"fabricates" poems
How deadly is the sight of the flying witch,
she's mighty and flawless, her name is Lynn
elegant and graceful in her broom she'll go,
All of her victims had that exact same thought.
She seizes you with kind words
and for your soul offers you gold.
With her, you enjoy flying,
for you trust you won't fall.
Once in her cave, she speaks with friendly words
she fills your belly and fabricates a loving home,
It's hard to see her as from the underworld
It's hard to see what's about to come.
Before you realize she attempts to take control,
eating the brains of whom you call your own.
She's yelling and screaming, how putrid is her soul.
The witch is evil, but no one cares of what you know.
Now down the stairs she complacently goes,
raises an eyebrow, it's diabolical, it's smug
she then smiles to her husband, a mere puppet of hers
Satan is that woman, the witch who yells.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
*Man and woman, though different
Are equal in the eyes of God.
inexplicable though true but still
Unacceptable for some perhaps
Man is the highest of all creations
Woman is the most sublime of all Ideals.
God made for a man a throne,
for a woman an altar.
the throne exalts,
The altar sanctifies.
Man is the brain.
woman is the heart.
The brain fabricates light while
The heart produces love.
light fecunds,
Love resuscitates.
Man is the code.
Woman is the gospel.
The code corrects
As the gospel perfects.
Man is the genius while
Woman is the angel.
The genius is undefinable
And the angel is immeasurable.
Man is strong in reason
but woman is invincible in her tears.
Reason convinces the most stubborn
Just as tears soften the hardest of mortals.
Man is the ocean
And the woman is the lake.
The ocean has it's pearls that adorn;
The lake has its poems that dazzle.*
***Man stands where the earth ends;
And woman where heaven begins.***
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
She fabricates variance in the same picturesque sky
Mauling two birds with one stone-cold, self-sustaining lie
If happiness blots itself upon perspective,
then I was merely one musing of a momentarily hung canvas
dangling dull under the noose of your
cautiously composed independence
-
"Independence"
she doth protest
While in dependence,
she doth ingest
She flees towards East evermore, infatuated under the intoxication of dissimilar skies, ceasing to remember that all worlds eventually become spherical.
We, abreast, left the nest;
I, digress, detest the West.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
I'm jealous
of every girl that gets to find you
like I did
and gets to
experience
being
swept off her feet
like you did for me
It makes my stomach hurt
because there will be
no man
like you
in my life
again
I'm not saying I want you back
I'm not.
I'm saying that I'm jealous
of every girl
who gets to be yours
and has the sense to enjoy it
while she can
before she fabricates
faults
in her mind
know I still care
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
I know this place well
It is where I dwell
At times it can be forgotten
Ergo it is my shell
Reverberation fabricates strings and lines that demonstrate
Echos driven back to source with insanity to placate
Lessons are never learned within such solitude
Until a rupture occurs defeating meaningless platitudes
Fundamental discretion against complacent and ill-comforts
Do not take away visibility from the truth that sometimes hurts
Cracks emerge, illumination transcending
A surge, then an urge to crush this shell circumventing
I know this place well
It is where I dwell
In time I do remember
Ergo I leave my shell
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
My living disposition leads me to assert that I am not dead!
Yet, my silence screams ancient transcriptions across geographical contour lines which are considered to be far removed from the metaphorical grid of contemporary societal norms, where the seductions of the vampyre and her haunting dynamics cast their eerie spells within this captivating fishbowl of galloping horses.
The Prince of Wallachia is able to explain.
Let us converse with The Count.
Whenever there is emphasis upon specific detail in this age of certain vanity, I find that, in 1456, I am truly bereft of valedictorian and flamenco odours, because this royal prince of acoustic arrangement has generated a harmonious expression which humbly corrects my intrapersonal assumptions across the mountainous regions of Transylvania.
Conflict resolution is therefore a mere figment of sociological and anthropological constructs, which fornicate with the façade of egocentrism and fabricates vain attempts to maintain social elitism within a blanket of darkness.
How do we find ourselves in the position of being so diametrically opposed to reality?
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
Chance
Proposition submerge and asphyxiating in the deepest of water.
Fire engulfs the cognition as flames destroys the depths of its perception.
The fierce wind with its force current take away the chance and scatters it abroad.
The earth eats at any sayings and fabricates its meaning.
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
Fear fabricates factious fragments,
futile for fulfilling faded fantasy's forlorn figures.
Few find faith from forecful feelings..
farewell forces fugitive faces-
forging faulty formality,
finesse fights failure for fame,
fortifying forgotten promises.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 10:03 PM UTC
Love me
The fragile girl cries
I can feel her ache
Thrashing through my ribcage
On the hardest night of winter
The frost pulses through her veins
And fabricates a home in her soul
Her hatred of hate
Destroying her alive
Her tears are jammed in my throat
Fears caught in my dreams
Love her
Love her
Please
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
Beauty, fierce as desire, is perched
on the limits of longing –
There is an upward soaring
where simple delight turns
to sunlit brilliance.
Beauty is grasped
by a mind that fabricates
the abstract but appreciates
the real.
There is wonder
in the beauty of
the winds, woods
and water that glow
on the edge of earth.
Beauty is portrayed
in the smooth, smiling
contenance of youth,
the delicate alliance
of dark soil and milky sky
and seasons that turn
to golden ages, widening
to wilderness, clear and
unexplored, filling pages
of solitude with poetry.
Beauty is being held
in the arms of dawn,
knowing that dusk’s
splendid sunset is
not far away.
Oct 23, 2021
Oct 23, 2021 at 5:13 AM UTC
Take these drugs to ease the pain
Not of your mouth but of your brain
And into the downward spiral I fall
Because what's stopping me?
Nothing. Nothing at all
And I fall and fall
Into the despair that catches me
That fabricates its all
It's only blackness we see
But one more pill one more fill
And those hallucinations could be at a slight spill
Wake up! Wake up!
Can't you hear it calling your name?
Wake up! Wake Up!
Can't you feel it worming into your brain?
Images of gas-chamber mobs
Crawling inside the darkest parts of your sobs
Take these drugs to ease the pain
Not of your mouth but of your brain
"Feel better, feel better," they say
But you can't seem to get those rotten images to go away
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 5:03 AM UTC
in the words of
a reverend and a King
human salvation
lies in the hands
of the creatively
maladjusted
defamiliarize the chaos
an absent-minded apparatus
addling brain cells
checks and balances
proliferate a status quo
of enmity and aggression that
propagates oppression and
dismantles genuine political
expression for those outside
the whitewashed coffin
recognize the enemy
in our own eyes as we
eradicate the apathy that
leeches liberty and
fabricates freedom
reformist rhetoric is
too little too late
revolutions are cyclical
and ultimately infantile
so fan the flames of rebellion
destruction precedes creation
raise hell and raze the system
of enmity that pits
7.4 billion
brothers and sisters
against each other
anarchy is order
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 1:07 AM UTC
Glimpses of the light
as the shadows echo into a land of perpetual darkness.
Where blackness is a habitat,
imagination fabricates strobing illusions;
portraying future as the inevitable apprehension
of
impossible
answers.
From within, this truth is known,
and though this light is but a delusion-
it remains a solitary hope.
Lies- the remnants of lives
in this dire day.
Deserving of life...
when it is nothing,
a gift cordially received.
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC
[July 9, 2016]
Consumed within immense anguish he fabricates
A feeling of lifeless dread he cannot erase
A victim of madness, his sorrow and fate
He stares at a forgotten corpse with no face
He hears the skeleton whisper his name
Like being dead is nothing but a game
The whispers echo, like an endless scream
The faceless haunts his every dream
The expressionless gaze leaves him powerless
Against his shame within corrupt conscience
Passively struggling without emotion
Regret builds like an infinite ocean
The mass of guilt crushes his strength
He cannot fight the impossible strain
He forfeits his freedom and gives his life
For the faceless ghost that brings him strife
The forsaken mystery was never resolved
The remains were gone, the blood dissolved
In the end, it turned out the faceless
Was never really a corpse at all
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 1:27 AM UTC
In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.
She opens her newspaper
and submits herself
to the daily crisis.
She pleases herself.
Digests the news she
is reading like a seasoned veteran
returning from a war.
She sees a picture
of the Prime Minister.
He's somewhat handsome she thinks.
She likes the way his eyes sparkle
when he fabricates a position to follow.
One day she might take herself
to Ottawa.
Sit in Parliament and follow
along with the story, live as it were.
Maybe she'd shout down from
the Visitors Gallery her opinion
on the matters of the day.
She would not get evicted.
The RCMP would not bother with her.
She knew the Prime Minister would
look up at the interruption and, upon
seeing her, would become enamored with her.
He'd leave his wife and family.
She'd be responsible for the
marital collapse of the man.
Sighing, she smiled inwardly
at the plans she was making.
Of course, in order to make
anyone fall in love with her,
she'd actually have to leave the house.
How could she do that?
There were too many cats to feed
and take care of.
Anyway, she didn't do well
with real people.
In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
It’s not singly your jubilantly playful smile
Or eyes that instill faith,
Faith that miracles exist in us
And absolutely not independently
The miraculousness that ever so gently
And tenderly
Sleeps on top of a face to which
No being can compare to, it makes such
Euphoric feelings kiss the world
And my heart, now zapped
By a current of life and flare
This miraculousness fabricates an image of
Your benevolent wind, light and sublime
Rolling softly over the waves and hands
Of the ocean, flowy and ecstatic
And the cause of my enamored state
Is not isolated by
The effervescently sanguine blush
Of your adorable cheeks,
Which regularly has exploded
A nervous, yet amazed smile
Upon myself
No,
Although with the fullest probity
I may spew that these angelic virtues
Have spirited me to a place
Where Zeal is my name
And time with you
Has become my heroine,
It’s your energy, your aura
Your vivacious fire
That so happily bombards me
With laughter and excitement
It’s your poison, your wonderful stain
That’s colored my life
And shocked my heart
It’s you;
You are a poem
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 6:50 PM UTC
“The hottest love has the coldest end.”
-Socrates
You were there. Like stardust ever dancing in the light as if infinity swirls to you. Your existence declines my being. You waived all presences, defying the mnemonics of what qualifies existence.
You were there—not now.
Before, we were strangers looking at some abyss. After, we are strangers excited of what the future holds for both of us. In between, we are still strangers cursing all pains stinging our hearts.
Time inflicts its greatest wound: recollection. Malt ferments. Soul dies. Mind breaks down. Bubbles in beers imploded to every motion of the hand swaying, wishing it never touched you. Dreams stitched to rags given to wipe dusts and rusts. Time betrayed us, then and again. You were there but not now. Time cursed the being. Time stabbed us causing my heart to burn.
If only I can love you without time minding us all.
Atoms fall. They swerve a little, says Epicurus. Repulsion with others creates the world. That repulsion is a lasting encounter.
What holds that philosophy to be true is antimony. What holds us after all is just an illusion.
When I stumble upon old things finding some boxes, I remember you. When I see your picture in an old frame, forgetting becomes a sickness.
Is there a pill that can selectively erase your fading silhouette in my memory? Confession: I took that pill long ago. My mind fabricates immunity.
You were there in the horizon standing, holding an umbrella, ready to swerve from the rain that once made our love so cold and true.
I was there.
That night, the rain substituted to a poet’s tears.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
Oh, the way you inhabit me
I shudder, etched inside of me is the feeling of dying
Pulsing, your emanations
Consume me and I refuse to release you from my clutches
Struck breathless instantly
You offer little reason, but you return my robbed passion
I glimpse at your grave eyes
And I feel the tide of the sea within me start to part for you
You catalyze my stolen gaze
I almost feel you shudder and rush in my sodden esophagus
A soft pink suckle
I euphorically asphyxiate for you, on you – with you
Unuttered, my subconscious
Fabricates the smell and taste of your flesh using your words
My body is left ravenous
To the conjecture of your apparition as it levitates above me
Below you I kneel – impure
Please let your sensory invading of my aquatic mind cleanse me
I chant a plea to your figment
Imagining your tongue feeling the words move inside my mouth
My glistening incantations drip
And I feel your stirring when my lips part for evening prayer
I awaken an appetent beast
Rising to dominate the submission hibernating in my sharp bones
My locked jaw wants it all
I won’t release you, so let me taste your last watery breath
I shudder, etched inside of me is the feeling of dying
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:21 AM UTC
Tell me I’m brilliant
For the fibers and threads of my mind have recently tattered themselves
Leaving an array of unfinished thoughts and suppressed emotion
Piling up until my worth has been completely displaced
A tower such as I needn’t have limits such as these
However, I have recently become accustomed to the cruel realities of the world
Where everything exists as a number, high or low
Acquiring these numbers prompts man to do back flips, cart wheels, until he knows all he can possibly know
I stand with man on a platter of judgment
Look at me through the glass and assess how transparent my eccentricity is
Whosoever fabricates their lives should be cast out, but how often is this really done?
I stand with a number possibly too small and maybe too outreaching
It all depends on what the powers are teaching
The numbers leave no room for speech or rhythm or character
This is why I choose word as my craft, in hope that everyone can stand on that judgment pillar and feel light upon their shoulders
And breathe slowly into their souls
And say that the world will oblige me, whatever number I hold in my hands
I have not been put in this world to give into such demands.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 10:02 PM UTC
You transfix me quite, young child.
And though I find myself drowning in the pit of fire that fabricates your gaze
there isn’t a moment I do not wish I could die in it.
..And let my demise be brought closer and closer to me;
as my skin burns ever so slowly.. until my body is completely engulfed in the fire of your passion.
I love you Jane Eyre.
**** me.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
Not many people share the same amount of passion I feel.
It doesn’t mean it’s too much
But it sure feels lonely some days
Enough to where I want to throw it away
Because the love I have for life
Feels like so much more
Then what I get back.
I try not to focus on how
Much I receive, because
To over think in what I believe
Scares me, undoubtedly.
To think I have been living
Wrong all this time
Can shoot the ****
Right out of my pants.
Which is unfortunate
Because I am on a budget
And these were on the only pants had.
I ignore the questions
And instead write a song, or a poem, or paint.
I’ve learned the hard way
That playing along with the mind games
Only drives my heart away
And invites fear to stay.
Sometimes the only way
To make it through the day
Is to take each situation as it comes
Rather than worrying what might happen.
I have a great imagination
Filled with ideas, insights, even rhymes!
But from the same hand that can hold
Or smack you cold
Across the cheek
My mind fabricates stories
Which kills creativity and breeds anxiety.
I once heard a monk say
That joy comes from being grateful
More so, living gratefully
And ceasing every opportunity
That life brings to our table.
But if life has all these opportunities for me
Why am I still unhappy?
Hopelessly searching for the answer
And looking all around
The answer was right in front me;
The table is empty
Only missing one piece
Me.
I stopped
Pulled up a chair
And just sat
Ending the complaint over what I don’t have.
The present will always provide
Just what I need
If I am willing to believe
I am right where I need to be.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
I'm beautiful
Exuding soul
Protruding bold
Diluting cold
Until I fold
Once beauty is sold
Biting remarks
Made by sharks
Create sparks
Where it was dark
Displaying pain that is stark
As part of my character ark
They mug me
Until I'm ugly
Then suddenly
They're done with me
It must be some disease
Of a numbing freeze
From stunning thieves
Taking what I believe
They're not impressed
When I'm undressed
So I'm the stressed
I must confess
From this test
Of who's best
And who's less
A blue guess
That brews pests
This hall of fame
Dismal game
Is to blame
For the shame
In our brain
And our name
Fanning flames
Of social stains
I'm a coyote battling
With lonely howling
Until phonies scowling
Are all that powers me
Through what had been
Through what grew
I see you
Through the views
That light my fuse
It's you I choose
Flatter my vanity
To guard my sanity
Conjuring the man in me
More so than I planned to be
But became apparently
Through ****** gratification
You give social validation
You send a pal elation
That causes salivation
Until the callous nation
Invades my phallus station
Text me
I'm ****
To protect me
From the injecting
Inspecting
Dissecting
Directory
Next to me
That begs to see
The beggars seethe
Don't destroy my body image
With your haughty grimace
Applauding penance
An ungodly menace
You've become
Like Tim Gunn
A judgemental one
That fabricates fun
By blocking the sun
Incoherent
Interference
In the clearance
Of my appearance
Not knowing nearness
Outside your austere fence
You flippantly
Didn't see
The death of me
Or the mess I bleed
When my chest can't breathe
While you're blessed to breed
With a superior steed
The eye of the beholder
Is behind their shoulder
That keeps getting colder
From insurgent soldiers
Throwing boulders
Becoming molders
Of the boaters
With no motors
Who float through life
And drown in misery
From societal strife
Of subjective mysteries
To act on the behest of me
Say that you've met me
Say that you've let me
Enter you gently
To a centrifuge ending
For relationships pending
With perceptions tending
To be needlessly upending
By comparisons impending
No matter what they're intending
There's no way they can mend me
When my social rank bends me
To be something pretending
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
Believe me, there is nothing beautiful about feeling this way. Poetry is just a bunch of pretty words used to romanticize things that caused you pain. Poetry fabricates sadness in its perpetual arrangement of letters in a poignant manner. The second you pen it down you obliquely ridicule your ache into something small, only to be relatable and 'beautifully written'.
Poetry is a lie.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
Every wonder, every thought silently fabricates itself inside my mind
Day vanishes, skipping alongside infinite dreams down endless hallways
I gaze atop a glacier while the howling wind pushes me further from shore
Watch as darkness envelops the crashing waters down below me
Upon every breath, every heartbeat my existence fades into shadows twisted by space
The sky unveils its cloak, bestowing ceaseless magnificence for anyone to see
Stars burn like searing ember from a fire, forming life away from the grasp of man
Wondering if in the depths of my subconscious I can dive amongst the ocean of souls
Are there limits for which I cannot go? Chained for eternity with my body in another chamber
We must fly free soaring to depths unknown, or remain unaccompanied on our last gasp of air
Alone to only ourselves, to our silence, and to our fragile emotions that survive so forsaken
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC