"finishing" poems
Just a dew drop, let alone the sea,
and a handful of earth, not the Planet Ge.
Not a shade of blue, save the rose for bee
Purely a clear drop didn’t spill in the core,
because the whole sphere feels the pinch.
Singing chorus rains down, bouncing back
to earth the only open-through planet.
No black hole is as deep as the sun jumps,
dives in the dew on every flower they wet.
Every bird in the trees sings and tweets,
yet one is stone quiet, shouldn’t even hiss.
Shh! shh, the sleeping beauty is sleeping!
Cut above the rest, the unique earth
brimming with the infinite finishing line
by design pans out to the transcended pi.
Pure spring, the waterfront by the Moon,
untouched, unspoiled is her swimming pool.
How she goes by, wetting her ****** toe
Only to bubble high up the transcended circle
If only the sun could rise high in that pole,
for the rest of species could sneak a peek.
She’s there with the capstone of the pyramid!
Shots beyond the fixed circle, netting the eyeballs.
The stars, the Moon on the move for pure freedom.
The thrilled earth did come out, smelling of roses
Off the golden cut pi-decimal-abyss digital spring.
With a handful of earth and a drop of water dew
This is a pure mirroring thanks to the original, you!
At the end of the string apt you lovely took her by hand
and she took it in emptying her heart and soul.
Earth is now too thin on stock, she is no more
Just a shadow, a 360-degree hollow flute!
Oh light at the end of the tunnel shine and show
Play in like in the Night of Ascension once more!
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
[Intoxicated by Freemasons is playing in the background]
(A smokin' hot intoxicated woman walks up to me initiating a conversation in the club.)
Kadija: Hey I couldn't help but notice your gorgeous self from across the room!
Me: I can definitely say the same about you. Matter of fact I'm saying it right now because I'm a free spirit lol.
(We both laughed)
Kadija: You're so **** hot!
(She grabs my face and starts making out with me very passionately.)
(The kiss lingers for about a minute and a half.)
(She then breaks the kiss. Both of us gasp for breath.)
Me: You're pretty ******* hot too!
Kadija: Can you sign my *****
Me: Sure I love signing chicks ***** It's one of the best **** party favors in America!
Kadija: I know right!
(She pulls her top down flashing her beautiful tan ***** and tan *******
(She briefly rubs/twists her *******
(I sign her ***** and put a smiley emoji along with a smiley with shades finishing her off with a deep kiss on each of her ***** giving a little bit of tongue swirling action across her *******
Kadija: Whoo! Hell yeah!
(She shakes her ***** from side to side and briefly jumps and down. I was mesmerized by the way they were moving up and down then puts them back into her top.)
Kadija: Thanks for the kiss babe!
Me: No prob. You have beautiful ******* I like them.
Kadija: They like you too lol.
(Grinning from ear to ear I smile.)
Kadija: Come on baby give them a squeeze lol.
(I grab her ******* and squeeze them.)
(She grips my **** through my pants and starts rubbing it.)
Kadija: Mmm thanks babe. These ***** have been needing a little TLC anyway. They've been bored to death and needed a little fun and excitement.
(We both laughed again.)
Kadija: But if you really wanna see them in action there is a bathroom right behind us.
Me: I'm down
Kadija: Come on baby let's go.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 2:40 PM UTC
No Romance,
just the way
you liked it.
Just the way
You ripped off
Your dress
And left me to
romanticize it
balled up
on my floor
Just the way
you teased and
denied
my poetic soul
You said it
felt so foreign
Like you were
never worthy
of the prose
You left me
Writhing and
Alone
and
I know
you know
You’re not perfect
I just wanted
you to feel
like a goddess
I worshiped
beyond words
even if you didn't
believe in something.
Believe me,
I did my best not to be
bitter
But your cynicism
was never ****
No one cares
What you don't
Like
You would
look into the
Grand Canyon
and just see a void.
Avoiding
the obviously
numinous
Like where
your heart
was
Before it was
split with a river
streaming your
constantly
pessimistic
consciousness.
Maybe I was too sweet
finishing last
like a nice guy
that you just
left salty
To
slide
down
the
throat
of your
thesis statement:
NO ROMANCE
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:35 AM UTC
Ask me,
Ask me now daddy.
What I want to do when I grow up.
I want to be happy.
No, not happy
I want to be happiness.
I want to be joy and cheer and admiration
Confidence and peace and optimism
I don’t want to be like others, no, I want to be love.
The smile that comes across your face when they say your name,
The look that makes your heart skip a beat,
The song that makes you rethink every second you spent together.
I don’t wanna be the poem, I wanna be the emotion behind it,
Not the first kiss, let me be the nerves,
Not the dance, let me be the excitement,
Not the Officiant, let me be the vows.
When I grow up, I don’t wanna be a doctor mommy.
I want to be the feeling when someone’s told there’s a cure,
Or when a parent finds out their child will live to be a teenager,
Or maybe I want to be 3 in the morning when a mother holds her child for the first time.
I want to be affection and adoration and passion
Oh, I want to be passion.
Let me be passion.
So that you cannot do without me, because nothing without me has meaning.
So that when you are playing the final strain or scoring the winning goal,
Or writing the last chapter or finishing the last paint stroke,
You will think of me.
Maybe I’ll be allegiance or devotion or respect.
I won’t be the soldier, I’ll be the loyalty.
Or the surprise in a child's heart when their dad comes home early,
Maybe I’ll be the feeling when a father meets his baby for the first time,
And the child already knows his name.
I want to be piety and faith and worship.
I don’t want to be the pastor, I’ll be the lesson.
Maybe I’ll be the obligation behind the first baptism or first communion.
Maybe I’ll be the words when someone so low is told someone loves them.
I’ll be the salvation of the gospel,
The redemption to the guilty,
The forgiveness to the sinners.
When I grow up,
I want to be the opposite of sorrow,
The antonym of misery,
The reverse of fear,
The contradiction of rejection,
The antithesis of disappointment,
The inverse of insecurity,
I want to be the alleviation of anxiety,
The ease of pain,
When I grow up,
I want to be happy.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
Summer scents and summer heat
Teenagers' laughter and water flying
Dripping heads and shoeless feet
Trees wear flowers and the sun is shining
To him the day's grey and there's too much noise
Smothered in his black shirt he's ignored by other boys
Saved by the bell, he joins the row some teacher leads
While a group of pupils talks, two girls argue and one reads
At his usual seat he takes his usual things
Acting like he's writing while he's finishing some drawings
Yet his mind slips away to something near
Someone's stare makes his concentration disappear
Frustrated his eyes find her silent stare
When the teacher turns his back, she leaves her desk in one, two, three
Unbalanced he acts like he doesn't care
He could just pretend like he didn't see
Next to him she takes place
The seat astonished by the company
Her hands slowly reach his face
And before he knows his vision gets blurry
Still wondering what's going on, the poor boy has no clue
Until she whispers- with his glasses on:
Now I see the world like you.
Y.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
Riding down the rapidly declining slope
on the bright, soft-water day,
I imagine myself as nothing more than an animal
falling down a waterfall into a lake clear and crisp.
The wheels of my bike turn rapidly
like the a propeller of a plane,
just as powerful
and just as dangerous if I fall,
but only to me.
Catching the sea salt breeze
my blonde, sun bleached hair flies as if
it were flying on seagulls wings.
I am a cadmium yellow blur on a painting,
moving much too fast to be captured and depicted accurately.
I ride until the end of my slope this way,
finishing strong with out a hint of regret.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
Jay.
He was a nineteen year old high school dropout.
He was black.
He wore his hair in dreads.
He had a few nose rings.
He wore gold chains and expensive clothes.
He went partying every night.
He got drunk on alcohol but his drug addiction was the biggest problem.
He had a lot of friends.
Because he was ‘cool’.
He was the ‘man’.
Gray.
He was 18, finishing his final school year.
He was white.
He wore his hair very short.
He had large round glasses, sitting lopsided on his nose.
He wore a long sleeved shirt and trousers.
He studied hard, and he got good marks.
He played the cello in the school band.
But he was gay.
And so he didn’t have any friends.
But he had his family who he loved dear and who loved him back.
He was happy.
The differences between the two are unbelievable.
They are nothing alike; they are complete opposites.
Yet, they are human.
They walk the same streets, at different times.
They both live on the same planet, if not the same world.
They both have a right to live.
They both have people who love them, despite all they are.
It’s their differences that make Jay and Gray human.
Both of them.
Until Jay raised his gun and fired three times at Gray.
That’s when Gray was lost to humanity.
And Jay had lost his humanity.
Coz Jay shot in the chest a boy named Gray
Killed him without giving him any say,
The boy who did no wrong, but was gay,
With his life, he had to pay.
His family cried in despair and dismay,
For their loving son had been taken away,
And now they all sat in silence,
For Gray would never see another day.
For souls who have had their lives ripped apart, and those who rip their lives apart, we pray.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
I say to my woman, "Jeffers was
a great poet. think of a title
like Be Angry At The Sun. don't you
realize how great that is?
"you like that negative stuff." she
says
"positively," I agree, finishing my
drink and pouring another.
"in one of Jeffers' poems, not the sun poem,
this woman ***** a stallion because her
husband is such a gross spirit. and it's
believable. then the husband goes out
to **** the stallion and the stallion
kills him."
"I never heard of Jeffers," she
says.
"you never heard of Big Sur? Jeffers
made Big Sur famous just like D. H. Lawrence
made Taos famous. when a
great writer writes about where he
lives the mob comes in and takes
over."
"well you write about San Pedro," she
says.
"yeah," I say, "and have you read the
papers lately? they are going to construct
a marina here, one of the largest in the
world, millions and billions of dollars,
there is going to be a huge shopping
center, yachts and condominiums every-
where!"
"and to think," my woman says smiling, "that you've only
lived here for three years!"
"I still think," I say,
changing the subject,
"you ought to read Jeffers."
8k
‘Earth’
maybe a mole
in the mountain of space.
But the story is bigger
than any epic tale.
It's the one scoops
the bottom line
of the bottomless space!
Small simple finishing
tells the complete tale
'as above, so below'.
One that takes into
account all the matter
and the entire space.
The story goes on
The fine earth takes its place.
Now the mountain
sits on the mole space!
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
Mary had a little lamb,
two lobsters and a Christmas ham,
a three-pound tub of chicken wings,
seven bratwurst tied with strings,
thirteen loaves of garlic bread,
a schnitzel bigger than her head,
four rare steaks, a dozen eggs,
caviar and turkey's legs,
strips of bacon, mushroom stew,
chunks of bread and cheese fondue,
and two whole jars of sauerkraut,
(to clean all of her insides out).
Finishing the pasta salad,
Mary soon looked drawn and pallid.
"I don't feel well," poor Mary said.
"I think I need to rest my head."
Then from her stomach came a moan,
a straining, churning, twisted groan.
Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide.
She'd only seconds to decide.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Her stomach was about to blow!
So, reaching for the nearest bucket,
she retched, and then began to chuck it.
All the courses that she'd swallowed,
and the apertifs they'd followed,
all the steaks and all the fish,
each and every single dish
came flying back from in her belly,
filling up the bucket smelly
with a foul and toxic brew,
and no one knew quite what to do,
so this went on for ten whole minutes
till Mary had expelled her innards.
When she was done, her eyes were red,
and sweat was pouring from her head.
"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?"
her mother asked. She didn't hear.
For Mary was already off -
the waiters saw her try to scoff
the whole entire pudding bar.
Now, this had pushed her mum too far.
"Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through!
I've done the best that I can do.
I'm sick and tired of all you eat.
I will not pay for all this meat.
I'm going home. Go get some help —"
Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!
She glanced down at her legs and saw
sweet Mary there begin to gnaw!
She struck the lass, but with great haste,
alas, the girl had reached her waist.
As Mary's ma was there devoured
by her offspring, overpowered,
she cried one thing ere final slaughter:
"It smells like lamb in here, my daughter."
Mary licked her lips and grinned.
She belched out loud and then broke wind.
She felt her tummy start to rumble -
and calmly ordered apple crumble.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
The greatest to ever play the game
Leo Messi, the synonym of Fame.
World stops when he starts to play
Lightning fast, defenders he slay.
When he plays, sun loses its shine
Footballing world ruled by an Argentine.
His passing and finishing is sublime
Surely the greatest of all time.
Because of you, Barca has survived
Watching you play makes us feel alive.
With every game makes his fans proud
While playing he owns the crowd.
Every time he plays its like fictional story.
Trophies that's sums up his career glories
The name engraved on football legacy.
Messi the world's greatest Treasury.
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 5:58 PM UTC
I say music is my medicine,
But sometimes I get addicted to this Adderall adrenaline,
My mind has gone deeper than the abyss floor,
The irony between good intentions and bad decisions,
Get me out of this mental prison,
I don't want to take orders from a politician,
But if you take a minute to listen,
You'll understand this vision that you're missing.
I bleed ink from these veins like they root through my brain,
A tree of perfect symmetry that I could never tame,
Every branch a connection into a new frame,
Everything is synchronizing like a symphony,
An epiphany, finishing,
She must be the bridge between my Ying and Yang,
Negativity diminishing by positive energy
Reflecting off the sensory,
I stop and don't dismantle this handle of Jack Daniels,
As if it has my questions answered,
And as the sparrow sits upon the branch,
Synapses snap in instants with a plan,
Tracing a line that brings me to the sand,
And the island, the silence,
Sitting softly over the sea's sinus,
Puts me in a content setting, grand,
And when my body corrodes,
If my soul is up for purchase,
I'll remember the day when God and I had conversations in Churches.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:01 AM UTC
The witty mother cat galloped everywhere
Everywhere and Anywhere
Just to feed her kittens' hungry tummies
For yummy food they dream, at times!
One day, the witty mother broke the gate
To a luxurious well-provided estate
Yet she could only grab a Cake,
But a full cake, mouth-watering Choco-Cake!
She hopped and jumped and rolled
Just to protect it from the Afghan Hound
And reached it for her two tiny kittens
In despair, she badly wanted it too!
So she prounounced to her kittens:
"I will cut the cake into two exact halves"
And so she cut, as carefully she can!
Awfully, one became larger and one smaller!!
Then the witty mother cat got this idea:
"Why not eat a little of the larger piece?
So, both pieces will be equal in size?"
And there went the mother cat...
Eating a little of the larger piece
She tasted the Choco-Cake in a race
Again, one went larger and another smaller!!
The witty mother cat silenty became happy...
"Why not eat a little of the larger piece?
So, both pieces will be equal in size?"Read more →
And there went the mother cat...
Giving a taste to the choco-Cake again!
And it went on this way:
Of one being smaller and the other larger,
And the witty mother cat kept eating
The Cake-piece by piece!
Atlast the cake became smaller and smaller
Yet the kittens' didn't get any!
The witty mother kept eating many
And the cake never got cut equally!
With the witty mother finishing it fully!!
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
You don't need the smoky colored quartz dangling in your hair,
Or the liquid rubies painted onto your soft lips,
Or the powdered gold dusted onto your eyelids to hide the look of pain.
You don't need the silver buttons strung up your shirt to make your aura seem pure,
Or the perfect pearls around your throat to tease and allure,
Or the obsidian skirt hugging your thighs to add the finishing touch.
You don't need the diamond blade to make you bleed imperial topaz onto your marble floor,
Or the laxatives made of howlites to cut your figure thin,
Or the breast implants made of danburites to make you seem attractive.
You are worth more than the emeralds that people compare your eyes to.
You are worth more than the sapphires that make up the water in your body.
And you are worth more than the taaffeites that compose the air you breath.
You are a perfect angel without the expensive things.
Just sing sweet lullabies of the truth and be yourself,
To ensure you live in a beautiful reality.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
It’s simple... isn’t it?
The way it was supposed to be, right?
Following protocol and finishing orders.
Let’s break the rules.
Let’s be different.
Let’s stop living in everyone else’s eyes
and be us.
You catch on quickly, dear.
Glad I found someone who likes to break the rules just as much as I do.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 8:53 PM UTC
Of all the souls wandering around.
Hers was the only one.
Taken away out of sight.
Dim, mine was slight.
Come sing me a song.
As every soul runs long.
Your story is yet to tell.
When you are in hell.
I see souls wandering around.
Distinct stories of life that surround.
Their feet hardly touch the ground.
I heard hardly any sound.
I need to recite the perfect spell.
I seek for a convincing story to tell.
But everything will come to an end.
Like the happy feeling of finishing a good book.
It is unexpected and true.
Apr 18, 2011
Apr 18, 2011 at 8:11 AM UTC
The perfectionist loves to hear his voice,
He is the respected critic inside,
He is the learned one,
The educated and the educator.
A beautiful constructor,
The finishing touch
To the artist's hand.
The voice is always a partner,
He will always be there to help
The artist, comfort is taken in his ability.
The artist needn't forget,
There are many voices on the side,
Awaiting for their time to speak,
Each one has its time,
All varying in their patience and duration.
The artist sees what he hasn't before:
The voice of support; the voice of love; the voice of decision; and the voice of passion.
There is always time to contemplate his flaws
And he wants to reassure himself:
Perfection is not a demand, but a quest,
One of beauty and one of joy.
Perfection is the beauty in imperfection.
The pursuit of achievement is one to relish, it is not to be rushed or
Ceased, it is a running walk, a walking run, a sitting stand, a moving still.
It is every step he has made.
The artist looks behind and sees
His effort, he is proud to have experienced
His triumphs and his trauma
The voice of comfort will be there all the way,
She is a gentle quieter spirit that deserves as much an ear.
When all voices have calmed and subsided,
Her tenderness remains.
I remind the artist of his friends,
I remind him that the critical voice is the voice of nature,
The physical laws unchanged.
He is the driving force to stasis and movement in the age worry and indecision.
"Do not be overwhelmed" I say to the artist,
You are one of many.
You are with friends.
The voice of change encourages the artist to evolve and to smile,
The voice of happiness allows peaceful living and awareness.
The tiger belongs to nature,
not to be feared, but to be respected
and understood.
Do not despair, do not relinquish hope,
Hope is the shining beacon in a world of anguish.
Hope is the angel shining her torch ever so bright.
Hope is the window that allows pain and suffering to see the light of day ,
Hope allows oneness.
The artist moves his brush: an effortless stroke,
A flicker of joy,
A tear in his eye.
He once was old,
Now is young.
He learns to enjoy
The work he has done,
He can now enjoy the work he does,
He is enjoying the work he is doing.
He enjoys his life.
The state of mind, it is a fickle hatchling.
Able to be pursued and persuaded,
also able to be liberated.
The artist is free,
His thoughts can pass,
His fear will subside,
His body can move,
His heart will follow
And the mind will allow.
Spirit be set free,
Bird do fly,
Artist do paint,
You,
You are.
Peace within oneself is peace with others.
The artist is brave, he is a soul that stands tall in the face of adversity,
He is a sleepless enigma in his room at night,
He is the passionate one,
The artist and his love affair with the critic outshines his charisma,
The love for the sophisticated darkness,
His love for the melodrama,
His quest for knowledge,
Perhaps the only knowledge is
Ignorance.
Blissful unawareness.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
Cricket is the only game which lures me so much;
And then engrosses me so much.
That craze would never drive out of me…
My inspiration was ‘Yuvraj Singh’,
Only then I arose to identify that King.
Once Yuvi’s record of six sixes in six *****
The firmament was incredible for certain minutes:
That was the first time I witnessed cricket,
And India’s triumph provided me a mind-blowing buzz to watch cricket,
Nevertheless continuing with ***** and wickets.
I would turn crazy when Indian cricketers approach the ground,
And that would certainly not halt lest they are made proud.
This T20 shadowed by IPL,
Made me to by stand that awe-inspiring sport.
Chennai Super Kings-my favorite,
Followed by Royal Challenges Bangalore …
And lots more hilarious teams and cricketers.
When Chris Gayle approaches…
Tsunami warning must be lifted and “Gayle” (gale) warning must be given!
That’s how cricket relocates…
Most matches concluding in the closing over
And some others in the finishing ball…
The most exhilarating sport
Read more →and the format-
IPL is all fun for me…
With cheer leaders and the draped studio;
With cameras and videos
And at last the much awaited IPL trophy-
Cricket is all that it needs!!!
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
Waking up with sweat
stained sheets wrapped
around me and you are
nowhere to be seen as
you believe being mean
is keeping the lads keen.
Your leather jacket is
still here hanging on the
hook by the front door
and he wonders why
she didn’t want more.
He loved her laugh last
night as they drunkenly
tried to walk right home
after finishing a few gin
and tonics between them
that made his head spin
and her think that she
would forever win at sin.
Her long blonde hair
had flown out behind her
and it reminded him of
fresh sunflowers because
that was the colour of her
beauty and he prayed the
rest of the night would not
be another careless blur.
The radiance within her
shone so bright that he
didn’t even turn on the
kitchen light as he let
them both inside as the
liquor made their shyness
want to shrivel up and hide.
But in the next morning,
there was no hungover girl
mumbling sleepily and
yawning because instead
there was only her leather
jacket and the faint smell
of sweet perfume left on
his pillow as he tried to
visualize that beautifully
bright sunny yellow that
made his throat dry and
gave him a sickening urge
to cry because he didn’t
want this feeling to die.
He wondered if she would
call because it really hadn’t
taken him long to fall for her
long limbs and the way she
had dark humour that stung
him like a cheap rumour and
so he slept on the sofa that
day with the aching bones
of a man who lives alone
but with a leather jacket
wrapped around his arm
because he wanted to see
her again and see if she
maybe felt the same but
he knew deep down it
was a Friday night love
and the weekend would
soon fade away because
she was never destined to
stay yet he hung her jacket
in the closet for years to
come and tried again to
find the perfect one but
he’d let her slip between
his fingers yet the smell
of her sweet perfume still
lingered for Friday nights
to come and he missed the
colour of the sun that shone
in her hair and the bright
eyes that that craved fear.
She’d been his Friday night
coffee and cream that would
never return no matter how
much he stroked the seams
of her faded leather jacket.
Sunflower girl was now
gone with the wind and
soon he could no longer
recall her voice and the
paleness of her soft skin.
It was like she had never
met him in the first place
but oh god how he loved
her beautiful hair and knew
she had once been there in
his arms even if it had only
been for one Friday night.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
Every day I wake up
And I'm disgusted with myself
But never with you you you
I was never the best
At running
Or jumping
Or finishing work
Unlike you you you
And everyday i hope and dream
But i know
I could never be you
Never be you
Never be you you you
Never be you
Never be you
And maybe one day ill wake up and
I'll be better than myself
Better than her
Better than him
Better than you
Better than you
Better than you
I'll be better than you you you
Could i be you
Could i be you
Could i be you you you
And maybe one day
I'll wake up
And know
Exactly why
You love me
But maybe
Only you could do that
Could i ever be you
Ever be you
Ever be you
Ever be you you you
No
Never be you
Never be you
I could never be you you you
Never be you
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
Life is black and white
One moment you are full of feels
Another you are nothing but an empty vase
Tell me which is worse
Tell me which is better
The feeling of being accepted
The feeling of being appreciated for lil’ things
The feeling of belonging to someone and someplace
The feeling of chasing dreams with hope
The feeling of inspiration brewing within you
The feeling of loving life while watching the sun set
The feeling of the sipping on the warm coffee
The feeling of cold water running down your body
The feeling of waking up to a sunny morning
The feeling of overcoming your fear of dogs
The feeling of achievement after finishing a 3000-word essay
The feeling of being
Or
The peaceful feeling of being lost in your own dimension
The peaceful feeling of not talking to anyone
The peaceful feeling of not having to trust a soul
The peaceful feeling of laying hopelessly
The peaceful feeling of the 3am routine
The peaceful feeling of the bitter sensation of liquor
The peaceful feeling of hot water running in the dark space
The peaceful feeling of not leaving your bed
The peaceful feeling of gazing at the ceiling
The peaceful feeling of just being
Tell me which is worse
Tell me which is better
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 12:27 AM UTC
The key to finishing is beginning.
The key to victory is uniquely found on the battle field forged through a warriors' cry of triumph.
The key to any type of revelation; is activation.
The key to liberty is wrought with the hammer of responsibility.
The key to paradise is hidden; it can take a lifetime of searching and/or a single simple decision.
The key to understanding; is found in the application of knowledge through wisdom.
The key to any type of belief is often based on the intangible; a step of faith.
The key to fruitfulness is in planting good seed.
The key to overcoming; is found in the hands of the heart injected with the fuel of persistence.
The key to life; is recognizing the breath of the living.
The key to love; is G-d.
The key to any beginning is only made visible at the ending.
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
it was the Cubist who created the space and color that
everywhere today assails our eyes
in uniform architecture and monotonous
design; the various branches of modern art
through tedious & exhaustive experiment
& research creating a massive cultural sinkhole
whose banal discoveries unveil for all the sameness
of form, line and color;
Quote from Gorky's 'Camouflage', 1942: I like the heat;
the tenderness; the edible; the lusciousness;
the song of a single person
in a bathtub full of water.
I like Ucello, Grunewald, Ingres,
the drawings and sketches for paintings
of Seurat and that man Pablo Picasso;
I measure all things by weight.
In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series,
26 June 1942
I love Mougouch, Gorky's wife. What about papa Cézanne;
I like the wheat fields, the plow, the apricots,
those flirts of the sun. And bread above all.
My lever is the purple; About 194 feet away
from our house in Armenia on the road to the
spring my father had a little garden with
a few apple trees which had retired
from giving fruit;
this garden was identified as the _'Garden of Wish Fulfillment'_
often I had seen my mother and the other village women
exposing their naked bosoms, taking the soft,
dependable ******* in their hands &
rubbing them on the rocks; above all this
standing an enormous tree all bleached
under the sun, rain & cold, deprived of leaves.
This was the Holy Tree [quoted in 1942]
In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series,
26 June 1942
I don't like that word 'finished'.
When something is finished,
that means it's dead, doesn't it?
I believe in everlastingness;
I never finish a painting – I just stop
working on it for a while.
I like painting because it's something
I can never come to the end of;
sometimes I paint a picture,
then I paint it all out. Sometimes
I'm working on fifteen or twenty
pictures at the same time; I do that
b/c I want to – b/c I change my
mind so often; The thing to do is
always to keep starting to paint;
never finishing the painting [quoted in 1948]
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 4:39 PM UTC
Inflation, I tell you.
Back in my day, happiness was a stuffed bear,
Or finishing an ice cream before it melted down your arm.
And you came back with change.
Now it takes a life loan, entire people involved.
Might as well cost a first-born.
I hear they make it over-seas now, for pennies a day,
But I'm sure not paying any less for it.
Maybe if they subsidised it, like a good government,
I could afford three square smiles a day.
Hell, one would be nice.
I'll just have to work a second job
To afford being able to afford things.
That **** inflation,
Always driving up the price.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC