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GGA Dec 2014
Crawling, slowly, firmly, effortless towards me.
Billowing from sea over hills,
the blue sky is envious of its charm.
What can it offer but a backdrop of blue?

Its ever morphing silhouette captures our gaze and fascinates.
Not to be revisited, once witnessed, suddenly changed.
Forever, only in memory it plays.

Lie back, enjoy it's visions,
for it is past, as quickly as it came.
Umi Dec 2017
The soil gives birth to beautiful flowers,
Therefore can it be called a "mother" ?
I asked myself this question for hours
But without a ***** it wouldn't bother
It would be lifeless, water is the only thing it devours
Oh mother earth, your beauty fascinates me
Oh dear Sunflower, have you found your special bee ?
Pollination is important, otherwise there wouldn't be flowers
Oh cloud, give us your water, so we can grow, we can see
Until winter arrives we will be filled with glee

~ Umi
William A Poppen Jun 2014
She fascinates men
like a fused corolla whorl
attracts birds and bees
Raymond Johnson Apr 2013
The brain is a pretty rad little doodad. Sitting atop your neck, buzzing with blood and budding thoughts like an apple tree in spring.
I think it's fascinating that we're still quire clueless as to how it really works.
There's one particular part that still fascinates me, namely, memory.

Memories are the cranial equivalent of keeping a diary or writing in a journal. a collection of feelings and happenings of days gone by and words once said.
There are a few journal entries, if you will, that stand out to me. Ones I made with a girl... let's call her B.

If B were here right now, I'd look her in her big brown eyes and ask her:

Do you remember?

Do you remember the divine way the curves of your body fit into mine was we lay in an amorous embrace amongst the blankets and downy pillows?

Do you remember the way I told you a million times that I loved your hair. Your angelic, graceful hair, even though you thought it was too long and too messy?

How we walked through the forest for hours, talking about nothing and nonsense, and how we sat on a log for what seemed like eternity until I manufactured enough courage to finally kiss you?

They say that elephants never forget, and every time you cross my mind I feel my nose getting a little longer and my skin turning a little greyer.

Do you remember? Because I sure as hell do.

Do you remember how adorable you looked in those pajama pants of mine that were about a foot too long for you because you forgot to bring your own?

Do you remember how we sat on a bench and watched the birds flit from feeder to feeder as the sun waved us a crimson farewell?

Do you remember the feeling of your lips upon my lips, and the simple fact that it is impossible to properly describe that in any banal combination of 26 tired characters?

Do you remember the bittersweet intermingling of the smells of my eighty dollar cologne and your forty dollar shampoo?

Do you remember the way we looked into each other’s eyes? The vast universes of possibilities leaping from neuron to neuron behind those irises?

Wonderful memories. Pleasant memories. You couldn’t ask for anything better than these kind of memories. But there’s more. And there’s a reason why they’re just memories.

I remember the way the blood drained from my face like your used bath water circled the drain in my bathtub, and how my heart went on strike and stopped beating when you told me we couldn’t be together.

I remember how similar the crunch of the leaves and twigs under our booted feet sounded to the cracking and shattering of my sanity as you drove away on that sombre day.

I remember all of the dreams my brain pumped out of its pitiful pineal gland in a futile attempt to travel back in time.

I remember the empty spot in my bed and the gaping and gushing hole in my heart that still exists
To
This
Day.

But for all of these melancholy memories, these rotten ruminations, the beast of anger has yet to rear its matted mane.

In fact,

I thank you.

I thank you for this sadness, this regret, this longing, and this acute absence of rage,

For it is proof that I am alive.

I thank you for this sorrow, for this awful ammunition, for inspiration to machine masterpieces from the melancholy.

For what is light without darkness?

What is life without death, and love without loss?

So thank you.

I look back on our shared seconds not with eyes full of misplaced malice and fury,

But with gratitude.

Because even through tragedy

The heart survives.
https://soundcloud.com/blaxstronaut/memories
M Dec 2014
He will

Kiss me hard
Touch me where I am scarred
Throw me out
Scream; shout
Remind me I am worthless
Make me wordless
Use
Abuse

But he will

Love me softly
Come home promptly
Take me out
Ask what I am all about
Remind me that he needs me
Compare me to a beautiful sea
Find me when I am afraid
Give me aide

And he will

*Always cry himself to sleep
Andrew Rueter Jun 2017
I'm so grateful I could die
And then I'd be the Grateful Dead
For every Touch of Grey
You erase
And paint intricate beauty I cannot equivocate
The enigma of your mind
Matches the confusion in my heart
What's the point of talking to someone
if you know what they're thinking?
I enjoy the intense haze
Of your rearranging maze
It's complexity fascinates me

Some of my favorite moments are when
I laugh hysterically as the tears fall down
And you're there
To hit my waterfall with your lightning
My emotions get so charged
As you pump electricity into my current
Making you the conductor
On this lifelong train ride
That's definitely been through some valleys and tunnels
But as we continue to scale this mountain
Negative thoughts can creep in
I wonder if you're disgusted by me
Or what you'd call me if you hated me
And as the tears fall down
I look to the heavens
And laugh hysterically
Thanking God I don't have to live in a world like that
I'm so ******* grateful
Shashank Virkud Dec 2010
The wind blows hard tonight. The wind takes every bit of warmth from my marrow and doesn't bring any of it back. No, this is not an art that you have mastered exclusively, as much as that may disappoint you.  

Ninety six days culminate and rot within my intestines. The feeling, well, the feeling is like ****, but the images interpreted are more than appealing, beautiful I would say.

I don't stay at home anymore; I go to other people's homes and stay there because it fascinates me. It fascinates me for so many reasons, expressions, to name a few.

Keeping true to the convention of keeping true to the convention, I shed a layer of skin when I threw the old tea box full of photographs from the terrace this morning.

The air smelt of coriander and fresh mud, fresh rain. I took it into my lungs as a restatement of my existence but it felt smug and in vain when winter's wisdom slapped me as I exhaled. The pain was a harsh reminder; I was real. My face was red more from the shame than the sting of it.

The whole occurrence was organic, and the memory makes me laugh. Some say to me that I'm made to laugh easily, that I laugh like a fool. I'm a bad hand out of a deck of cards. I am dealt with. It's all in my stars.

In comparison, sardonicism has never known a friend, but I've had one or two. Most people are hopeless to me; I am unplugged. 
You speak to me, you want me to be connected. You have a longing in your voice, not so much for me, but for the thought of me rejected.

I had stars in my sights the nights you ignored me and made my hands your ******. Time, and time again, you justify keeping me pressed against your window, believing every inclination is adored. 

Time has passed, these creases will stay forever in my corduroys. The fragmented fire wood we never got to burn and those forgotten chapters of childhood still litter my mother's yard.

Maintaining a reserved tone, tensing those muscles in your face, for what? Try dying twice and then you will see that there is no magic, no mystery behind the way things are happening, especially here.

Happy to be hurt, ironic, the pain in my neck reminds me of you.
Tommy Randell Nov 2016
Forging such an image fascinates me,
See the page where the war of notes is finally won,
She becomes The Silver Spear rising through a blue sky.

Letting her heart soar, fingers released of all gravity
She reels in azure, drowning us in wordless phrases from a language
Catholic ancestors sing through shining faces,

Experimental and modern despite tradition's roar.
I am left to Imitate the stance of a boxer drinking at the bar
Struggling to hold on, to be the victory this moment is for.

Late on the road, later Saturday night,
A drunk going home like he's carrying a horse,
Like some Celtic Saint under a Celtic curse.

Played out, I know she lives where I can only ever dream
And am left to lay back on the bed
With a half smile playing out the battles being fought in me,

That of all lovers the flute is the one
Makes off with my soul, the flute is the one
Knows best a future I may yet become.
Cory Ellis Jun 2013
Hey guys. This isn't truly a poem but a paper I wrote for English class. I wanted to share this view with people and this is the only vehicle I knew to use. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it.
-------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------------------


The amplifiers were turned up to ten. The young and fresh crowd looked at us with anticipation.

What were they waiting for? As the music began I noticed the subtle movements and growing tension in

the crowd. Men shook their heads and we shook ours in a violent duet between the crowd and

performer. Women and men flailed their limbs as they awaited the ******. We knew when it was

coming; they did not. When we decided to let it all go I witnessed something crazy! There was a brief

pause in the music and when it began again we kicked it into overdrive. We shook our heads with a

more frantic pace. We jumped about like madmen. The crowd erupted; it became its own entity. You

could feel the heat and power of this new creature. We were locked in a violent psychic-sphere of

crazed young teens and when the ****** was over there seemed to be a sense of relief and happiness

in the crowd. Had my after school hobby become a healing agent, even if only temporary, in society?

This papers purpose is an attempt at piecing together the phenomena of catharsis by merging

philosophy, psychology, history and spirituality.



First, to understand the psychology of catharsis we must think back to the roots of this behavior. Since

human life has existed we’ve formed crowds for various reasons. The first reason held the sole purpose

of protection. Tribes of people, men as hunters and women as gatherers, teamed up for the benefit of

human survival. Erich Fromm says that “the meaning of life is not to be found in its fullest unfolding but

in social service and social duties; that the development, freedom, and happiness of the individual is

subordinate or even irrelevant in comparison to the welfare of the state.”(Fromm, 1947, page 51) This

states that a crowd is actually very necessary to the function of human life. The second reason crowds

gathered was in form of revel, shamanistic healing and worship of deities (Ehrenreich, 30). Men and

woman would often enter trances, speak in tongues and become involved in a collective ecstasy while in

worship of their God. In later years, politics, entertainment and rebellion or protest was a main factor in

the gathering of people (Ehrenreich, 102). People gathered at Festivals that were in the midst of being

suppressed and would dance in mockery of their Kings or leaders.



What exactly is catharsis? Catharsis is a purging of emotional tension brought out in a crowd through

the viewing of a tragedy or tragic play. In the article “The Power of Catharsis” Kearny says the following

More specifically he (Aristotle) defined

the function of catharsis as 'purgation of pity and fear'. This comes

about, he explains, whenever the dramatic imitation of certain actions

arouses pity and fear in order to provide an outlet for pity and fear.

The recounting of experience through the formal medium of plot,

fiction or spectacle permits us to repeat the past forward so to speak.

And this very act of creative repetition allows for a certain kind of

pleasure or release. In the play of narrative re-creation we are invited

to revisit our lives — through the actions and personas of others — so

as to live them otherwise. We discover a way to give a future to

the past. (Kearny 1)

I figure that, even though he states that it is a purgation of pity and fear, it could also be involved with

many other suppressed emotions. Take my introduction for example. These kids were not releasing

pity and fear, they were releasing their angst! They were releasing their desire for competition.

They were making up for the violent feelings of agression they felt in their body that had been

suppressed by society for so long! They were revolting! Could catharsis also be used to purge other

emotions as well such as ****** suppression or communicative issues?





How would one come about actually attempting this catharsis that I speak of? We need to first look at

some ways in which people have controlled crowds in the past and realize that crowds form by

themselves but often look for leadership due to what Nietzche called that “herd mentality.”

In the article “Seducing the Crowd” by Urs Staheli it mentions that repetition is a key factor in beginning

to control the crowd. (Staheli, 69) This means that through repetition you can get the crowd to side with

your beliefs. The crowd could begin to think about what your suggesting and potentially be swayed by

the other people that are now following your ideas. It could also be repetition of body movements as

well. What better vehicle is there to sway a crowd than music? It’s repetitive in instrumental and lyrical

form!



Another way to “******” a crowd is to act like a madman! Specifically how I stumbled upon this in

the first phenomena place.

The leader himself is possessed and hypnotized by the ideas

and visions he holds, obsessed to such an extent that he cannot rationally exercise

control over the crowd. Instead, he devotes himself to fascinating the

crowd by more ecstatic means.8 He often resembles a madman but fascinates

by the mere power of his determination. What distinguishes the leader from

the rest of the crowd is his will alone, not any particular intellectual capacity

or a superior morality. (Staheli, 68)

The theory is that through mythological story telling or acting tragically and in a spectacle, we can

actually release negative emotions and potentially even heal neuroses or psychic ailments. Later in the

article he goes on to say that a shaman was actually documented to have cured a woman with a blocked

birth canal and in labor by telling her a story about a warrior trying to exit a cave that had monsters on

the outside trying to get in.

The function of a shaman is to heal his tribe. He uses drugs or plants to change his state of mind and

then by going over to the other side of reality he invokes spirits that help to heal.

In the séance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic, deliberately evoked through drugs, chants,

dancing, hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice; convulsive movement. He acts like a

madman. These professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their psychotic leaning, were once

esteemed. They mediated between man and spirit world. Their mental travels formed the crux

of the religious life of the tribe. (Morrison 1967 pg. 71)

This shows an ecstatic crowd dancing and chanting while one man acts out a tragic spectacle. Through

this spectacle the shaman acts like a madman. This causes wild emotions within the crowd and allows it

to release their built up and suppressed emotions. Also, the dance and chants bring them to a feeling of

unity and oneness!



One may not believe in the spiritual shaman because of their own beliefs about God and religion. Some

may not believe in the other world that parallels our own.  It is a skeptical concept without a doubt and

there are probably many people who disagree with the legitimacy of the shaman. Is there a way that we

could think of the phenomena in a psychological sense rather than strictly spiritual? The answer lies in

Carl Jung’s theory of the unconscious mind and dream therapy as well as in Nietzche’s philosophy on art

and aesthetics.  



Carl Jung believed that there is a conscious mind and an unconscious mind. The conscious mind is the

everyday mind that occurs in waking life. It is rational and helps us survive. The unconscious mind can

be found in dreams or whenever you experience a déjà vu (Jung 1964 21).  He also believed that through

the study of dreams you could heal certain aspects of your psyche that have been altered by neuroses.

Symbols and archetypes make up dreams and the unconscious, and often you will find that archetypes

appear in the form  of people. Jung believes that through living in society that men and women have lost

touch with their feminine or masculine characteristics depending on their gender. Dreams can help us

get back into union with these lost roles through connecting us with our anima(female) or animus

(male) through symbols in our dreams or unconscious minds. Jung wrote that when society was

formed people took on roles and caused a dissociation in their psyche and caused a duality rather

than a unity when they suppressed one side of their mind.  He mentioned that at all times the

unconscious mind is connecting us on a psychic level.



How does this tie into shamans and catharsis? It seems like something completely different all together

right? My theory is that the shaman or crowd leader brings forth a forgotten union of the masculine and

feminine forces in the universe. Nietzche believed that there are two polar forces that are natural in this

world and in art. These forces are given the names of deities in his book “The Birth of Tragedy.”

The first is the Apollonian force that is masculine. This force in art governs form and dreams. The

Apollonian artist directly takes ideas from his dreams and brings them to life whether it is in form

sculpture or poetry. Apollo appears through an oracle often in tragedy or in visions of the waking life.

The second force is the Dionysian which is feminine. This force governs intoxication, revel and ecstasy.

Dionysian artists are improvisers and dancers and are usually tragic figures. Nietzche believed there are

three different types of artists: Apollonian, Dionysian and the fusion of both (Nietzche 1872 14). This

latter artist is what I believe the shaman is.



Through connecting these polarizing forces he fixes the psychic neuroses in his own mind. He becomes

a unified artist, or a magician of duality. The shaman, as stated above, takes drugs to intoxicate himself.

Often the drug of choice is wine or alcohol though it could be hallucinogenic drugs as well. This tied with

repetitive revel is the Dionysian side of the spectrum and also helps draw the crowd’s attention through

spectacle and repetition. Everybody is ecstatic and experiencing the collective vibrations of the crowd.

Through his intoxication he is able to go into the unconscious mind and produce dream symbols in

reality! The crowd follows the leader into this unconscious mind and brings back forgotten wisdom of

mythology and archetypes. This is the Apollonian side of the spectrum because it deals with the

unconscious mind and dream images. It also could be this “other world” that traditional shamans speak

of. Now the psychic duality is merged and a tie is formed between the masculine and feminine forces of

nature! People feel at one with themselves and the crowd and the societal suppression is vanished

briefly. All the neuroses caused by the suppression fades away in the ecstatic revel. This is the appeal of

the rock concert. Notice how many leading figures of rock bands have androgynous features and

shamanistic nature. This is because they have fixed the psychic neuroses in their own mind and become

at peace with the masculine and feminine duality of their psyche.



Stumbling upon this phenomena in my rebellious youth was very eye opening. Ever since I have been  

very excited about this theory and I’ve been trying to piece it together. It seems to be coming along

further and further in my study of this. What exactly this ancient wisdom is; I don’t entirely know. I

do know that I have witnessed this in reality and the subject is interesting and fascinating. My theory

still has a lot of work before it is completed but I think that within this article I’ve given a decent

amount of history about the topic as well as my own thoughts. Whether this phenomena is true or

not, we can leave that up to the psychologists and philosophers to decide, though I think many may

agree. Either way, catharsis surely does exist and it is a fun way of entertainment as well as a

therapeutic option for many stressed out individuals out there
Poemasabi Jun 2013
I had to run to the store today at lunchtime
we were out of paper plates
we had a party last night
and didn't want to have to do dishes again

While there and while moving quite quickly
although in the shape I am in, "quickly" is being very kind to myself

I came across a man
In a blue blazer
with yellow shorts and
knee-high yellow socks
in beige shoes

My first thought was
I need to get paper plates
my father-in-law is waiting for his lunch
he's eighty nine and flew over the Pacific
during WWII in a PBY Catalina
one of the most beautiful flying boats ever created
pulling pilots out of the water
who had come up short in a dogfight
or of fuel
I needed to get paper plates

This isn't Bermuda old chap
or a cricket match in Rhoorkee
the british invented great campaign chairs there
this is Connecticut but then

I realized that I knew the man
I had worked with him in a previous life
in a long dead company
that burst before the internet bubble did
He was a former British Sergeant Major
and as such took his colonial British very seriously
that attitude fascinates me
his office I recalled, looked like a colonial governor's office in India

So I said hi
and we talked for a bit
and wished each other well
and said good bye
as I needed to get paper plates
my father-in-law was waiting for his lunch
IN SEARCH OF THE PRESENT

I begin with two words that all men have uttered since the dawn of humanity: thank you. The word gratitude has equivalents in every language and in each tongue the range of meanings is abundant. In the Romance languages this breadth spans the spiritual and the physical, from the divine grace conceded to men to save them from error and death, to the ****** grace of the dancing girl or the feline leaping through the undergrowth. Grace means pardon, forgiveness, favour, benefice, inspiration; it is a form of address, a pleasing style of speaking or painting, a gesture expressing politeness, and, in short, an act that reveals spiritual goodness. Grace is gratuitous; it is a gift. The person who receives it, the favoured one, is grateful for it; if he is not base, he expresses gratitude. That is what I am doing at this very moment with these weightless words. I hope my emotion compensates their weightlessness. If each of my words were a drop of water, you would see through them and glimpse what I feel: gratitude, acknowledgement. And also an indefinable mixture of fear, respect and surprise at finding myself here before you, in this place which is the home of both Swedish learning and world literature.

Languages are vast realities that transcend those political and historical entities we call nations. The European languages we speak in the Americas illustrate this. The special position of our literatures when compared to those of England, Spain, Portugal and France depends precisely on this fundamental fact: they are literatures written in transplanted tongues. Languages are born and grow from the native soil, nourished by a common history. The European languages were rooted out from their native soil and their own tradition, and then planted in an unknown and unnamed world: they took root in the new lands and, as they grew within the societies of America, they were transformed. They are the same plant yet also a different plant. Our literatures did not passively accept the changing fortunes of the transplanted languages: they participated in the process and even accelerated it. They very soon ceased to be mere transatlantic reflections: at times they have been the negation of the literatures of Europe; more often, they have been a reply.

In spite of these oscillations the link has never been broken. My classics are those of my language and I consider myself to be a descendant of Lope and Quevedo, as any Spanish writer would ... yet I am not a Spaniard. I think that most writers of Spanish America, as well as those from the United States, Brazil and Canada, would say the same as regards the English, Portuguese and French traditions. To understand more clearly the special position of writers in the Americas, we should think of the dialogue maintained by Japanese, Chinese or Arabic writers with the different literatures of Europe. It is a dialogue that cuts across multiple languages and civilizations. Our dialogue, on the other hand, takes place within the same language. We are Europeans yet we are not Europeans. What are we then? It is difficult to define what we are, but our works speak for us.

In the field of literature, the great novelty of the present century has been the appearance of the American literatures. The first to appear was that of the English-speaking part and then, in the second half of the 20th Century, that of Latin America in its two great branches: Spanish America and Brazil. Although they are very different, these three literatures have one common feature: the conflict, which is more ideological than literary, between the cosmopolitan and nativist tendencies, between Europeanism and Americanism. What is the legacy of this dispute? The polemics have disappeared; what remain are the works. Apart from this general resemblance, the differences between the three literatures are multiple and profound. One of them belongs more to history than to literature: the development of Anglo-American literature coincides with the rise of the United States as a world power whereas the rise of our literature coincides with the political and social misfortunes and upheavals of our nations. This proves once more the limitations of social and historical determinism: the decline of empires and social disturbances sometimes coincide with moments of artistic and literary splendour. Li-Po and Tu Fu witnessed the fall of the Tang dynasty; Velázquez painted for Felipe IV; Seneca and Lucan were contemporaries and also victims of Nero. Other differences are of a literary nature and apply more to particular works than to the character of each literature. But can we say that literatures have a character? Do they possess a set of shared features that distinguish them from other literatures? I doubt it. A literature is not defined by some fanciful, intangible character; it is a society of unique works united by relations of opposition and affinity.

The first basic difference between Latin-American and Anglo-American literature lies in the diversity of their origins. Both begin as projections of Europe. The projection of an island in the case of North America; that of a peninsula in our case. Two regions that are geographically, historically and culturally eccentric. The origins of North America are in England and the Reformation; ours are in Spain, Portugal and the Counter-Reformation. For the case of Spanish America I should briefly mention what distinguishes Spain from other European countries, giving it a particularly original historical identity. Spain is no less eccentric than England but its eccentricity is of a different kind. The eccentricity of the English is insular and is characterized by isolation: an eccentricity that excludes. Hispanic eccentricity is peninsular and consists of the coexistence of different civilizations and different pasts: an inclusive eccentricity. In what would later be Catholic Spain, the Visigoths professed the heresy of Arianism, and we could also speak about the centuries of ******* by Arabic civilization, the influence of Jewish thought, the Reconquest, and other characteristic features.

Hispanic eccentricity is reproduced and multiplied in America, especially in those countries such as Mexico and Peru, where ancient and splendid civilizations had existed. In Mexico, the Spaniards encountered history as well as geography. That history is still alive: it is a present rather than a past. The temples and gods of pre-Columbian Mexico are a pile of ruins, but the spirit that breathed life into that world has not disappeared; it speaks to us in the hermetic language of myth, legend, forms of social coexistence, popular art, customs. Being a Mexican writer means listening to the voice of that present, that presence. Listening to it, speaking with it, deciphering it: expressing it ... After this brief digression we may be able to perceive the peculiar relation that simultaneously binds us to and separates us from the European tradition.

This consciousness of being separate is a constant feature of our spiritual history. Separation is sometimes experienced as a wound that marks an internal division, an anguished awareness that invites self-examination; at other times it appears as a challenge, a spur that incites us to action, to go forth and encounter others and the outside world. It is true that the feeling of separation is universal and not peculiar to Spanish Americans. It is born at the very moment of our birth: as we are wrenched from the Whole we fall into an alien land. This experience becomes a wound that never heals. It is the unfathomable depth of every man; all our ventures and exploits, all our acts and dreams, are bridges designed to overcome the separation and reunite us with the world and our fellow-beings. Each man's life and the collective history of mankind can thus be seen as attempts to reconstruct the original situation. An unfinished and endless cure for our divided condition. But it is not my intention to provide yet another description of this feeling. I am simply stressing the fact that for us this existential condition expresses itself in historical terms. It thus becomes an awareness of our history. How and when does this feeling appear and how is it transformed into consciousness? The reply to this double-edged question can be given in the form of a theory or a personal testimony. I prefer the latter: there are many theories and none is entirely convincing.

The feeling of separation is bound up with the oldest and vaguest of my memories: the first cry, the first scare. Like every child I built emotional bridges in the imagination to link me to the world and to other people. I lived in a town on the outskirts of Mexico City, in an old dilapidated house that had a jungle-like garden and a great room full of books. First games and first lessons. The garden soon became the centre of my world; the library, an enchanted cave. I used to read and play with my cousins and schoolmates. There was a fig tree, temple of vegetation, four pine trees, three ash trees, a nightshade, a pomegranate tree, wild grass and prickly plants that produced purple grazes. Adobe walls. Time was elastic; space was a spinning wheel. All time, past or future, real or imaginary, was pure presence. Space transformed itself ceaselessly. The beyond was here, all was here: a valley, a mountain, a distant country, the neighbours' patio. Books with pictures, especially history books, eagerly leafed through, supplied images of deserts and jungles, palaces and hovels, warriors and princesses, beggars and kings. We were shipwrecked with Sinbad and with Robinson, we fought with d'Artagnan, we took Valencia with the Cid. How I would have liked to stay forever on the Isle of Calypso! In summer the green branches of the fig tree would sway like the sails of a caravel or a pirate ship. High up on the mast, swept by the wind, I could make out islands and continents, lands that vanished as soon as they became tangible. The world was limitless yet it was always within reach; time was a pliable substance that weaved an unbroken present.

When was the spell broken? Gradually rather than suddenly. It is hard to accept being betrayed by a friend, deceived by the woman we love, or that the idea of freedom is the mask of a tyrant. What we call "finding out" is a slow and tricky process because we ourselves are the accomplices of our errors and deceptions. Nevertheless, I can remember fairly clearly an incident that was the first sign, although it was quickly forgotten. I must have been about six when one of my cousins who was a little older showed me a North American magazine with a photograph of soldiers marching along a huge avenue, probably in New York. "They've returned from the war" she said. This handful of words disturbed me, as if they foreshadowed the end of the world or the Second Coming of Christ. I vaguely knew that somewhere far away a war had ended a few years earlier and that the soldiers were marching to celebrate their victory. For me, that war had taken place in another time, not here and now. The photo refuted me. I felt literally dislodged from the present.

From that moment time began to fracture more and more. And there was a plurality of spaces. The experience repeated itself more and more frequently. Any piece of news, a harmless phrase, the headline in a newspaper: everything proved the outside world's existence and my own unreality. I felt that the world was splitting and that I did not inhabit the present. My present was disintegrating: real time was somewhere else. My time, the time of the garden, the fig tree, the games with friends, the drowsiness among the plants at three in the afternoon under the sun, a fig torn open (black and red like a live coal but one that is sweet and fresh): this was a fictitious time. In spite of what my senses told me, the time from over there, belonging to the others, was the real one, the time of the real present. I accepted the inevitable: I became an adult. That was how my expulsion from the present began.

It may seem paradoxical to say that we have been expelled from the present, but it is a feeling we have all had at some moment. Some of us experienced it first as a condemnation, later transformed into consciousness and action. The search for the present is neither the pursuit of an earthly paradise nor that of a timeless eternity: it is the search for a real reality. For us, as Spanish Americans, the real present was not in our own countries: it was the time lived by others, by the English, the French and the Germans. It was the time of New York, Paris, London. We had to go and look for it and bring it back home. These years were also the years of my discovery of literature. I began writing poems. I did not know what made me write them: I was moved by an inner need that is difficult to define. Only now have I understood that there was a secret relationship between what I have called my expulsion from the present and the writing of poetry. Poetry is in love with the instant and seeks to relive it in the poem, thus separating it from sequential time and turning it into a fixed present. But at that time I wrote without wondering why I was doing it. I was searching for the gateway to the present: I wanted to belong to my time and to my century. A little later this obsession became a fixed idea: I wanted to be a modern poet. My search for modernity had begun.

What is modernity? First of all it is an ambiguous term: there are as many types of modernity as there are societies. Each has its own. The word's meaning is uncertain and arbitrary, like the name of the period that precedes it, the Middle Ages. If we are modern when compared to medieval times, are we perhaps the Middle Ages of a future modernity? Is a name that changes with time a real name? Modernity is a word in search of its meaning. Is it an idea, a mirage or a moment of history? Are we the children of modernity or its creators? Nobody knows for sure. It doesn't matter much: we follow it, we pursue it. For me at that time modernity was fused with the present or rather produced it: the present was its last supreme flower. My case is neither unique nor exceptional: from the Symbolist period, all modern poets have chased after that magnetic and elusive figure that fascinates them. Baudelaire was the first. He was also the first to touch her and discover that she is nothing but time that crumbles in one's hands. I am not going to relate my adventures in pursuit of modernity: they are not very different from those of other 20th-Century poets. Modernity has been a universal passion. Since 1850 she has been our goddess and our demoness. In recent years, there has been an attempt to exorcise her and there has been much talk of "postmodernism". But what is postmodernism if not an even more modern modernity?

For us, as Latin Americans, the search for poetic modernity runs historically parallel to the repeated attempts to modernize our countries. This tendency begins at the end of the 18th Century and includes Spain herself. The United States was born into modernity and by 1830 was already, as de Tocqueville observed, the womb of the future; we were born at a moment when Spain and Portugal were moving away from modernity. This is why there was frequent talk of "Europeanizing" our countries: the modern was outside and had to be imported. In Mexican history this process begins just before the War of Independence. Later it became a great ideological and political debate that passionately divided Mexican society during the 19th Century. One event was to call into question not the legitimacy of the reform movement but the way in which it had been implemented: the Mexican Revolution. Unlike its 20th-Century counterparts, the Mexican Revolution was not really the expression of a vaguely utopian ideology but rather the explosion of a reality that had been historically and psychologically repressed. It was not the work of a group of ideologists intent on introducing principles derived from a political theory; it was a popular uprising that unmasked what was hidden. For this very reason it was more of a revelation than a revolution. Mexico was searching for the present outside only to find it within, buried but alive. The search for modernity led
r m b Apr 2017
There's only me, the moon and the ocean tonight
people love the ocean more when the sun is out
overwhelming brightness, shining like a damnation
but not me, the moon is my muse
I've never learned how to swim
and it's at night that I fear the ocean the most
we're staring at each other now
waiting for something, anything to happen
afraid of taking the next step, none of us moving yet
there's tension all around and it's freaking me out
but the moonlight serves as my silver lining
that tiny sliver of light is what fascinates me the most
and it's pulling me to shore
and on a night like this, I'd gladly oblige.
I see all your light, I love all your darkness.
I'd drown in you if I have to.
Klaryssa May 2015
I have taken spanish since freshman year
and I’m no linguist but I think that everyone speaks their own language,
everyone has their own pronunciations and different communications
it’s kinda comforting that the very thing I love and hate about humanity is that it never stays the same
There are thousands of different versions, all of the same thing
just like how in the etymology and in the psychology of our minds we look at our words and they all start from the same kind of kaleidoscope
and I’m no chemist because I spent too many chemistry classes jotting down ideas for a stanza but I know that humans are all elements of the same isotope

I have been a follower of Christ since the sixth grade
and it’s kinda comforting that all of our sins wash away with rain
see I am no forensics expert but I know that I can determine a crime scene
from the red going down the drainage pipes in my middle school bathroom because all the 13 year olds spilled their secrets there,
to the tears in the back-alley way where the real trail of tears led out because too many broken hearts and too many bad nights and too many bad guys and too many prescription pain medications to know that the delusion with people is that they always think something is wrong.
personally,
I am afraid of failure so sometimes I don’t even try
but no result plus an excuse does not equal a reason why

When I was 12
I wanted to study astrology because I was in love with stardust and I wanted to go to the moon,
I wanted to know that my mind was as extraterrestrial as I thought
because even cynical people dream
and I wanted to know I wasn't alone
The cytology, the study of how we are put together fascinates me to no end because no matter how many times the doctor takes apart a man he only ever knows how to put him together again,
not how to get him there in the first place
and what about first place
because I can be the first to cross the line but still be dead last because I don’t believe in
       destruction
             corruption
                    unlawful seduction
                            purposeful obstruction
                                    meaningless instruction
you can win the rat race but at the very least you have to realize you are still just a rat

I have wondered about theology since I was thirteen,
we are all sinners at the same pulpit
some people just don’t meet us there
or find different pulpits for different things
so if going to the pulpit means I am above another
then maybe I’ll just worship in private because I don’t want to be seen
Maybe I'm a little self-righteous, and a little insecure
but if that means I am a sinner than there is a God
so take me to an altar
I'm Human
Because I’ve still got dealings with the devil and although I have a cross on my wrist it’s still upside down to some people and when we accept Christ all our sins are leveled but I still have some premeditated measures and some guilty pleasures that
I can’t shake off yet.
Sapien May 2016
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, not thinking anything and just staring. A few minutes later she took a deep breath and opened the drawer. Took out a box and observed it for quite long.
She took out a blood red lip colour and began to apply. While applying the lipstick she remembered how exciting was dressing up was to her when she was a child. This red colour was much brighter to her than now. These bangles were much more fascinating than what they are now. She recalled the days when she uses to stole her mother's makeup kit, She recalled how her mother used to beat up as if she had committed any sin.
Her eyes were much sparkling when she was a little kid, Now even the coal pencil cannot bring that shine again.
She stood up without any emotions, She was as blank as a white paper.
The beautiful red lehnga with golden embroidery suits her perfectly, Her long black hair and wide eyes compliment her outfit completely. Oh, how beautiful she looks but something is missing. There is no happiness on the face of the girl who always loved to look pretty. She was living the nightmare of every girl of her age. How ominous her life is she wondered, with this thought tear rolled down.
Took a deep breath and controlled her emotions. Wore her dupatta and came to a room, Decorated with roses and candles and bloom.
It was perfectly decorated like every girl fascinates. But for her, this was nothing of value here it is reflected by her face. This room was decorated for her like this every day, someone waits for her in the room every day.
Nights haunt her, the moon scares her. Men frighten her. Now she knows why her mother used to stop her whenever she said she wants to be like her, Now she knows why her mother cried whenever she hugged her.  
These bangles are fetters to her, All the colours are not so happy for her. Her innocence is lost somewhere, she doesn't even remember when she laughed last without faking.
She is like a body without the soul. She is like a night with no moon.
Vince Chul'Theg Jun 2013
Life can be painless
Provided there is sufficient
Peacefulness

For a dozen or so rituals
To be repeated simply
Endlessly

Your genius does not fail you
It allows you to understand the
Truth of the situation;
Which makes you--at times--
more tragic than ever

And your genius,
like all geniuses
Suffers periodic fits
of monumental
naïveté
Hi-**

Listen:
Where is Grace
When milk and blood
Are about to be added
To the composition of the
Stinking ping-pong
***** being manufactured
In Grand Rapids?

Schizophrenia
The sound and appearance
Of the word fascinates

It sounds and looks to me
Like a human being
Sneezing in a blizzard of
Soapflakes

This much we know:
You made yourself hideously
Uncomfortable by not narrowing
Your attention to details
Of life that were immediately
Important

And by refusing to believe what
Your neighbors believed
Hi-**

Let your imagination continue
To be the flywheel on the
Ramshackle machinery of the truth.

But not the ‘awful’ truth

The ‘beauty’ in truth

Because we are a part
Of a system that is very
Restless,
With people tearing around
All the time

Every so often,
somebody stops to put up
A monument

Ours is a country where
Everybody is expected to
Pay his own bills for
Everything,
And one of the most
Expensive things a person
Can do is get sick

Grace:
Because if we stay here
We’ll do one of two things
(or both!)

Build a Commune

Or do like Collin Heise did:
Make the main thing that we
do be this:
Move seventy-eight
Thousand pounds of olives
To Tulsa, Oklahoma

Even if we can’t
Improve the quality of our surroundings
We’ll do our best to make our
Insides beautiful instead

Piebald Roadtrip-writing, baby
Hi-**

You are the turtle
able to live anywhere
even under water for short periods

With your home on your back

A particular comfort in
Realizing that it so often feels
There is no order in the
World around us

That we must adapt ourselves to
The requirements of
Chaos instead

Remember:
We are healthy
Only to the extent that
Our ideas are
Humane

To you
To me
To ourselves
To We
Hi-**



*Inspired by the words of Kurt Vonnegut in "Slapstick" and "Breakfast of Champions"*
Noah Sep 2013
Twenty percent who die in cold water do so within the first two minutes -
it's called cold shock response,
which is a really boring name
and kind of how i feel because
when your body hits the water
     it panics
and can't stop trying to breathe
and the water cools your blood
and hits your heart
so if you happen not to hyperventilate,
cardiac arrest is always an option.

I talked to a girl who claimed that earl grey is better than any other tea -
i wonder if she's had anything else
because if she did she'd know
that sharp cinnamon apple spice
warms best on a cool fall day
and hibiscus and rose hips
make you feel like a little kid again
and throat coat is something to be worshiped
or so i've heard, anyway
it's something i need now, anyway
because like this so called fact
this sore throat has been passed on
from one room to another
has sneaked down stairwells
and curled under blankets
and that's kind of how i feel
like autumn and rose hips and sore throats
and i'm not really sure what that means
but like obscenity when it is here
it's impossible not to know so.

i have killed my flower three times since i've been here, and i think i'm giving up -
i knocked it off the window ledge
and then watered it too much
and then watered it too little
not really learning from my mistakes
as much as letting them evolve
each stage a new form of destruction
and i kind of feel that way because
each time i pick up a book
or open a new tab
my fingers linger on my phone
and i'm replying to a friend
checking my email
playing spades
and when i play i bet too high
though i've been low for weeks
i've been as dry as my flower's soil
and it hasn't bummed me out
as much as other things have
and that's feeling less and less incongruous.

the boy sitting in front of me has a really high voice and a really small body -
his beard is well groomed
and it fascinates me
and while i'm trying not to make
any assumptions about him or anyone
which is turning out to be
a lot harder than i thought
he gives me hope because
he represents something i want
something i'll get one day
because nobody looks at him weird
when he speaks so soft and high
and nobody laughs at how short and small he is
and nobody asks any questions
because there aren't any to ask
that's just what he is, how he looks
and even if it wasn't always
how are we supposed to know
and why should we even care
but even so i find these people and
i want to be close to them, to speak to them
because they look like how i think i'll look
even if they didn't get there the same way i will,
but we spoke in an elevator once
and i thanked him for his help.
Becky Littmann Aug 2014
"Look Up" by Gary Turk is a poem I've recently watched / read
& it's message was SO powerful, it's now forever in my head
So deep, well spoken & extremely true....
I hope you'll share it, I know it'll be a lasting impression on you
This video poem & it's message has inspired me to write....
.....guess I'm not sleeping tonight....

Kids nowadays
Entertain themselves differently from my childhood ways
This is what we've become to be
Can't go too long 100% electronically free
Fresh air & drinking from the hose
Have been lost & forgotten I suppose
Of course fresh air & hoses still exist
It's their simplicity that's being overlooked & missed
Kids imagination is becoming rare & isn't creative anymore
Far, far less than all the kids in years before
Glued to some form of a screen
Hours in a line they'd rather wait, the newest game they feel
The parks are all much too quiet now
Their fascination no longer fascinates somehow
playground equipment empty & bare
& it's seems like everyone really doesn't care
The weekends are slowly turning into just another day
With marathons of endless video game play
Not even one foot stepped outside
Instead, like a hermit,just staying inside
Sunshine wasted daily & ignored easily
My opinion...it should be enjoyed worry free & regularly
Go play a game of hide-and-go-seek
& try to start a winning streak
Or how about some good old Red Rover, Red Rover
...Who will you decide to "Send Over"
Maybe it'll be on your secret crush
Just be careful not to blush
Another game I loved to play
Cartoon tag, HURRY & SQUAT what character will you say?!
There's so many games of tag you could choose
& fun & laughter you'll never lose
Like freeze tag or how about tunnel tag
NONE of them at all are dull or close to being a drag
Just one rule I think should always apply
Count to ten after tagged so instant "tag backs" won't cause a cry
Or you could play mother may I?
.....also I recommend giving Red Light, Green Light a try
NOW if sports are more your thing
A glove, bats, ***** & bases are something you should bring
Basketball more your style
Then bring a ball & shoot hoops for a while
If you'd rather just enjoy the day & sunshine
That too, is perfectly fine
Take your dog for a little walk
& bring a friend a long & just talk
Outdoors has so much to offer you
There is endless amounts of options for things to do
Maybe enjoy a scenic little bike ride
Or a new adventure you've always wished you've tried
A park isn't the only outdoor place you can enjoy
Your own swimming pool is a great too with an old tire tube toy
There you can play hours of "Marco Polo"
Or see how your splashes go
Just don't forget to wear sunscreen
Or your results will be red & burn, if you get what I mean
& always , always drink lots of water
Especially when the weather gets hotter
Staying hydrated is without a doubt the best
No need for you body's limits to be put to the test
Back when I was young & carefree
Inside was the last place I wanted to be
Sunrise to sunset outdoors running around
There were times where I even rolled on the ground
As day turned to dusk & the sun was almost gone
That's when the street lights came on
Ending my day covered from head to toe in dirt
& a grass stained T-Shirt
I had an abundant amount of fun
& hated having that day already be done
I was one of the boys for a long time
But smart enough to let them commit any crime
No girls lived on my street at first
& I thought that was just the worst
But I could easily keep up with the boys & their plans
Daily, I'd quickly throw on & tie tight my vans
Riding through all the empty fields & dirt mounds used to jump
Houses being newly built & just a wood frame
Look back now, we had so many adventures & no one of them the same
FINALLY a girl moved in, just my age too
I was excited to the max, more than she ever knew
Barbies was mostly our pick for entertainment
Even outside we'd play them, so many hours we spent
Lego forts we're sleep over fun, that's for sure
So many memories & good times I created with her

2014 is the current year
Children's idea for "fun" is something I fear
Technology is always evolving & growing
& its dependency is definitely showing
Instead of coming home when the street lights come on
Sending a text is the new tradition
Actual words are becoming eliminated
& ridiculously being abbreviated
Which is causing normal speaking to sound absurd
Sometimes it's too horrible & unable to decipher what you've heard
Thanks electronics for advancing & inventing a new language
Now we talk like we have severe brain damage
"Dats Cray, Cray she's my bae"
Uuuuuhhhh WHAT THE **** DID YOU SAY?
Translation: "That's crazy, she's my babe" is what they said
Seriously, they are sounding more & more uneducated
Everyone now has a phone glued to their hand
It's a new trend that I'll never understand
Electronically we're being defeated
Not realizing it's not always needed
Like on a beautiful day & the weather is just perfect
Don't close your blinds because the sunshine you're trying to reject
Instead shut off that power ******* device
Fresh air is waiting & the breeze is nice
Computer games & all those gaming console
Are just disguised as good clean fun but actually they're slowly killing souls
One by one
Until the last one is done
We're just slaves to our electronics
No longer needing hooked on phonics
Dictionaries were quickly replaced
"Just google it" is now popularly phrased
As the years continue to progress
Electronics will advance & more will just obsess
It is kind of like when you're scrolling through a social media board
Reading the latest status your friend posted & beautifully poured
& trying to put down your phone for a bit
But it only managed to last a minute
Not a single change, how lame
So you hit refresh over & over but still nothing changed
All the while hoping some things would've rearranged
Desperate for some kind of excitement or some entertainment
Staring at the screen
Which displays nothing new to be seen
You're wasting your day
You don't want to forever live this way
Missing adventures you could've had, but gave them no chances
A screen brightly glowing hypnotized you, not allowing any reality glances
It puts you secretly in a trance that will mesmerized
Forgetting to blink, helpless they become are your eyes
Don't let it get to that part of no return
& remember what, a long the way you did happen to learn
Control your mind & don't let technology completely drain you...
Electronically free let's you experience all the possibilities you can do
All the new things you can try
...As long as you occasionally disconnect from WIFI
Sorry it's so long
Val Dicks Oct 2013
A heated room,
sixteen seats beneath the phosphorous shell,
sixteen minds, exactly the same and yet unique.

Between bites of lobster
and the first entree,
one ***** discusses politics,
while the business has chains and crops
on his mind.

The religious fanatics
can't get his hand out of his pants,
and the proud pagan
pays him to keep them there.

We all have an inkling towards one--
our secret,
divulging desire--
what ailment do you prefer?
YayyaKhairudin Dec 2014
Goodnight to the moon,
Thanks for always be there during dark,
Even when i was alone.

Not to forget the stars,
Light up the sky,
Fascinates my imaginary mind.

The clouds flow up its wind,
Shivers me with its breeze,
Moon makes me feel calm and ease.
There's something about water that fascinates the mind,
Hypnotic in its passive dancing,
Wheeling in panicked turns to the tune of an inaudible waltz.

The way it ripples with each drop of rain in the cold,
Resonates with me,
As though the water itself is speaking to me,
Desperately wanting to be heard,
It's voice crying in every motion.
Stop!
What is it saying?
Stop! Stop!
I don't know
Please! Stop!
It's too quiet
You're not listening!
All I know is how I feel when I see the way it glistens in the moonlight,
The way it reflects the beauty of a cityscape as dusk falls,
When the day is done water's true beauty is found,
It sparkles below me,
Pinpricks of street lights streak across its surface,
They seem to spread ferociously as my eyes are filled with tears,
Pinpricks becoming blazing stars.

The air whispers to me,
telling me what I need to hear.
Exactly what I need.

Water is pure beauty,
Eternally entrancing my closed-off mind,
Drawing me in,
Because sometimes
Water is more than beauty,
It becomes a perfect friend,
With no capacity to judge,
No way to hate,
Only to fill.
An empty
Heart
Drop
by
Drop
It becomes
Escape



*My legs fold beneath me,
my body goes limp,
I fall.
rebeccalouise Nov 2012
I think the thing that fascinates people the most about shooting stars is how fleeting they are. They are here one second and gone the next. They are relatable. Life is here one second and can be taken the next. Memories and moments are here one second and then gone the next. Shooting stars are rare and uncertain. They are beautiful and unique. They are a glimpse into something terrifyingly unknown. They are home to our wishes and dreams. They are far away and distant, surreal entities falling through the night sky. They are adrenaline rushing through serenity. They make us ask questions. They make us calm. They give us hope. But most importantly they bring a smile to our face, maybe when we need it the most. So make a wish.

when does familiar
become boring and mundane?

when does home
become a place we once knew?

when does life
move on?

where do we go from here?
Exhale Your Mind Jan 2014
What's going on?!

With these beautiful dark women bleaching their skin and hiding their features.
Reaching to a point of shame from these beautiful creatures.
They don't believe what the bible says, so they're their own preachers.
While God designed them to be beautiful queens,
living the unachieved dreams of their african ancestors.

Daughters of Africa, daughters of slaves.
Free in the physical, but mentally chained.
Darkened by the morning sun.
Brightened by the evening moon.
A smile that captivates homeless hearts.
A strenght that fascinates hopeless minds.

Dear beautiful black woman,
Know who you are.
Black is beautiful. Black means strong.
Skin tone that matches the earth.
Curves that catches the eye.
Walk like a goddess and talk like a queen.
When you enter a room
let your appearance speak, let your presence prophesy:
"I'm worthy, I'm proud and I'm beautiful"
Inconclusive patterns
Form indented regularity
In flowing drifts
A panoply of tropical orchids
In my mind
A menaced distortion
Straining forward
Like an isolated image
In an old photograph album
Disclosing only the fragments
Of an insoluble puzzle
Its atmospherics of frequency
Disturbs me somewhat
It is identical to hidden speech
Or the resistance to time
Of exclamatory reminders
Of forward motion
That momentarily fascinates
Then falls through a hole
In a central vortex of vision
This is the architectonics
Of a thought
That can never be articulated
steel tulips Dec 2012
i love you so,
i am reverent to every poorly healed broken bone
the ones that click
and never quite fit
i respect your dark memories,
because though  they haunt
they made you what you have become
i am awed by the way you cloak your emotions
it makes every  escaped smile much more potent
i am relieved by your insecurities
because they fit well with my impurities
i adore the way your palms sweat
before any sort of test
your ADHD,
fascinates me
i love you so,
from your concussed head to your ugly toes
Monica Feb 2017
I like the idea of Slim Shady
Eminem's alter ego
I like the idea because I can relate
I understand

I believe everyone
Has an alter ego
A worse version of themselves
That tears at them from the inside
Even though some people
Don't acknowledge it

Lately
I've been listening to Eminem quite a bit
My favorite song
Is My Darling
Because half way through the song
Eminem fights with his demon

Granted, I've never been in most of the situations
That he dealt with
I've never had an abusive mother
I've never had a drug problem
I've never had an alcohol problem

But I have dealt with inner demons
I hear a dark and angry voice in my head

Eminem fascinates me
He tells his story
Through his words
He expresses his pain
His anger
His love
His hate

When you really think about it
How is rap much different than poetry?
I think it's similar
Rap tells a story
Rap expresses emotions
Rap speaks the artist's truth
That they couldn't say any other way
Rap is a form of slam poetry
In my opinion
The difference is
Rap has a beat

Maybe that's why
Eminem inspires me so much
Maybe it's because I understand the pain
Of hearing the inner demon
Always screaming in your ear
Telling you these lies
Trying to force you into things
Trying to trick you into your old ways

I'm probably not the only one
But I don't really care
Because it doesn't really matter

I will continue to be inspired
About how brutally honest his words are
About how he's not afraid
To say what he thinks
How he's not afraid to tell his story
No matter how hard it may be

Slim Shady fascinates me
Eminem inspires me
And Marshall Mathers understands me
The third power of the Sphinx
is Courage.

"Herein lies the great mystery of the empty throne." ∆
Giddy in the throes of realization,
        the Arbiter, imbued with needful action,
        takes a great, daring leap across the chasm
                into the implications of knowledge:
                This is It - the Puzzle that Fascinates Itself.
                
"You awoke in the Kingdom with eyes closed. In the beginning was the Trapezoid called Control." ∆

Borne by an umbilical Breath
to a lens too small to see Itself,
Buoyed by the lapping waves,
Reason wrought a waking sleep
of hallucinations, a sea of dreams
and possibilities to become;

        Memories too large
        to conceive by aught
        but the perennial story
        that swallows the narrator:

                "I see their entire lives in an instant,
                being devoured and loving and living
                in a world that does not realize
                it is already over."


Courage is the Bearer of Truth.
Headlong into the open maw
heaves the gleeful Fool
and his glad Word.

        "The excess of Meaning must be wrought on the Page,
        on worlds of our own imagining." ∞


To Dare is to risk:
consequence the reward
fraught with baited hooks
to tether the Arbiter to Time.

The web of attachment
sprawls, an expansive net.

                "The web is infinite -
                those caught in it are beyond Number."


                        Yet the spider is never
                        ensnared by its Art:
                        a master of the net,
                        a climber of the Tree.

                At the summit of its dizzying heights,
                the depth of the Fall overwhelms.
                        Responsibility follows.

                "Thou art That which resolves the frustum."

Escaper of the Labyrinth,
Master of the Maze,
no longer merely Thou:
Dilation devours the Iris.

        "What speaks through You has Ordained it
        from the Beginning of Time,
        and only in harnessing it
        will you learn to devour your self
        totally."


        "Then will you know me
        as the eye that never shuts,
        the eye that blinds."
Ω

The way
(out)
is through.
Intent, consequence, sorrow, realization, repeat. To the fly, the web is self-perpetuating.

Legend (links @ HelloPoetry):
∆ - Liber Delta (bit.ly/1tmlRDs)
‡ - Liber Plangere (bit.ly/1D5D7gl)
∞ - I am versed in the deeper color (bit.ly/1D5DZkZ)
† - Liber Vorare (bit.ly/1Ceil1p)
Ω - Liber Atrocitas (bit.ly/1z06Wjw)
Dani Huffman Mar 2013
The patch of bare
skin below your
neck fascinates me,
smooth and pale beneath a
mint-colored shirt,
carelessly left unbuttoned at
the top of your breast.
I shy away from your
adolescent figure,
small and child-like in a
young man's arm,
but a
woman in mine.
I'm not meant to crave your
long hair and gloss-painted
lips, but the
freckles on your
cheeks mock me, your
hips intoxicate me.
I only imagine your
scent, your taste,
sweet and gentle like the
air inside me,
girl's perfume and
shampoo clung to you like
a veil.
You're nothing but
a little girl,
but,
in my arms,
you could be so
much more.
EC Pollick Jan 2013
The Irish word for poet
is "File".
This always fascinates me
Because it reminds me of a youthful horse
(The filly)
Pushing the boundaries
And stumbling on awkward legs
Being
not the most majestic
But the one who discovers
Joy and passion
and vibrancy
in every action of life.

When just putting
one foot in front of the other(s)
is a deed as majestic
As galloping
Like a knight with surmounting pride
Or a night with no end,
It's indeed a gift
of youth and innocence.

Like the old mare,
We may bear wrinkles.
Like the war horse,
We have our battle scars.

But we are the “File”.
And we have something to say.

and we will forever be
infinite
in our hoof beats
and our heart beats.
For every poet out there who felt they weren't good enough. You are.
Klara Mar 2014
What fascinates me about stars,
is that they are born from explosions
and built from collapsed particles.
I like to think that people are like that as well.
So whenever you feel like everything
is getting a little too much
and you are about to give up and explode,
don't be afraid to collapse.
Let yourself crumble.
This is not your destruction,
it is your birth
it is your time to shine.
I swear I always feel as if my poems do not make any sense
Evelyn Smith Apr 2017
Leave me alone, I don't want to speak to anyone.
I just want to watch myself crash and burn.
I want to be self destructive, and I want it all to hurt.

Drinking myself into a state where I don't have to think about anything, anymore.
No one needs to know, I don't gloat, I'm not proud.
Laying awake until 4am, thinking of nothing but suicide.
But I cannot leave my mother, so I have another drink and let the night pass me by.

Cigarette burns on my hands, self inflicted wounds all over my arms.
Staring into the holes, staring into the cuts. Looking inside of me. I can see veins, I can see muscle. In a sickening sense it fascinates me.
It no longer hurts.

What happened to me?
Where have I gone?
I ask these questions to myself every day.
I'm lost and I'm lonely.
I want to find love again.
But its impossible when I'm comparing everyone to you.
No one fits the templates, no one will do.

This is the lowest I've been.
Sometimes i wish it was still 2014.
With all that I've learned and this anger I have gained.
I would now have the confidence to punch the devil in the face.
To push him out the way, to leave with no wounds or scars.
To take a deep breathe, feel clean and smile to the stars.

But that is all a dream, I'm too far gone to save.
And If you're a part of my life,
I'm sorry you have to watch me waste away.
But I'll go quietly, I will not cause a scene.
I will fade into my bedsheets and no one will know its me.
what am i even doing anymore
An early riser, I usually great the day before the dawn

This day was no different and my routine treated me to a delicious quietness and a gorgeous view of Luna, soft and glowing.  In that moment I could easily fathom how the ancient Egyptians envisioned our Earth as an egg watched over at night by the moon, seen as a great white bird.
A mother goose watching over her egg.

I felt small but also loved, protected and connected to something  much larger. I thought about how all our stories are small fragments of the whole that is Creation's story. This made my mind race with delight.
Mental images and words flooded me.

I have always loved imagery and symbolism. I have no idea why it fascinates me, it just always has. So, instantly my mind starts to symbolically merge form with words and I think of all the people I have encountered in my life's journey...

And I wonder what their bodies would look like if one were to map them.

The Physical. The Emotional. The Mental. The Spiritual.

Strengths and weaknesses
Struggles and ease
Fears and Bravery
Agonies and Joys

*What cartographic symbols would they choose to map their journeys and experiences?
K Balachandran Jan 2015
"Storm cloud, the beauty in passionate swirls
my eyes never forget to capture, even when far"
the moisture filled wind of desire said with a hiss,
  "Ï have an urge elemental don't you get me wrong,
madly in love with your spirited self,
I wish to make you pregnant, our union is destined by nature"

  "Ÿour swiftness fascinates me but" she said
the mighty ocean current has set his eyes on me for long
I can't ignore that, he wants me as his consort
see him spray steam and   fumes
wants to keep me close and make his own always
what a wild temper he has, tsunami is another name for him
I belong to him, though sea is too far below"
Wind could see how might is revered though too far down
"But storm cloud, my beloved, remember
I have fallen in love with you for what you are
an angry wind is mighty storm in no time, may I remind you?
I will come, won't find any need to ask permission
taking your hand I'll run away with you
then the ocean current will only would fret and fume
but of what use?" the wind boomed above the sound of thunder
We watch with awe the  drama of elements of nature..
almat011 Mar 2019
To be your favorite this is the honorary title of the world. You're great, legendary, grand.
I'm your fan, audience hall applauds you, bravo, bravo, bravo, bravo, bravo, bravo, bravo, bravo, bravo, bravo. Hats off to you. You throw flowers, and I'm telling you I'm yours and only yours, be always with you, I'm so happy to build next to you, I just adore you and have great respect for. You're the only one in the world, who I think every minute. You're like a girl from a fairy tale. I still do not believe that I have met such a wonderful girl. Your sweet voice is unforgettable. I like your gentle laughter. Are you so nice to spend time together. Your beautiful eyes drive me crazy. Your eyes are always fascinates me. When I'm around you, I'm on cloud nine. At the sight of thee my heart is filled with joy. Next to you, my soul is always singing with happiness. Such a beautiful girl like you, I'd love tenderly kissing hands and feet. Peerless, darling, precious, smart, impressive, you are the most valuable part of life, the most precious, most beloved, best. Good, very beautiful, friendly, sincere, feminine, fascinating, shy, gold, amazing, loving, wise, unique, irreplaceable, charming, charming, seductive, charming, attractive, pleasant, simply delicious, fluffy, lovely, hospitable, touching, soft. To me, you're a very **** girl, believe me, you **** goddess, in which lies the passionate nature, so gentle, so sensual. Alluring to her subtle beauty, so amazing, fascinating, magical beautiful, charming, attractive nymph with which you want to be forever. I'm in love with you, and enthralled by your beauty, you're my idol, you're perfect, I dream to be your early days when you first met, you are the most beautiful creatures in the universe. I think about you day at night. You're gorgeous, perfect from the tips of the fingers to the very tips of the hair. I love your gentle eyes, your luxurious sensual lips, your **** nose, your delicate silk hair, I love you, and I can not live without you, and I give you the beautiful wings, which will allow you to fly, looking up from the earth, they will give you good mood. You are my angel. You are my happiness, treasure. You are my Love. I'm going crazy over you. You're the girl that I always dreamed that I was looking for all my life. You're the girl of my dream.  I) I love you, looooooooooveeeeeeee youuuu)
Your charming charm - it's super **** mega power that simply can not be overcome. Gourmet sweetest, love your luxurious body when I see you, just one word sounds in my head: yum, you give yourself fully. I will always love you just subconsciously, unconsciously, your gently ****** image is set down in the depths of my mind completely. From your amazingly contagious beauty opens her mouth and lost the power of speech. Dizzying, amazingly beautiful, you're like a giant tornado, which all attracted to you. And the heart and soul yearn all the time just for you. No matter you love me or not, the important thing is that I still love you, and in my subconscious, I will only love you forever. Your luxurious appearance of the highest quality, it is a workshop, filigree work of Mother Nature, it is simply a masterpiece, which is a unique example of true beauty, you have no equal, you have a high-caliber girl. You to the extent absolutely beautiful, so beautiful, so exotic, ******, and poetic sounds your way is a very beautiful love music that I'm just afraid and embarrassed to come to you, I'm afraid to talk to you, if I stand next to the goddess, or with super mega star, a model world-wide, which probably even know the aliens. The heart beats faster, I can not speak properly, with excitement, tingling all over his body, and just shakes. All these are symptoms of true love to you quite simply: uh), wow). Be your boyfriend, and her husband is for the greatest honor in the world, I stood in front of you on your knees holding flowers. Your appearance is perfect, just like Barbie. You're beautiful to such an extent that only you and I want to have *** forever, infinite, infinite number of times. You are inaccessible, you are like a star, the light of the soul which is like a spotlight in my deep dark loneliness. In love with you thorough. You just amazingly beautiful. You are the best of the best. The goddess of all goddesses, Empress of all the empresses, the queen of all queens. Beautiful girl you just imagine it is impossible. Sexually you just can not be nothing. Prettier souls just do not find. Perfect you had nothing, and will not, simply because I think so. Laponka, I am your loyal fan you're my only idol, idol, an icon of beauty. It does not matter who you are, I'll take you any. Because I'm thirsty anyway only be with you. You have a **** smile, and your sensual look, he is simply amazing. And from your voice and look pleasant shiver throughout the body. You're special, the best there is in all the worlds, universes and dimensions. You're just a feast for the eyes. To you feel powerful, love and ****** desire. You steeper any ****** and afrodoziaka. From your beauty a tapeworm from embarrassment and embarrassment.
I'm obsessed with only you, my Miss Universe, put points bezumilliard your beautiful appearance, and the infinity symbol to boot. No offense, my sweetest, but your beautiful body excites the imagination of your way completely amazing, you're so fine that you do not need, no makeup, no clothes, so perfect, natural beauty, endowed with a divine your beautiful body. Merged with your whole body, mind, heart, and mind, for all eternity, I thirst. You dominiruesh in my heart, mind, soul, and you are deeply in my mind and the subconscious mind, everything is filled only you, my goddess, and I see you in my dreams and I sincerely happy when I see you in them. If I saw you in reality, so it was a happy day, which was not in vain. Be nice to me, as you decorate all eternity, that I want to spend with you a tete-a-tete.
You are my beautiful goddess of love and eroticism, and only you I adore. Rare, beautiful beauty, nature gave you only. The closer you are, the more beautiful. Your delicate skin is so beautiful when the light shines, you have an amazing perfect color. I'm in love with you over. You are super beautiful. I thirst for you tirelessly, you prohibitively, infinitely perfect, you are too, too attractive. You steeper any ******. Flawlessly beautiful as a doll. You are so appetizing. You are the light of happiness, you come and go the light of love and happiness. Do you decorate them all, you are all, because you're beautiful.
You are more beautiful than the most beautiful. Merge forever with thy spirit, and the inner world of your dreams, my lonely soul. See the depth of your I wonder. Whatever gift you my eternal devotion: you are my life, and my eternal destiny, you are my only right choice, you're all that I love, and I want to. And my heart, and my mind is open only to you. You look so romantic and beautiful, your charm, your charms beckon my mind to you, it is useless to resist you, they can only be fully comply, one to commend you. My legs are just for you, my eyes look only at you, and I focused only on you. All you just overflowed in me. And inside, out of love for you, incredible, absolute ease. And from that you're not with me, it hurts the heart of almost any heart attack. Earthshaking, I totally fell in love with you, beyond ******-poetic, beyond ****. Yeah right, you're my Empress, and only you I adore, look at this temple of my love, dedicated to you, to the great altar, look around you everywhere, sit on the throne of love, my great and beautiful goddess. Your every kiss is indescribable and priceless, it is vital needs. Every your opinion, fantastically romantic and touchingly beautiful. He kindles the fire of love and passion in men. Your charm - is a powerful force that attracts all and sundry. Awakens the true, sincere love for you, universal scale. This throne only to you the eternal praise and worship the one, and the chorus singing about your beauty just for you. As you perfect every millimeter of your perfect, sultry-hot-**** body. My world is unique in your beautiful eyes, in your feelings and emotions and not get tired of talking about your perfect proportions.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
We flew through
puberty and left a Concorde trail.
A signature of heat,
feats to fete the wonder in and the wondering
of where to begin.

But the Concorde trail tails off
eventually,
and after the screaming noise, of us,
the boys
when silence returns to the body, and it's
only the chimes of the clock that rocks us to sleep,
there is, I find a tiny piece of my mind, where
puberty keeps a notebook

I look at it, cringe,
squeak like the hinge of an old door,
look some more,
it fascinates me
consternates me
makes me laugh and cry,
the trying of and wanting to
and the wonder of wondering who.


The memory of most memorable events are
scorched into and run right through me,like
a stick of Blackpool rock,each name I've known
are written and imprinted on me.

Puberty and what comes next,will in the future,
I am sure be sent in hurried texts by
hurried men,who hurry on to marry wives,
have hurried *** in hurried lives
and after that,
who knows.

— The End —