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September Roses Jul 2018
When the day comes
That my light leaves
And I go to descend
What ever will they do with me
All the way down there
Where fire pours like rain
Main population: pain
The one place
in the earth,
sure to drive you insane
I suppose they would start normally
With burning stoke
Or pitchfork
But what ever would they do,
When those things just dont work?
I suppose they'd try to drown me
In oil
Or flames
But when a smile
forms across face
They'll see
I like the pain
So this might go on for centuries
They'd try as well
To hurt my mind
But when all they find is numbness
Well
I might get hired
Lama Dec 2018
I know that I always push you away
I know when I need you the most
I vanish
I don’t want to be an unwieldy burden
and it hurts every time you’re hurt
and yes
I’m aware I love you more than myself
but I don’t know why I keep this distance
between our glaring love
am I afraid if I love you closely
I might lose you
and never touch you again?
or am I not ready
to pour all the love that I got
until one day it won’t be enough?
or maybe I enjoy loving you from afar
so I don’t get too attached
Sometimes late at night when can't sleep, I look upon night sky think to
my self what Is out
there far beyond that to which I can see with my eyes
There has to be something out there far beyond this planet we live, out there somewhere In the universe other life forms
that
are probably looking back at our planet and saying exactly the same there has to be another life form out there somewhere In this vast wilderness of
space
We can't be just the only life form In this vast expanse of space all these habitable planets
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.  

As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .  

The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .

Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .

Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation.  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.  

In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Re-post
laura Sep 2018
do it for the ***** Laura
yes
sore for all the reasons
because sometimes i want
a **** that destroys jeans
and all forms of pants unequivocally
feel powerful

workout the body
and rip the peanut butter lid off the jar
proclaim to the universe
i have something that you should all stare
at

i
go home
and
eat chips and salsa
and
think nothing of it
Shane Rowe Oct 2018
Where is the beauty in death?
I ask,
A figure of light answers
"I have never looked beautiful in your mind,"
"When a cloud of darkness consumes you, you see me as a gruesome way out."
I have never imagined you as something graceful, I answer
"I have only been **** because you want me too quickly."
I shiver at my truth,
It echoes in the depths of my soul,
I did not reply
"I am complicated and painful, but never when one is ready. Never when their clock has stopped ticking on its own."
Why has mine continued,
Why has it felt as if the world cursed me with time?
"I am afraid you'd have to ask life that, you have not given him a lot of attention lately."
I am in between,
I feel stuck,
When will you come for me?
"I will hold you gently when the time comes, I promise you it is not today nor tomorrow."
What if I invite you graciously?
"Do not wish for me, I am not a wonderful savior."
But what do I do with this agony? The agony of living?
"You continue on like the rest, you will be able to, I have seen your clock, it is a strong and lasting one."
Being hopeless is annoying. So here we are. If you are reading this, hold on. I hear it is worth it.
GreenTrees May 2015
Love with its picturesque mountain peaks
one finds oneself opening their hearts to the unending sky of dreams
Down to its deep fertile valleys
where we worked the soil with hardened hands
and perseverance of heart.
At the land's edges where waves of emotion lap against its jagged shores
we find tranquility in the sound of its crashing waves.
In the high deserts where life still abounds and its fragile existence yields to the windswept nature of chance.
In its open fields where our desires roam care free
to it’s densely wooded areas where we frolic in the beauty of its simplicity.
In its grandness we are but the migratory animals who seek it's bounty from season to season.
From it we are born and die but the land remains to remind us that love endures and its beauty exists to teach us to adapt to all of its wondrous and various forms.


Copyright Karl v. 2015
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2018
The material body was yet in the making
The first and foremost luminary feminine
ebb and flow heartily pans out
flawless flow to the finest angle.
Across the nadir to the zenith
Fathima eyes on upon it like it
shapes and forms are waxing lyrical:
The pure masterpiece without a mirror!

Arts on the go Fathima moves on.
Praise be to the Lord she being made
to measure inborn mathematical the pi is her!
(For the perfect circle the circumference is masculine
The pi tends to circle the blank space within is feminine)
She can budge equally in the shadow
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer into a whole full number!

Hops up her first step she looks for ‘the all’
the complete whole the absolute one Allah.
Time and again she steps up but finds no floor
Her measured step by default lays on 360-degree circle
Scans all things at the first go still finds no bottom!

The first luminary masculine peace be upon him
first looks in the open she takes the veiled angle.
Through the evermore pi decimal micro-hole
She looks on and witnesses the first water drop
surfaces up without a base without a roof on top!
It follows through truly the copy of the original
softly springing around the serene water paints  
of all the maters to be created from this first drop.
Fathima looks at it and veils withdraws her reflection.

It’s still remembered in the sky that follows suit.  
First, a star was born stepping in Fathima’s shoe.
It tried so did the full set of galaxy only to disperse
into a profound constellation never finds a bottom.
Cause amidst this water circle floats the first soil.
Allah called it His house that He first created from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimage around it in the core
known as Ka’abah up to the heart of the earth it rose.

In the pre-designed world after the first masculine
the first feminine Fathima thus did the first pilgrimage.
She walked the walk did so in the patternless pi veil.

Nature is never uneven on the hidden hand of the pi.
Every little fraction, the small decimal does it count
connects to the dot without showing up a pattern!
Long live, long live the digital charisma is on the rise.

Retracing time and again the sun rises in the median lane,
yet the black box scores it's only a dark chart at the end of the day!
The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary-dip
It pulls all, the mighty sea that the earth can't
and sync in the feminine water cycle but save only one
with Fathima floating out of the box it can’t link up!

Like millions, ever wonder where Fathima’s grave is?
The earth strived too to the death bite to print her footprint!
Most of the mass visiting Medina look too see the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been a tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown. Reportedly she wanted her grave to remain unidentified.
My skin is cracked
pulling
split apart

Mucous forms, blood bubbles
fat popping
skin
melts

Hair afire!
skull snapping
arm bones
charred

Collapsed in two
scream fire
body
sinking

To Ashen State,
To Ashen State,

Immolation

To Ashen State,
To Ashen State,

A Man cannot be the  Sun.
Homunculus Apr 2016
The process of becoming other than,
  the shedding of the old by way of time
  the hands upon the clock traverse their span,
  the ever fleeting moment reigns, sublime.

The emptiness of all objective forms,
  the rushing river, never stepped in twice,
  the reconfiguration of all norms,
  the virtues of lost ages seen as vice,

The elements converge and then react,
  the caterpillars weave themselves cocoons,
  the world amends its stock of gathered facts,
  the moths emerge, in flight to greet the moon,
  
   The firmament, destroyed and rearranged,
     the universal essence, found in change.
I'm actually beginning to enjoy writing these.
Sid Lollan Apr 2018
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines

Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand

and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon

in big pink petals of bloom;

A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
       patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
      the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (


be gentle, though whispering wind)

Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign

      fears,
      as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
      Consume the years between Here and Now;
      Watching from blank perch, among
      the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
      Sing the branches of experience, to wake
      in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
      of waking,

**** sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—

Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;

                          Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
        and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
        of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Data Apr 2017
Tell my father (if you can find him)
that I, too, have died; tell him that I am dead, and

if I say, all paths have led to this place,
to this avenue where the olives grow,

let him know that I found some comfort there,
where the cherry spread its boughs and
lemons ripened in winter sun…

So, when that final day is done, beyond any
exact hour or minute, say, I stayed on and watched

as my old sol dipped, and that old moon rose
as yellow as that fruit’s faithless amrita. O bitter,

sour is the flavour of the mortal earth,
even as the red-kissed sky paints it not,

even as the slivered moon waits
and watches for its ghosts to disinter,
yet, from the winter’s cold no spectres stir:

they have no cure for that fatal cut,
no moment to revisit the drawing night.

But, I might not surrender, old man. If I may,
let me linger here beneath the opened arms
of heaven’s gate…

And wait… as shadows shudder beneath,
imitating forms that once stood here
in the glade where the sun still shone and would

not admit to anything other than a cycle:
as though returning was as natural

as this spinning orb.

While this whetted winter draws about, without
a warm hand to guide a laden pen, let me

begin and say again, ‘Tell my father that I am dead!’
Tell him, that I cut the lemon from the tree before

it was ripe, and I ****** ******* nectar **** until
I’d drained its heart, then spat its pithy skin upon
the road. Tell him, I walked the avenue and heard
the black fruit ***** beneath my impatient tread.

Say, I made some notes along this way,
and I left them sheltered beneath the olives’ spread
where, if he has the time, he can read

and perhaps,
perpend the thoughts that I was disinclined to speak.


_________________­_____________________
­
By­­ Data © May, 2014
Upon the suicide of my father...
Christian Ek Aug 2014
Tender touching on creamy silky skin.
Hearts pounding like jackhammers.
Sweat dripping, warm rain.
Sheets melting.
70,80,90,100 degrees celsius!!!
Pulses rising,voices rising, music rising.
White rose moving down your spine tingling your sensitive senses.
Oh how you sing my name, I hope this song never ends.
Loss of air, loss of sense of self, two bodies in one.
Rose pedals broken under two lovers forms.
Waking up in a rose garden to the sound of your voice.
King Panda Jul 2017
a parhelion forms with
the sun’s peaking out,
irradiating your eye
in crown.

there is a sanguine wonder
to your cigarette as
you drag your lungs
across the floor.

citrine is your smoke
crawling across
the bed.

light moves.

a nanosecond passes by.
There is such a place, you know--
one that transcends time and space
and visions of what you're supposed to resemble,
and the limits placed by the digits
of your mortal age.

I can feel the presence of it
in my bones,
where the sky is never ending and liberated
and the sun and moon
can openly converse and love and exist,
without the rules of superiors
who like tragic love stories and twisted histories.

Whatever you decide to do, whatever you decide to feel,
there are no restraints
to keep you from the prospects of flying,
or dreaming,
or embracing things that you had to
let go of in another existence.

There is no fear, confusion, or awkwardness,
no doubts of not belonging,
of not deserving to exist in such a place
where your soul can be pure,
and being able to thrive
without having to try so hard
anymore.

You don't have to try anymore to
be a good person,
because you are one.
You don't have to struggle to hold on to yourself,
you don't have to feign ignorance
or enlightenment.

You can breathe and smile openly,
and every smile is so breathtakingly beautiful that
you glow and transcend above all heavens
and insecurities.

The ground is soft and supportive,
giving way to your feet, that no longer
feel so tired and heavy from having to labor to live,
or from constantly running away
from demons and voices
that tear at your conscience and soul.

No, you can now feel as light as air itself,
soft feet running on sunkissed clouds that
formed from tears of happiness.

When it rains,
you don't have to take cover
for it has already washed away all your sorrows and guilts,
guilts in the forms of hot, suppressed tears
in the failures of your lost ambitions
and stolen discoveries,
guilt from turning away, even when someone
asked you for help.

You can forever venture out here,
to unknown, misty, thriving islands and majestic palaces
far away,
you can do things you never got to do,
for you don't have to pretend
to be someone you aren't.

You don't have to live each day questioning
every single telltale of life.

You don't have to wonder anymore
about why the world can be
such a cruel place,
no matter how many rays of hope
reach into the darkness.

You don't have to wonder anymore,
because here
such misery does not exist,
and the ruins of a good soul
dance as a renewed, enlightened being again.

Above all,
you don't have to live someone else's life
because here, you find yourself
over and over
and over again.
07/09/18

The Green of this particular Nirvana is a component that allows you to love and live freely, with no restrictions or heaviness of people weighed down by the world, and themselves.

Here, you are liberated from the faults of others, and the faults of yourself in a time and place where you were ignorant and lost.

Here, there is no society to degrade you. You can exist solely in harmony with nature.

Edit: Wow, I can't believe this poem got chosen to be the Poem of the Day! I've never received so many likes, comments, and feedback on any of my poems, so I feel overwhelmed, but very happy. Thank you for taking the time to read my words; it really means alot to me <3 <3
am i ee Oct 2015
\ih-SPAHY-uhl\
noun
1. the act of spying.
2. the act of keeping watch; observation.

Quotes

The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his evening's business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils.
-- Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist, 1838
s
Origin
Espial is related to the word espy, which comes from the German word spähen meaning "to spy." The suffix -al forms nouns from verbs, as in the word refusal.
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2017
I
In the cold silence of the area
Rose a lonesome cafeteria,
Outside of it hooded forms -
Scaly horns -
Perched on white, plastic chairs
Like fifteen owls on a wire.
II
A grey-green bird in the distance
Sang a three-note song with insistence.
He sang on not to the white folks
But to the cold he tried to coax.
He sang to a spot desolate -
Sure thing, he sang to punctuate it.
©LazharBouazzi, July, 2017
The whole of stanza one is a true story. On the way to my home town, Kasserine, I did see the scene involving about fifteen hooded people sitting outside a café with their backs against the wall, apparently waiting for sunset and the cannonball that would announce the break of the fast in Ramadhan.
Stanza II (with the bird) is pure poetic invention.
Ztef Jul 2016
I like to travel like how one falls in love;
To feel everything deeply and cherish moments,
To understand what is foreign and appreciate its beauty-  
consumed by emotions all at once, and still be brave enough to explore...
For after all, travel and love are both deep forms of art.
1981

They came in like diseased eagles; mutated
forms of those they wore on their chest and
with the change once again in the weather,
the ZOMO swooped in to quell what was
‘wrong’, what would bring them down. They
run in the streets as well as the miners,
running for different reasons and different
aims. I look down, out my window and see
the army helmets littering the street like rats.
            Police.          Rats.
I could no longer see a difference. My father
went to work that morning. I clutch my doll
knowing the chance of seeing him again is
            Miniscule.   Poor.
There is no more cereal in the cupboard;
there is no more cereal in the shop; there is
no more shop. The ZOMO set it on fire when the word

                          Solidarity

appeared in the window.
“We are closing the border for the safety of the People”
            Incorrect.     Unjustified.
For the safety of You, the Elite.
“Nine killed in mine shooting”
Which side?
Only the ZOMO carry guns.
            Fascism.       Communism.
I could no longer see a difference
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