"forgo" poems
It is certainly an exercise in control for One to willingly forgo control.
And, for some, it seems to be an exercise in futility.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Lev. 20:13 "If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed; they have forfeited their lives."
This was said to make sure the population on earth grew, which it did. God was NOT saying this because it will always be wrong. They are just regular people and this is where they belong. Homosexuals are the same as everybody else. This is equality that they strive for because no one is better than the other. We are all from the same God, and we are all sisters and brothers. This is not a disease and this is not something you can change. They were born like that, it is not something that you were taught. I was born with brown hair, this is not something that is forethought. Why does it matter so much what your ****** orientation is? That is that person's business, not ours to judge. We have no right to judge and all of this homophobia is actually just a carnage. We call ourselves Christian, but is this actually living in the true image of God. Have you not heard "Do onto others as you would have them do onto you?" That is the golden rule and how would you like it if it were heterosexuals that were hated anew?
God made all of His children in His image. Do you honestly think that God would turn away His own children because they were born Homosexuals? With all of this hate and anger, turning away people that could be our friends, well we aren't humans; we are actually animals. Why is it that now they get the same benefits as the people who are straight? Why has this taken so long to do? Are they not the same as everybody else that we know? There are many things that are wrong with society, this homophobia needs to stop so why must we forgo? If two people love each other so much to remain together for the rest of their life, then let them. Homophobia is wrong. God loves all of his children headlong. And to all those gays and lesbians out there, STAY STRONG.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
Fifty Thousand dee-grees hot
Burn your *** right on the spot
-
Great big flash of light and heat
Fry your *** from head to feet
-
Mushroom clouds rise to the sky
No time to kiss your *** good by
-
‘Tomic bombs are coming soon
Blow your *** right to the moon
-
If by chance the blast you miss
Fall-out's gunna end your bliss
-
In the dark your *** glow
Retirement you can forgo
-
Two weeks it takes for you to croak
You'll puke and **** and wretch and choak
-
Are you ready ready for your death?
Go and snort more crystal ****
-
So Hail! Hail! WW3
Very shortly it will be
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
Obsidian wind chimes
welcome the crashing waves
as another day exits, slowly
sinking beneath the bay.
Cool waters drenched in
an almost amethyst hue
offer mental reverberations
as I ponder what I am next to do.
Though the sea is but a tide
that ebbs & flows-
repletes & recedes-
her words of wisdom forgo
past the banks of her beaches
& spread a breeze to every corner
of night.
She beckons me within myself;
her deep abyss but a mirror.
Her waters shine in a glimmering splendor
as she makes the path ever clearer.
To leave this shore that raised me
is not a sign of disrespect, but a show
of honor. My broken levees have her
to thank & for that, I call her mother.
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 5:33 PM UTC
By all accounts he’s had a lifelong case of OCD.
“Donald was a disruptive tyke”- his teachers all agree.
He was not much of a scholar but, as a youth, excelled in sports.
As a builder and developer he was often seen in Courts.
When it comes to matters of the heart, he sadly is no wiser
He loves them and he leaves them. He’s a noted womanizer.
Oh, he pays them for their trouble; that much I will allow.
Still he’s never had compunction over breaking wedding vows.
Now he is our President and making noise on Trade.
If he doesn’t get his way beware his twitterverse tirade.
He's paying farmers Billions to forgo their tillage.
Hillary was wrong- It takes a child to raze a village.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC
We are but ships
on the turquoise sea
we float along,
to the heartbeat of the waves.
We have been sailing,
on this forlorn course
for much too long,
going our own separate ways.
But now is the time
to change our sails
and make our courses unite,
to join forces and enjoy our lives together.
Do you have the strength to reset your sails
on the course that two can sail?
Can you set your anchor close to mine
and forgo the rest of the world?
Your sails have turned
so that our paths have crossed.
You have set your anchor by my side
and you've made me your best mate.
Like these ships on the sea,
the wind has brought us to a safe cove,
where both of us can live our lives
to the heartbeat of our waves.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
I dream of a society
Where the ideals of beauty
Are less focused on superficial concepts like one's waistline
Or how decrepit their smile lines made them appear
But rather one where the focal point of unanimous adoration is,
As corny as this may sound,
One's morals and where they land on the gradient of human compassion
In this utopia,
The elderly aren't seen as catalysts for repugnance and a wrinkling of noses
But rather as symbols of eruditeness and beauty
The type of beauty that influence or money can't obtain
And it may be conceivable that instead of wasting my days squandering over my physical appearance,
I can just fritter away the days
Strumming my ukulele along to the tune of my American dream
For I have yet to actually awaken from my adolescent slumber
Breifly enough to grasp my dream from the bubble floating above my resting head
And nestle it securely in my pocket
So it doesn't forgo me
In search of someone less complacent with bewilderment about their future
Who dreams of social and economic prosperity
Instead of someone who's apathetic at best about whatever career choice they've chosen for the week
Maybe that's just it
That maybe I don't want the conventional American dream of fame or fortune or recognition
Is it feasible that maybe my American dream isn't to rise from sqaulor into a soulless mansion
Whose corridors boast success
But lack warmth and presence?
I suppose that my American dream encompasses more than just America itself
It lives in the eyes of every human being on the face of the earth
It's nestled in the gaze of a starving child
And the stare of anyone who's ever felt a tongue's razor edge
And all I'd have to do is delve into their eye sockets and plant a seed
A seed of hope and compassion
Or whatever I deem fit
Perhaps I just want to shield myself
From the world's disapproving glances,
Those fleeting moments of eye contact that convey condescending judgement
Maybe I'd just like to make a difference to things sans the media’s snide opinion
But despite my juxtaposition to society's critical assessments,
I know that I can't run away from my fears or problems
So maybe I dream of a society
Where I can remain headstrong even in the face of opposition
Because I'm aware that not everyone's going to love each other
And spout sweet nothings about peace and understanding from their hind quarters
So maybe I'd like to help be a driving force
That wards off the world's shadows
So the sun can continue to shine on my American dream
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
Damaged trust and marriage schemes
Held hostage in each others' dreams
Pinned to walls but flailing still
Forgotten values, failing wills
True love waits, we tell ourselves
True love gladly stacks the shelves
True love sets conditions and
True love does the dishes and
Slowly, slowly, we forget
Just why we're here and who we met
Another notch in wrinkled frowns
Where I keep getting lost and found
In roller-coaster ups and downs
I'm lost and lost and lost and found
Missing flights and toxic tongues
Catharsis found in tar-filled lungs
I lost myself in who I wasn't
And in what true love does and doesn't
Not quite gaslit, not quite safe
Playing back the ancient tape
We envy death for constancy-
Besmirching our own consciences
We forgo our emoluments
Too traumatized by precedents
But hush you tell me, no one knows
The pretzel-bending ways we grow
Forever twisting round and round
Lost and lost and lost and found
Now freaking out, now breaking down
Now glaciers found in evening gowns
Now agonizing 'Who am I?'s
Now dying fire in your eyes
At last the sunset settles debts
We tally up our last regrets
Relenting to incessant ghosts
Abandoning essential posts
'Til all that's left is loss and hurt
It burns and burns and burns and burns
And now I choke on orders filled
And mourn alone the youth we killed
I scrape the comb across my nettles
Pricking feelings, bleeding mettle
Finally free from ups and downs,
I find myself on solid ground
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
We forget our mortality,
We forgot our morality,
We forgo our rights,
We live as blights,
We drink,
We sink,
We are missing a link,
We have no luck,
We have no buck,
We live in a digital world,
We watched our toilet as it swirled,
“Vapid and insipid has life become,”
We wait and succumb,
We long for an era past,
We know it doesn’t last,
Yet…
Forgotten mortality and morality, with our forgone rights and remembered blights, and sink in drink, there’s the link. We have luck and then we buck (we give no **** Our digital world, swirled.
We become,
and then we succumb,
to a past that…
won’t…
last.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
the doctor cautioned me…
no rough S?x my boy, your coeur très ancien,
ain’t up to the task, in fact, i urge you to forgo
the goings on you love to write about, leave them
words on the page, six to eight inches (!) from the
tippy part of your…nose; for distance makes the heart
grow fonder, life longer, when you ticker gets that
‘lost that loving feeling’, keep it lost for now, cause
I no longer make home visitations and cancelled,
I did, the refills on your ****** scrip, keep your loving
confined to the twenty six alpa-bets, so you grow
old, well, alive, cursing my name repeatedly with
a strong God **** and I’m sure He’ll be listening,
cause I know He appreciates a **** good poem!
Jul 20, 2023
Jul 20, 2023 at 8:48 AM UTC
If we forgo pursuing truth
Then we allow ourselves to die
I’ve done so long ago
When complacent with her lie
With the word of a woman
Who carries death in her sight
Unfit to reject her own skill
For she brings with it slight delight
Both soldier and weapon
Difference had died with her
The daughter of hopes rejoice
Now walks as a hopeful killer
Burdened are the knowing
For fitting words had rung
And she knew of what escaped
Beneath her velvet tongue
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
You don’t have to wave your country’s flag;
Nor do you have to boast and brag
That yours is the best country on earth—
Whether or not it’s the land of your birth—
To be a patriot.
There’s no need to brandish your weapons to show
That you have your rights that you’ll never forgo;
Nor do you have to copy the ones
Who feel the need for an arsenal of guns
To be a patriot.
You don’t have to heed everything you are told,
Fear seeking truths that your leaders withhold,
Or forget that in your laws there’s a reason
That public dissent’s not the same thing as treason
To be a patriot.
You don’t have to feel that the government is right
To force young men and women to fight
In wars that profit the War Machine--
And which you in your heart know are obscene--
To be a patriot.
There’s no need to always bewail and prate
On the separation of church and state
Or let the troublemakers upset you
By saying the government’s out to get you
To prove you’re a patriot.
But caring about the poor and the needy;
Wanting to have, without being greedy;
Feeling concern for the rights of ALL;
And helping others up when they fall:
That's being a patriot!
- by Bob B
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
lovers forgo their faces
defacing in the act
mammering their information to unreadable smudges
they slur in kinetic fluctuation
experimenting material forms fray
each the others face is vented away
betray being human
no separated being
and then...
to return in the tender moments following
a bumbling landfall
then they are athletes
enamoured and praising of the other
flushed and radiating
having rushed the life from their breath
they heave in its return
Later in a **** trip down to the night kitchen
they forgo they faces in a foxes forage
hers ; over-lit by the fridge light
face thrown into a mask by extreme shaddows
his ; beyond this light in the dark
they are bodies
sneak children
the raider and the lookout
after many years make the familiar relation
her face disappears into a hand mirror
and his is pulled out
into a middle distance beyond the dresser
durred in thought and waiting for 'go'
to the restaurant tonite
or that career social that neither wishes to attend
- fell shy of Eden
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 8:48 PM UTC
It'll speak to you when you wake
Thus I wallow long in bed
Till I hear and duly feed
Then I'll rise and eat the cake
It'll speak to you when you wake
Even at times before bed
Then you're waiting as dawn peeks
To run with no time for cake
It'll speak to you when you wake
But ignore it before bed
In nightmares it'll haunt your sleep
Till you walk and forgo cake
It'll speak to you when you wake
Why study when time for bed
Books are weary but sleep's sweet
Thus you'll eat and keep the cake
It'll speak to you when you wake
If not you'll despise your bed
To roam and ceaselessly seek
For real food and not the cake
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 11:07 PM UTC
Over the horizon, lost in confusion,
came the sad night, pregnant with stars.
I, like the bearded mage of the tales,
knew the language of stones and flowers.
I learned the secrets of melancholy,
told by cypresses, nettles and ivy;
I knew the dream from lips of nard,
sang serene songs with the irises.
In the old forest, filled with its blackness,
all of them showed me the souls they have;
the pines, drunk on aroma and sound;
the old olives, burdened with knowledge;
the dead poplars, nests for the ants;
the moss, snowy with white violets.
All spoke tenderly to my heart
trembling in threads of rustling silk
where water involves motionless things,
like a web of eternal harmony.
The roses there were sounding the lyre,
oaks weaving the gold of legends,
and amidst their virile sadness
the junipers spoke of rustic fears.
I knew all the passion of woodland;
rhythms of leaves, rhythms of stars.
But tell me, oh cedars, if my heart
will sleep in the arms of perfect light!
I know the lyre you prophesy, roses:
fashioned of strings from my dead life.
Tell me what pool I might leave it in,
as former passions are left behind!
I know the mystery you sing of, cypress;
I am your brother of night and pain;
we hold inside us a tangle of nests,
you of nightingales, I of sadness!
I know your endless enchantment, old olive tree,
yielding us blood you extract from the Earth,
like you, I extract with my feelings
the sacred oil
held by ideas!
You all overwhelm me with songs;
I ask only for my uncertain one;
none of you will quell the anxieties
of this chaste fire
that burns in my breast.
O laurel divine, with soul inaccessible,
always so silent,
filled with nobility!
Pour in my ears your divine history,
all your wisdom, profound and sincere!
Tree that produces fruits of the silence,
maestro of kisses and mage of orchestras,
formed from Daphne's roseate flesh
with Apollo's potent sap in your veins!
O high priest of ancient knowledge!
O solemn mute, closed to lament!
All your forest brothers speak to me;
only you, harsh one, scorn my song!
Perhaps, oh maestro of rhythm, you muse
on the pointlessness of the poet's sad weeping.
Perhaps your leaves, flecking by the moonlight,
forgo all the illusions of spring.
The delicate tenderness of evening,
that covered the path with black dew,
holding out a vast canopy to night,
came solemnly, pregnant with stars.
2.5k
I'm a throwback, baby
atavistic and masochistic
I'll pay for dinner and
I'll hold the door
you can complain and
vilify this good guy
but I can take it. Your
feminism does not and can not
impel or compel
me to forgo my manners because
you
can't
tell me how I should
expect to respect
you
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
When you keep on compromising
forgo something for someone
you are building someone's expectation
and a slightly false picture of you
because they will make you let go of everything
thinking it is natural for you.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 12:00 PM UTC
Free yourself from yourself;
transcend your own Mind.
Mind is a tool that can be used, in any way seen as fit, but, it can also abuse;
it will ultimately dominate your existence, if allowed to.
Mind tends to lead One down the Paths of Overstimulation; Overindulgence. Overthinking.
To overcome these forces is to forge in fire a stronger and more complete Self:
Ride the Waves; but take heed of the Undertow.
You are in control until the point where you sacrifice it for peace of mind.
It is either a conscious decision or an act of desperation; subordination. Surrender. Defeat.
To sacrifice self-control for sake of comfort;
this indulgent peace of mind is hollow and fleeting,
a mere moment in the ebb and flow of Time.
Cling not to Peace of Mind; you shall be dragged downstream.
Seek it not; lest you **** yourself to a wild goose chase.
Claim it not when you have it; to disrespect it is to forgo.
Simply attempt to realize the ways in which you restrict yourself;
they ways in which you've yet to set your Self free.
Try to acknowledge the ways in which your Mind is your puppeteer,
rather than it being more mutually beneficial.
These malevolent mental marionette strings exist,
for no one is it ever a one-time struggle, it sure isn't for me;
Shadow seeks always to gain power within;
to corrupt your being from the inside out, and
it will always succeed if you don't redirect it.
*Mind can break thy chains as quickly and easily as it makes them.
It just takes awareness and willpower.*
Free yourself from yourself for yourself; though it's neither easy nor simple.
Free yourself from yourself for yourself; it is up to you alone to grow as a Being.
Free yourself from yourself for yourself; no one else is able to do it for you.
Free yourself from yourself for yourself; though you must teach yourself how.
Free yourself from yourself for yourself.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
Ditch diggers don't write poems -
As if there might be found
A single thought profound
Amid the mud they go in;
The pungence in essence released
From trees' roots that are severed
Is never fragrant like lilacs,
And their labor is of purpose,
That dirt removed by aching backs -
Gashed earth becomes the grave
In which our sins can be hidden;
Tomorrow ditches will be filled in,
Restoring peace which land craves,
The simple laborer's work done.
Ditch diggers don't write poetry -
Palms calloused in pick and *****
Too rough when art 's to be made,
Remain convinced by sophistry
They've no true claim to a pen.
Clods of clay always remain
Adhered to heels of workmen's boots,
Becoming my life's defining metaphor.
So we forgo more ethereal pursuits,
Though forever treasuring sweetness
Flowed over soil of our dank holes,
Loving breaths exhaled from souls,
Floral kisses blown across distance.
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 7:29 PM UTC
lower your lids, lap at liquid luxury
feel the flutter, flood of fire, fleeting--
bring your lips to the liquor, illegal lethality
forgo the former formalities, explore further, you're fascinated
i'm listless lately, lackluster from liquor's lullaby
forgetful and foggy, focused on feeling the friction
labors of lust, light-headed, lead me lightly, love me
**** me*. **** familiarity, **** me fast, foreign fingers
lower my limits, leave your legacy on me
lead. i follow, feeling foolish, little foreword:
be too forward. leave me lying, flesh flushed, limp and loyal
every fiber filled with life and lust: i finished first.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
The silence it deafens me
with violence they threaten me
to carry me off to an asylum
unless I can provide them
with an ulterior motive
till I hand in my notice
relinquish the chains upon my bed
the fiendish brain inside my head
deviously plotting my own demise
take leave from this place to warmer tides
bathe my body beneath calmer skies
naked like the day I drew breath
naked as I stare upon death
one hand holding a crooked scythe
the other beckoning to me, my life
did you forget to count the die?
or forgo the countless lies
that made the Countess cry
neither man nor mystery could change her path
so it's left to me to rearrange the past
jigsaw pieces scattered upon my pillow
connecting dots to draw the willow
who could forget the weeping widow
that cried herself to sleep.
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 6:52 PM UTC
So Kevin kicked me off, he kicked me off his site
Says don't bash ****** Queers, so I'll do that just for spite
-
Hi-yea Kevin hi-yea, how's your ****** ***
Don't you like my poem? Don't you like my sass?
-
Why is that ****** Fruitcake? Because I tell you where you'll go?
You'll go to Hell and burn, and your poetry forgo
-
When's this going to be? Sooner than you think
The Lake of Fire awaits, you teeter on the brink
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC