"frequent" poems
The joyful heart is the buoyant heart—
empowered to rise above its circumstances,
unweighted, unburdened, unbound,
tied only to that which would lift it higher,
untethered from anything which would
pull it down, pull it under or suffocate it.
It's the free heart, quiet and at rest
yet jubilant and uncontained,
the celebrating heart, the praising heart,
the thankful heart, the heart set on pilgrimage,
bent on adventure, journey and romance.
All the while it's a waiting heart
because it's a yielded, led heart—
a heart which doesn't run ahead of the LORD
but willingly, quickly to the LORD—
a heart that though eagerly anticipating each
twisting turn, next horizon and changing path
keeps its eyes fixed not on the scenery
but forever on the Shepherd
because it's a heart persuaded
that He alone is the Great Reward
for which it has always been looking.
True joy is only ours when we find an endless
source of satisfaction, and of these I know only One!
The secret to all joy is to crave Him above all else.
The joyful heart is the one addicted fully to Him,
desperate for Him to the expense of all else,
willing to sacrifice everything to have that craving satisfied.
Joy and idols, I have learned,
do not easily reside together in the same heart.
So if I find that joy is chased away
the most likely culprits are my own desires.
What am I wanting more than Jesus?
For if intimacy with Him is the supreme goal of my life
then nothing can arise which I'm not enabled to bear with joy.
There is, I suppose, nothing so reliable as suffering and loss
to expose all of the hidden idols within me.
It's surely those who have suffered the greatest
and most frequent losses for Christ who are also
most capable of knowing the deepest and most abiding joy.
For it's when we've been stripped bare of everything else
that we begin to know for certain that our joy is based
not on the temporary blessings of our circumstances
but only on the presence of the Eternal Blesser Himself.
Sometimes He offers to us all that is in His right hand,
but for any with eyes truly opened to see
the most precious of times may be those
when He offers to us only the intimacy of His right hand.
Rivers of sadness can open up
into wide gulfs of endless delight and
are often the very courses needed to carry us there.
When all is lost, we find to our amazement
that, even so, we still have ALL
and no one can rob us of it.
When He takes everything from us
He proves Himself to be EVERYTHING to us.
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC
Strange malaise,
One I can't place.
Struggling of late.
Discomforting state.
Persistent lethargy.
Sloth-like and heavy.
Burning internals.
Frequent intervals.
No temperature.
No warning lever.
Don't know what's wrong.
Been rather long.
Medicine trough
Can't rid me this cough.
Expulsion so violent,
Incessantly recurrent.
Over a fortnight
This ailment I fight.
Still hasn't eased.
Can't be appeased.
Development is seen.
Now spitting green.
Not just all
That joined this brawl.
It's just the coughing.
No injury I'm suffering,
I haven't bled...
But I see red...
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
I know they're not
accurate.
The fact I frequent
creative results
may be
more or less
coincidental.
After all
who am I
compared to
Jon Stewart
or a Greek
philosopher?
But maybe
I don't care.
Maybe I take them
just for fun.
And who can complain
when they are compared
to Charizard
and Winnie the Pooh?
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
Amid the smoke and light and laughter
Along the smiles and cheers thereafter
A sound is bled, wrung free from strings
It bounds and treads and wholly sings
Inside each song a secret moves
Not right nor wrong or frequent proved
The message dances from bow to ear
A coded trance of love and fear
From left to right the story rings
Of death and light the Cello brings
The covert tale engulfs the room
It vibrates truth to those who loom
The Cello knows for why it’s played
Its secret lost, both gone and stayed
Amid the smoke and light and laughter
Music lies and cries thereafter
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
i must give you a full physical exam
to fully grasp my prognosis and plan
of treatment for you... dont be afraid
i feel confident, no need to debate
i can satisfy
and gratify
your pre-dic-ament
in the richest succulent
as a specialist, to some degree
my healing hands work expertly
but to receive full and complete treatment
you must partake my honey rather frequent
for a better plan of action
i require a full body transfusion
a chemical mixture of center fuses
a delicate blending of our juices
this may require several procedures
over time it provides many features
healing properties of your most vital *****
however worth it, even if, it cost a fortune
to this a can guarantee success
but first you must fully undress
i work with energy transference
your help required for successful convergence
of the best possible results
between two consenting adults
bartering is certainly a viable option
for your long term medical condition
providing equal services for each other
helps maintain balance to one another
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
the frustration I had
after failing
to bring myself to ******
for the
tenth
time this past week
makes me more
furious
than depressed
seriously
my *** drive
has always been high
as soon as I
got over
the shame
society places on women
for enjoying
their sexuality
I have always used
************
as a release
relieves
stress
leaves me
relaxed
and
content
or should I say,
left me
feeling that way
usually
it was once a day
fairly frequent
but, it
matched
my *** drive's
needs
what the **** is wrong with me
I have tried
imagining,
watching,
reading,
looking at
every form
of erotica
that exists
I have searched
through everything
I can find
from
****
******
stories,
comics
and my search history
will let you know
that I've searched
everything
from
****
to
******
to
interracial lesbian forced *******
and things
worse
than that
e v e r y t h i n g
used to take me,
oh, I dunno
maybe three minutes
with my ********
after
around an hour
is when I give up
now
I even bought
a different
********
NO
RELEASE
NO
PASSION
GONE
what is
WRONG
WITH
ME
oh yeah -
depression
I mean
I knew it was bad
when video games
no longer
had appeal
that was enough
games
have been a passion
and a hobby of mine
since I was five
the other hobby
I started a bit older than five
but
you stole that one, too
after depression
beat the **** out of me
on Tuesday
I thought that was it
thought
since the next morning
I awoke
without the urge
to **** myself
it was over
nope
you have robbed me
of the simplest
things
in my life
that give me pleasure
no more
wriggling
moaning
spasming
the tingling
sensation
that starts in my toes
and makes its way
up
the length of my body
the warmness
that follows
with it
the
satisfaction
slight smile
snuggly
sleepy
post ****** me
I miss her
give her
back
I miss my life
give it
back
this isn't
ME
for ***** sake!
I am a ******
witty
humorous creature
full of passion
looking
for opportunities
to get myself off!
not this
depressed
apathetic
vessel
without soul.
you won't stop
until you have
everything
in my life
you won't stop
until you
put
my soul in your mouth
chew
grind
crush it
your saliva
breaks me down
spit me out
please
I am fighting
for you to cough me up
regurgitate
the essence
of me
let me put myself
back inside this body
please
please
no
you won't stop
you will eat my soul
until
ever fiber
protein
ounce of health
I had
is now
inside of you,
depression
cold-hearted *****
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC
I’m sorry I’m so clumsy
Some days it seems like the world is fighting me at every step
And I’m losing the battle
I stumble over every stubborn staircase
I trip over my tongue like an uneven rug
Every new set of walls is a labyrinth I get lost in
Every move I make is disjointed and uncertain
My fingers and feet flail when I’m carrying precious, fragile things
And before I know it I’m sprawled on the floor
Surrounded by shattered fragments
Bruised and aching
Burning with humiliation and frustration
But I’ll try to be careful.
If you will be brave enough to trust me
I will try to keep my steps in line and my path straight
I will try to find the rhythm in the song of my surroundings
I will try to see beyond my limitations
My faults, my failures, my frequent falls
I will try to look up and see the beauty in the world
Instead of staring at my feet in fear
I may trip at times
But I will not be trapped in trepidation
I ask for your patience
I am trying to be patient with myself too
My best is all I can really do
And I will do what I can to be the best for you
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC
"Stoner's Poem"
I see your snapstories,
I see your ask profile.
I see how you comment and reply and flaunt your English skills.
Trust me, I love your rebuttals,
More than Biryani and the Lebanese pornstar.
I see your Facebook posts,
I see your WordPress,
And I see, how you craft your poems flamboyantly,
And then, and then,
Pilfer my breath,
And rob my me.
Sometimes, just sometimes,
Your deportment bewilders me,
More than Lowry-Bronsted's theory.
I see how you dance in the rain,
Like "All, sin, tan, cos", do in my brain.
I see how you frequent every segment of my cardiac muscle,
And then desert it, like it's one of the many dilapidated constructions.
My reminiscences about your thingness,
Escalate me to a higher spiritual level,
More than **** does.
Oh, that smile,
Oh, that look,
Oh, the mystique in you.
And again, I am writing of Love.
And the pen doesn't seem to stop soon,
For I have taken a greater risk,
Than asking my friend about cathodes and anodes and electrolysis, while I took my last chemistry exam,
When the invigilator was around.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:55 AM UTC
<>
"And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul
And you did open that day you came back to the garden
The olden summer breeze was blowin' on your face
The light of God was shinin' on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you
Sat beside your father and your mother in the garden
The summer breeze was blowin' on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden"
In the Garden,
song by by Van Morrison
<>
***This touches me deep in the chest cavity,
the palpitations of its internalizing echoing cavitations,
a warning, go slow, choose your words wise and
accrue, the mood,
for the ache of creating, hurts, fevers me
for I am but steps away from the garden,
and its violet hues infused with fresh sunrising golden hazes,
with kindly warmth, with warming kindnesses,
touches,
caresses my shoulders, begs me to stop crying,
overcome, for I am overcome, eyes dropping wetting droplets,
for find myself at the intersection,
interlocking crossroads
where perfect perfection
begins and must
meet its natural endings
thoughts of capture, retentions, preservations,
all impossibilities, challenges,
see me, begging itinerant
muses
in the neighborhood
to guide my hand, teach me newsome words,
mine feel so old, so unworthy of this moment,
hearing me solicit their
Treasure of Summery
Words
but they won't,
excusing themselves,
that this in particular human has exercised, exorcised,
all the tools in his ever diminishing capacity,
time insufficient to learn a new calculus of
addition
and bid me calm my heaving chest,
seize my tears, just add them to the brackish salted waters steps
awaiting away
live in this moment
live within this poem,
revisit it frequent,
weep no more,
your stilling heart weakened,
take fast what is given now,
and be contented,
your treasury chest is full,
overflowing with this summary of
summery***
but I am not, cannot…
7:48:am
jul 22
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 8:03 AM UTC
Behind that fake smile
Behind those lies
Lie the distant echoes of my cries
Behind those frequent relapses
Lie my urge to recover
now give me some poison.
I am predictable in my unpredictability
I am trying to fight my melancholy
Behind that funny girl
Lies someone who wants to watch themselves burn
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
only the moon knew her darkest secrets, the depth of her thought was the deepest, up all night, its something she does frequent, she's an angel from heaven, that fell for a demon, a beautiful image, turned into a broken spirit, constant arguments and disagreements,
her smile held pain, but she stuck to concealment, because her friends and the world were incoherent, I got to see her smile one day, ever since then, nothing has been the same,
she no longer puts that same smile on her face, she once felt grace, but it turned to disgrace, the beauty she holds is inexplainable, the purity in her soul is gold, yet unattainable, because she no longer holds trust,
what she thought was love, turned into lust,,an addicting drug, that having is a must, the magical feeling, turned into dust, she misses the memories, kisses, and hugs, now she confides in her own sorrow, asking god for a better tomorrow, he gives her a light to follow, but her own pride is hard to swallow, A beautiful intelligent female, who felt love through the most intimate detail,
at school she was the most diligent female, filled in amazing aspects, and assets, but she continues to feel the absence, and still doesnt comprehend the circumstances,
for his actions, of dissatisfaction,
still to this day hasnt changed her reaction, the biggest heart break shes ever dealt with, it was minor to him, but her heart really felt it, like a beautiful ice sculpture, she melted,
and there I was the person to who she vented, staring deep into her dark brown eyes, i saw what nobody else saw, deep deep inside, she was wise at mind, i searched more within, as the sun rised, a beautiful lonely girl, that told me under the stars and moonlight,
"hold me close and never let go."
i was there to carefully listen,
she opened up like a book.
after she looked up to me and said i was different, that i just might be what her heart was missin,
her eyes and smile once again glistened, i told her,
"look at the stars, look how they shine for you, until the stars in the sky shine no more, i'll always be there, until the end of time for you."
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
In all my iterations, and my frequent reiterations,
Introspection reflection, run a muck, I find it unnecessary
To talk to God; the reason being quite simple, is
It and I are in constant dialogue, nary a pause, chattering
Round the clock, 24 seven, night and day, sleep interruptus,
I think to myself God has some nerve,
why can't he bother others?
in other parts of the world…
And so he does!
Visitors from far away lands, and languages I do not understand, but applaud their attempts to decipher the English one, that we share in common; if the lands are exotic, the names are more delightfully so, almost ****** It excites and titillates, to greet these kindred souls whose words be greeted by puzzlement, intrigue, like the delight of rediscovering vanilla, it's the same language spoken differently!
and god smiles and says:
"knew you would eventually speak my soul language!'"
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 11:23 AM UTC
Thunderstorms will impact you.
And it's not going to hurt you.
So, have your umbrellas ready.
Because it's gonna be a big one with some heavy rain, loud thunder and dangerous frequent lightning.
And it will never go away forever.
It's just Mother Nature's wrath.
Of love and passion.
Anonymous. 4/8/2014.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
Choose **** Choose a dealer. Choose your rolling papers. Choose a **** Choose mind numbingly long conversations about **** all. Choose home grown. Choose frequent holidays to amsterdam. Choose red eyes. Choose the biggets pizza ever for when the munchies kick in. Choose paranoia. Choose chilling with mates. Choose hallucinating about a giant green hedgehog following you home. Choose watching Cheech and Chong. Choose skunk. Choose super skunk. Choose hiding your stash from the police. Choose spilling ***** **** water on your carpet. Choose a fake jamaican accent. Choose space cakes. Choose your future. Choose ****
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
In the rectory garden on his evening walk
Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was
In black November. After a sliding rain
Dew stood in chill sweat on each stalk,
Each thorn; spiring from wet earth, a blue haze
Hung caught in dark-webbed branches like a fabulous heron.
Hauled sudden from solitude,
Hair prickling on his head,
Father Shawn perceived a ghost
Shaping itself from that mist.
'How now,' Father Shawn crisply addressed the ghost
Wavering there, gauze-edged, smelling of woodsmoke,
'What manner of business are you on?
From your blue pallor, I'd say you inhabited the frozen waste
Of hell, and not the fiery part. Yet to judge by that dazzled look,
That noble mien, perhaps you've late quitted heaven?'
In voice furred with frost,
Ghost said to priest:
'Neither of those countries do I frequent:
Earth is my haunt.'
'Come, come,' Father Shawn gave an impatient shrug,
'I don't ask you to spin some ridiculous fable
Of gilded harps or gnawing fire: simply tell
After your life's end, what just epilogue
God ordained to follow up your days. Is it such trouble
To satisfy the questions of a curious old fool?'
'In life, love gnawed my skin
To this white bone;
What love did then, love does now:
Gnaws me through.'
'What love,' asked Father Shawn, 'but too great love
Of flawed earth-flesh could cause this sorry pass?
Some ****** condition you are in:
Thinking never to have left the world, you grieve
As though alive, shriveling in torment thus
To atone as shade for sin that lured blind man.'
'The day of doom
Is not yest come.
Until that time
A crock of dust is my dear hom.'
'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn,
'Can there be such stubbornness--
A soul grown feverish, clutching its dead body-tree
Like a last storm-crossed leaf? Best get you gone
To judgment in a higher court of grace.
Repent, depart, before God's trump-crack splits the sky.'
From that pale mist
Ghost swore to priest:
'There sits no higher court
Than man's red heart.'
7.7k
Hey, past me from so close yet seeming long ago...
A knot from my sweater's bow I regret tying despite how unkempt the ribbons look hanging by my sides because now it's digging into my back
The hair I can't decide if I want out where it's pretty and makes me look less like a generic nerd yet gets in my face and food and life
The jeans I insist upon wearing without a belt even though their slipping down my **** may actually outweigh the pain of loosening the belt
The tennis shoes I'm too attached to give up that emit a constant squeak, squeak, squeaking through the hallways whether it's caused by residual rain from outside or not
The glasses, fond of slipping down my nose at frequent intervals, covered in smudges I rarely notice till they get out of hand
The phone whose screen happened to crack at the most inopportune moment and takes forever to read my finger print
The jacket that should be a highlighter blue but rather presents itself as a canvas of the week's tomato stains
The face covered in acne-
The stomach with fat instead of muscle-
The arms lacking muscle-
The legs with too much hair-
I've always acknowledged that perfection is not possible, yet I have to at least try to strive
I think, as I sit at my desk, fingers typing fragmented sentences, attempting to convey thoughts speeding too fast to grasp
Yet, just a simple poem of reflection brings to light these numerous deficiencies, many of which I COULD fix were it not the invisible fiend upon whom I stamp the label-laziness
These deficiencies, many of which aren't even noticed by those around me, some of whom are better some are worse
But it's not as simple as that, I've known I can't just be "one of the people", I need to find something, some identity, some way out of my seemingly impossible to escape label of "just above average"
In academics, in extracurricular activities, EVERYTHING, I seem to be at a stagnant
I've done bad, I've done "just above average", but never above. What is the point if you get plenty of losses and plenty of "fine" but no victories?
It's something about me though, somehow I believe, subconsciously, I'm impeding myself. I'm holding myself back.
...
Why?
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
If I could,
I would pick up my ink pen
and drown an ocean into you
instead of drowning you in it.
Extract these rotting feelings
for the sake of your ignorance.
Carve scriptures into each delicacy of your brain
so you wouldn’t have to dwell in such misery every day.
Wire faith
to your blemished heart.
Imbue purity
to your sullied soul.
If I could,
I would write you through all depths of insanity
without any harm
so that your
mind no longer persists the thought of death.
There was a time I thought you were dead.
Only you were painted red
in a black and white world.
Like you have been walking barefoot on a broken road
your whole life.
Your demons imitate life
And life imitates the demons.
You are the one being tied down by invisible, nonexistent chains.
So unaccepting of help that has come for you
Watch
the sun touch the horizon
reach the meeting of sun and ground
and
Find further still,
The limits you would like to reach only run from you.
You have such a murderous tongue
for society
people.
But one day I hope to see you write yourself into existence
Rather than to let yourself drown in it.
Why has you dying become something so habitual?
Darling, death is not a friend of yours
Nor are you a friend of his.
But I know of your frequent dates with death
Tell me
Does his neck feel like happiness
And do his lips relieve you of your suffocation
Now
are you lost?
or are you found?
Do you recognize the irony
Of the most terrifying things happening in the most angelic places
Charm yourself upon that bridge
Whose lights light up the city in golden arrays
With a glazed look
you’d think.
In sadness seen go by
You are charmed by either war or hope.
These occurred robberies have taken much
But they left opportunity
Important people
And a moon in your window
A future that only you know the ending of
And a slice of the midnight sky.
So it goes.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
He lets her touch him intimately, without emotion
when in some pretext she is alone,
in his cubicle with him, discussing things inane,
a software environs need not be concerned
some times when she passes through,
her longing crosses limits, these days
it has become frequent, to the extent others to notice.
she found silly excuses, fifth time this morning
but he can't hurt her feeling, a team member valued,
she contributes to his success, as the team leader
He can see her need for comfort,
under her tired eyes dark shadows of sleepiness
lay curled like a depressed mongrel,
yet another duel she had with that nincompoop
she calls her husband, all through last night;
a sudden pang he feels calls his wife
asks if she is fine, to ease his guilt that raises
its head like a snake from under the cover of grass.
"A housewife has a thousand things to do, why don't you
find a buxom colleague to flirt, if that is the need"
she banters and teases him on his illogical concerns.
Through the glass parting he discreetly watches her face
heard a murmur arising inside,"the ***** plans the next move"
panicked he tried to concentrate on the screen
that looked frightening, the deadline getting nearer and nearer
by each hour, he heard the heavy foot fall
at that moment he heard a thud, as if something fell down
everyone was running towards her workstation.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
I frequent a little taco stand
Every time that I'm out west
With Elvis behind the counter
Dressed in his leathers best
Janice Joplin doing dishes
With Southern Comfort breath
Arguing with fry cook Jim Morrison
Over the best way of cheating death
Jimi Hendrix works the tables
That they have set up out front
Recommending the mushroom taco
With the psychedelic crunch
Marilyn Monroe...the entertainment
Nightly serenades the gents
While wearing here favorite T-shirt
Bobby Kennedy for president
I highly recommend the little taco stand
If you ever find yourself out West
Who's going to show up to take your order that day
Could be anybody's guess
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
The Miner, Absolom
(a haibun)
green hill where sheep graze
white bones and coal, buried, held
seasons all the same
My grandfather worked in the mines from age thirteen to seventy. His life was closed in by mountains, the green one at the back, the dark looming one at the front and the pit head along the valley., winding the men in and out of the shaft, day after day, dawn until dusk when they came home singing
boots ring on the road
deep valley voices echo
backyard starlit smoke
.
They worked on their bellies or crouched, often in water for days, water that undermines rock. Shaft collapses where frequent. Life was cheap. He came home covered in coal dust to his wife and two sons, sons he was determined to keep out of the mines. Yet he loved that coal - coal that he always polished with care before lighting a fire, brushing dust off black diamond surfaces.
water breaks through rock
with wood and straining shoulders
man becomes the beam
He saved twenty lives that day, men he had known from boyhood. When his lungs were affected they laid him off, no pay, no pension, no life. He bought an insurance book with the money he had and every day he trudged over the mountains and valleys gathering pennies that would help to secure some livelihood to the widows who lost their men in the mines. He never told his wife that when a family couldn't pay he put the pennies in for them rather than leave them unprotected.
winter, summer, fall
the mountain hangs over all
tired to the backbone
When the mines were nationalised my grandfather went straight back to the coal face despite his age. He wasn't going to miss those days of glory. Safety was suddenly the watchword and changes were made very fast. Hot showers were installed at the pit head and the miners came home clean at last.
men stripped to the skin
hot water, steam, baptised
brothers singing hymns
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Owl listened to Goose's secrets
Fishy could always use a smile
Duckie flew into many a dream
Cat lurked when the sun was high
Bear always gave the best hugs
Giraffe knew the summer's joys
Chipmunk shared in equal annoyances
Yet, Goose befriended them all
Owl was wise
Fishy was mellow
Duckie was comforting
Cat was kind
Bear was understanding
Giraffe was a laugh
Chipmunk was encouraging
And Goose loved them all
Duckie, Cat, Bear and Giraffe all
frequent the same little niche
Fishy swims down the street
from Chipmunk's tree
Owl and Goose fly in similar circles
And where would each be,
without the other
Our animal friends,
Or one another
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 11:23 AM UTC
Body
Two bodies,
in a bed,
on a quilt in a field,
in the backseat of an '88 Nissan Pathfinder.
Two bodies,
touching,
squeezing,
caressing,
biting.
Blood,
pooling under the skin,
rushing to the brain,
rushing to the genitals,
sticky/hot.
****** candy,
the curve of lips around a lollipop,
the drinking of whiskey from the bottle,
the burning sensation of MDMA insufflation.
Clothes strewn across your mother's kitchen,
ice cubes traced down spines, ******* ********
Oral *** with ice cubes in the mouth.
Frequent ************ and a sense of unwellbeing, if you'll allow me this one usage of an unword (I can't help myself)
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
Here, now, summer is synonymous with loneliness,
Scorching heat with empty houses and empty driveways.
In a few hours, your room with a future lost
Out of my own free will,
And the beach we used to frequent will be synonymous with the ghosts of hope and a lover scorned.
I called my uncle today and I almost cried.
His voice is synonymous with love unconditional and pure,
As he half-jokingly admits that he loves me more than my siblings
Because
When I was young and sat on his shoulders and drooled on his hair,
I was synonymous with daughter years before he had his own.
As I text my friends, snort at their jokes and cringe at their mistakes,
I wonder
What am I synonymous with?
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
I'm barefoot in 46 degrees and I must remember that my perception of things must not encapsulate how I truly perceive. Soldered commentary is bleak but is all I've left, all my years have given me and my years have been few.
To be constantly bombarded with the question, "what is it that I really want?" is fervently exhausting and consistently hypocritical and I'm a hack. The conclusion is always that I'm a hack without a win to present or a failure to fall back upon. As a hack, I've left myself with very few plans to alter or hungry mindsets to feed.
After glistening the only thing that remains is to burn out and the thought of extinguishing so prematurely provokes a physical falter and frequent respiratory failure.
Ask your brother if he lingers at times. Ask your sister if sometimes, she means what she says and she should always say no. Ask your friends why you should be anyone's friend and whether or not the chance to swing into hyperbolic criticism ever affects how they make their choices, hoof their steps.
Their answer should always be no and their input should always be invaluable.
Ask yourself if brain power should always be set to alter mind power and ask yourself is alteration is ever even possible. The answer should always be no.
The conclusion to draw should always be his. The choices you make, always expert and ground out by consistent respiratory failure. Ask yourself if you'll always be an animal and when will that stop. Ask yourself if time will determine whether or not this "thing" is worth doing or this "thing" is worth composing. Ask yourself why you're not the young girl who sings soul on the street, whose tremble sets off car alarms and inner requisitioning. The answer will never be the same.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC