wiggly lines
Written to represent a name
The true meaning of
Attending school, College, a University
Is for the passion of knowledge
Wise individuals
Study for the pleasure of being intellectual
Casting ignorance away
Why is it that we don’t care about learning?
And make fools of ourselves with excuses and laziness
What is the purpose of going to school?
If by the end of 14 years
You look back and realize
You only went to keep a chair warm
You were nothing
But a furniture in an empty classroom
That retained overnight what it learned
And forgot it by the next sunset
An A on paper
But F on permanently encoded
And easily retrieved knowledge
How pathetic
Isn’t it?
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
These are not words
But an extrication of soul
An intrinsic resistance to extrinsic chaos
Or maybe intrinsic after all
What are words
Synapse to synapse
I am me
I am
I
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
Every time someone mentions they love Christmas,
take another drink.
Someone says “Happy Holidays”,
take another drink.
Every time you feel as if everything is pointless,
take another,
You see a person you hate acting happy,
that’s two drinks,
A Christmas song plays, traffic is terrible, your family thinks your views on religion is a phase,
and you spent all your money on presents and you’re wide awake at night feeling like death even though the drive to your house was nice and you said you were going to do some artsy things,
when you know that the past few Christmases were great and lovely and now both an intrinsic and extrinsic variable has changed to ruin it all for you,
take another drink
take another drink
take another drink
drink it all ******* gone
and drink some more.
Hum,
*******
bug.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
This problem is all too familiar,
my ignition unstarted and still.
Can you find it and fuel it and startle
foreign gears and uncharted wheels?
Will you put life in this husk?
Will you come as the jilt of a lover,
or perhaps her sincerest embrace?
some extrinsic and chemical other,
catalyzing more confident state?
Will you find life in this husk?
I wonder how those with no questions
seem to draw from somewhere so much fruit.
My answer waits for me to liken
my own source to the fawn's and the root's.
Will I see life in this husk?
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 7:04 PM UTC
A woman seeks all that leaves her distraught
In pursuit of extrinsic desires anew
From a dead end grave startled she wakes
Within her eyes fate appeared to be taut
Thoughts delivered warnings in queue
Though on occasion rare she’d have spaked
Along the village nimble she scurried
In the passenger seat of a surrey
Engaged in the act never was she caught
Many a men’s heart she had toiled
Indefinite tribulation it had brought
Often formulas had been foiled
‘Tis not what she had sought
Forsaken eminence to be spoiled
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
Begging by a million names,
A fix for the cost of dignity
In the wearing of a thousand faces,
True north gets lost by tide
To be oneself requires discernment
Through madness and through mood
A staying of course beyond the currents
That pull us to and fro.
Nov 14, 2024
Nov 14, 2024 at 2:58 AM UTC
There is this person who I am meant to become
who wears accomplishment with jangling pride like a filled charm bracelet around her wrist
who stands on a stool facing down to the world telling it how to run
who has control over circumstances and can stand on her own two feet
who is well assured with healthy self-love and an earned radiance
who can love others with a full heart and not with one half kept in a jar under her bed just in case the other half got lost or broken
who knows exactly where to go and has a well annotated map
who can smile and say "let the current of fate guide my boat" without the fear of being lead to a whirlpool or a Kracken
who looks in the mirror and smiles at the intrinsic and extrinsic beauty that the glass beholds
I am a husk. A lost one. Floating on the wind. Shivering. Alone.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
Words convey so little,
like the beauty in your eyes,
or the ways which I am fickle,
the way you change your voice,
when you ask a question,
or how I hate the way I've been a yes man,
Things,
simply just fall apart,
but you know,
that I know,
that you've got a good heart.
It's just been toyed with,
by everyone,
not just him,
we're all under the gun,
I just convert it to hymns.
If people were stories,
made up of text,
I would be a dirge,
the end,
nothing else left,
simplified for those,
who care not for it,
saddening prose,
which causes lament.
That was the way,
that I felt in the heat,
and I met an artist,
who overlapped with her sweeps.
Over time we bonded,
shared joy,
and misery,
but to you,
without your knowledge,
I've remained a mystery.
It wasn't on purpose,
I was simply too scared,
of someone like me,
someone so rare.
But every time,
I've been on the brink,
you come back to me,
and I don't have to think.
Being alone with my thoughts,
was something to dread,
to dwell on the things,
inside of my head,
but maybe now,
it isn't so bad,
where happiness flowers,
creation is to be had.
Of that artist,
I am always in debt,
but in a brief instant,
she saw and she fled.
Days went by,
and I simply gave up,
the notion she'd return,
so I live in a truck.
The lessons I'd felt,
were worth so much more,
than the in-taken substance,
or a night on Doug’s floor.
A fictional letter,
came drifting by,
the name was now foreign,
yet still caught my eye,
and it was then I realized,
a canvas is I.
And therefore,
what if people were art?
We are things of beauty,
that can be torn apart.
And the artist itself?
A combination of their works,
the intrinsic sustains,
as the extrinsic smirks,
creators as we,
see every flaw in the plan,
we demand perfection,
or as close as we can.
While work will be done,
with meticulous ease,
our time alone,
can sting us like bees.
I could make metaphors,
for months upon years,
but my learned nature,
makes me imagined deaf ears.
When the artist came,
my craft was the best of my life,
nothing was framed,
and no bliss led to strife.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
THE GREAT COUNTRY
Adebayo Samuel Ogunleye~ The GreatQuill🖋️
Silent I wished to remain,
But alas, my speakfire cried aloud:
“I shall speak and speak—
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
With oceans of wisdom,
Yet wandering the streets of futility.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
Flowing with honey;
Yet honey for only a few palates,
While bitterness lingers
Upon the lips of many.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
That gives so generously,
Yet lacks in abundance
The very things it gives away.
I sought to calm my speakfire,
But alas, it cried again,
Yearning to weep even more.
‘Speak on, speak on,’ I replied.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
That suffered under its conquerors,
And after their departure,
Became captive to self-conquerors.
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
Bearing “Giant” as its title,
Yet, unfortunately fortunate,
A title that scarcely fits
Its present condition.
Speak of that great country,
That great country
That gives you oromodiye,
Yet in return
Takes away odidi omo.
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
Which outwardly appears
Goodly bad,
And inwardly seems
Best at being worse.
Speak of that great country,
That great country,
Rich in countless treasures,
Yet wallowing in penury.
And so my speakfire speaks
Of that great country—
My great country.
*Oromodiye -- A chick
*Odidi omo -- (A child) Human.
E-mail= [email protected].
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
From the day we are born
Till tomorrow's beautiful dawn.
we shall be depending
on
all the data we have been assimilating.
Data within our memories.
Can i truly forget the past?
Live only in the present
without any memories.
what are the five extrinsic senses
we depend upon do ?
without any memories.
This trap becomes bigger
the more data you collect.
The same data one of the reasons for diversity.
Hence is required liberty.
and
One day when I truly
start loosing my memory
Please do not throw me away
to the asylums with the tag
CRAZY
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
When the petals dried up,
when I woke up one morning and there they were,
scattered about cadavers,
Our love had gone awry.
There was enough sadness in me
to wither a field of sunflowers as I pass.
And the apples in my cheeks,
one day decided to stop hiding my sorrow.
I breathe you in.
I take you up.
All your mysteries. All your flaws.
And all, all that I love- I take it up,
gently; humanly.
To be tossed about like a rag doll.
I am not stained.
I am not broken.
And I am not just extrinsic beauty!
See me!
Past the doll, I pose.
I pose for you, to be taken!
To be loved!
Accept me,
And love me,
extrinsically, intrinsically
love me.
For all that I am,
Just as I do you.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC
I’ve been trying for several months
to write you a letter
Not for lack of dialogue;
I lacked the letters to simply compose.
A letter of love.
A letter of respite.
& yet, here, I write:
a letter of extrinsic motivations
&
a letter of intrinsic fulfillment
Sep 6, 2019
Sep 6, 2019 at 1:39 AM UTC
I think that the hardest part of moving on is letting go
I used to believe that they were synonymous
boy, was I wrong
I've moved on plenty of times with plenty of people
but I never truly let go of him
I was afraid that if I loosened my grip and really let go,
I would never hold on to anyone again
(which I know now to be utterly false)
So, I again loved and lost and loved and lost
but now I am faced with the same familiar dilemma
of coordinating my demands with my extrinsic muscles
and unclenching my fists that I have so tightly latched onto you
(I just can't seem to let this one go)
-
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:53 AM UTC
Sit me next to her beneath
the same dark cloud
that hovers and fulminates,
grey and gloom.
Let me feel the pain and aches
of weary bones in a putrid soul,
drench me in echoes of groans
and moans
of a body that writhes and twists in
violent jerks
rejecting the very life pined over
and prayed for.
The windows to her being
a misty-haze, downcast,
extirpating what zeal is left
forever longing for that one day
when feeling will be extrinsic.
They huddle beside her,craving
her touch,
once warm and soothing
now flaccid and frosty,
as if they too, sense their mother's
demise creeping nearer to thee,
savoring each moment as if it were
last.
The hushed whispers of a voice broken,
tormented by watchful eyes of thy fruit
of the womb,
pleading and begging for her
perpetual breath lest they be mother-less.
Let me wail with her
when she weeps for her children
when she curses the past and admonishes
the future depriving her,her heart's
importune,
allow me to impale her clattered mind,
pick through her thoughts to understand
and not judge.
On her death bed,discouraged
she waits,
only fate can take away...
By Catherine Magodo Mutukwaa
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
Pennies / ***** noun; Many name for jewelry;
Several names, when attached to the steam-based organism,
are called the Septet transformer.
With most mammals and other mammals,
the veterinarian may have a urinalysis kit.
Brotherhood, enemy, man, man, *** and the alphabet: informal sector compass, leather, wet, wet, wet carnival,
pencils, ellipse, suspension, Roger and šikurichiri tokišini,
neck, arms and pillows. The snake, the horn, the father,
Pedro, the sail, crying; The long and cruel snake is long.
Candles, frames, sofas, oranges, pumpkins, etc.
Enough technical support for the film,
there are some elements in the background, bejimimizetoloji
bones, nerves and orders, cancer, itching, babies, dinosaurs and gemstones.
· Jean / Wongengui / Name: Vagang;
Other words for ****** Supplemental name
1. VEGAS: Extrinsic muscles
used in the ****** most mammals,
whites; word; funny woman, snake Anzhelika, pasta,
elephants, fish, meriboti, shukishuri,
sleeves and tail of a snake field, chemistry,
embroidery, kiruyemi, the nineteenth century,
chose the origin of the language "coffee and doors".
· Pave / wetk / word law noun: hippocampus;
The known hippocampus in both ribs is the emotional,
memory and self-protecting nerves. Finally, ninth,
tenth century on Marino's Axis - Greece behipokemibozi,
Latin American ***** "O · / / ˌɡοrˌɡazəm / noun-orgasm;
field several nouns or verbs 1. genetics,
****** desire and ****** attraction."
They have begun to understand "is a verb - meaning" fate
"Third person: beautiful, Primary:
Ex participants subjected to *** -
Shaved, split or seasonal Participation
in Aging and physical activity 1. Review 17.
Conquests of medieval France,
is one leader Greek, Latin or modern bodies
growing or damaged words; Snake frog / fk / ****** ****
third person: End time: last part: ******* gerund
seasonal participation: ****** 1. Two men having ***
2. When something is or Name: **** plural noun:
1. ***** associate ****** urges a friend
to listen to the language
or languages of different languages,
is to humiliate and show patient words:
a man who threatens, or other sharp,
goals to be able to Break the wind,
abuse, abuse or condemnation,
such as lack of respect or disrespect
to another person, before hiring resistance,
a better person or person is frustrated,
poor and quiet Origins of the sixteenth century:
Germany's German Reef, poor Dutch Kegel
comes from the Latin word
for "spell".
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 9:02 PM UTC
“Transcendence is dead”,
He remarked,
with hollowed eyes enlarged
“There’s no exteriority to this existence,
no object not rooted to this mind,
no experience to reach to alleviate me from this pain”
Words uttered in vain sentiment,
like riches given by a desolate
“- and there’s no interiority
to this existence either,
no refuge untouched by extrinsic hands,
no truth untainted and grazed
by worldly sands,
etching indelible marks,
serrations upon the purity of what I envision, oppressive symmetry bounding my condition”
Echoes unbridled to the night made by folded wings
of the hungriest crows,
a reality smirking upon this man
encased in noxious snow
“-only immersion,
only implicit truth,
only sensation,
that’s all that’s left when flesh is torn,
arteries spilt,
and bones broken,
when my fantasies are the whispering
of the death of lives yet born ”
How unfortunate,
“I once remarked that
„abstract are the lines of my conscience„
how false I was,
there is no conscience,
there is no line, there is no territory,
no irreducible components of self,
no elements,
no world,
mere immersion, mere immersion, mere immersion, mere imm-“
How unfortunate,
“-ersion, my plane of immanence,
thought is not real,
only the image of thought,
people aren’t real,
only their representations,
this is not real,
only my description of it,
I’m sustained by this illusion and I am content,
for content is not real, only stationarity,
to suggest my autonomy
suggests a piece in a game,
an agent in a relation,
a designated power,
but power is not real,
only my laughter and spite,
only the former iterations of myself I
walk over
so I may tell myself I am content where I am,
consciousness is not real,
only the playthings of my inner demons,
and my unconscious is not real,
only the results of my outer events,
I am not real,
only the set of eyes that overlooks me”
How unfortunate,
a child who instead of a soul,
an unhealing wound,
but don’t feel upset for this child,
he is not real, only the representation of him, only a disembodied set of eyes describing his flesh left behind
|
Now I must close my eyes, this child of hollowed sight is beginning to cry, then so will I
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 7:01 PM UTC
A fierce tug awakens me from drunken stupor
My sheets tumble off the edge of the bed
He’s come, once again, for His meal
It is my sworn duty to tend to Him and his arcane needs
a result of purchasing Alveus Manor, my current home
Strangely, it has been many decades since
Yet, I do not age but for my mind
To maintain a sense of control on things, I ponder
Many hours have been spent toiling in reflection
forgotten lovers, forgotten names
They mean precious little now
There is a singular memory that screeches loudest
some deal sealed with incantations and blood
scars adorn my wrists in confirmation
This memory is certainly true
I set the bowl out near the darkest part of my manor
From the floor, a trapdoor creaks upwards
I see the sharp glint of some child’s eyes
They dart around on an elderly face
He snatches the bowl with pale claws and blinks expectantly
It is then that I remember the burning whims of my duty
With a dagger and a prayer, my wrist spurts
Red nutrition cakes into the container
Prize in hand, He scurries back underneath the floor
sounds of primal content slither along the walls
He clambers back up with satisfaction
I am to be rewarded
He holds the bowl as if praising Old Gods across our universe
Elixir jets past teeth that resemble those of an infant
Creamy white substance settles in the bowl
It seems the result of melted moons
I do as I have done since first moving into this cursed place
I drink the ghostly elixir without any extrinsic cause
He flashes blood-stained teeth and hobbles away
Instantly, my eyes brighten and my skin tightens
My name has long been struck from history as well
My purpose remains free of doubt or suspicion
I return to bed in morbid anticipation
Drifting into madness, I fall asleep
A fierce tug awakens me from drunken stupor
My sheets tumble off the edge of the bed
He’s come, once again, for his meal
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
I am my own worst enemy
I could be my own best friend
but this
extrinsic obnoxious extrovert
just won't see the truth
and yet
he takes up for me
the unworthy harrier
We both think the other foolish
but I the wiser!
undying optimism
fades as reality sinks in
so I settle
for the sake of safety
in pessimism
No one sees the real me
the few who have
explained
just how abrasively
I oxidize their good humor
and so
the kid lives on
smiling
and I behind
wondering if my hidden prison
has made me...
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 11:25 PM UTC