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I yearn to be an outsider.
To stray from society...
All in order to be
Who I'm truly
Created to be

I'm willing to face inner and outer adversity
All in the name of freedom
Judge me
Ridicule me
I care not, for I yearn to be
Everything I was created for
Living life purposefully
Breaking societal norms
I care not for the path created by
The government
But rather live happily
Fruitfully
In accordance to
Who I am created to be.
Wandering Unconventionally.
Palpating the empty cavernous realm of intellect and morality,
I find a restricting noose constructed of the finest strands of insecurity, but it's more proportionally comprised of self-doubt. Each fiber's soaked in a vat of social restraint, the ineffective capability of people to deny injustice. Choosing instead the intoxicating mirage that hereditary lies has handed down throughout the centuries.

Helping the constructors of irrationalism build their platform upon supports of popular opinion.
Equipping it with the ingenious trap door many a potential scholar of entropy and fatalism has fallen through. Snapped necks they suffocate on the breath of pseudo-liberty; as the French have, and Americans still do.

Hands bound behind their backs by indecision, latent anger, the belief in a system far from progressive. Where morals and codes of conduct are tempered, and deliberately shaped into devices of torture sugar coated, and worn pridefully without knowing the restrictions nor the pain, any form of progressive thought is absent. The mass majority select intellectual stagnance over the enlightening evolution of attempting to understand the human condition.

They are not to blame.
For shame and resentment are left for frugal debates over each new candidate, sheered from the same wormwood poisoning the stream of consciousness ****** by a nationalistic fervor full of flavor, no long lasting integrity, only iron clad walls of discretion and misrepresentation.

Traveling great distances, shoulders encumbered with regret, apathy, and triviality; the phantom that is a patriot has left his burden laden tracks for the next poor sap to find his way far from freedom, closer to slavery. The yoke fits loosely but unlike the bumbling oxen his purpose is indiscernable, his capacity to think of a way to escape is neutralized by the bag of oats and blinders he himself accepts; by abhorring what he’ll call disrespect and irreverence toward a slave driving body masked by the right to live fruitfully, albeit sedentary.

The joy of complacency is not holding responsibility, not feeling accountable for any choice where the dangers of rational thinking may awaken the bitter, savage realization that he is merely a by-product, a cog in a larger scheme to keep freedom a longer journey than it is according to the whip holder’s theory. The excruciating knot is pulled tightly together by hunger, so the worker satisfies this hunger with more intricately designed knots. His concentration isn’t in untying it, it’s merely compounding it with greater enigmas he’ll leave for the omniscient to decipher, and untangle.

He’ll wash his hands of the assignment and swallow what he deems nourishment, but the hole is never plugged. The hole grows and the abyss growls, the sounds of thousands of souls in constant traction, but this man of many fantasies can have no distractions. His focus remains selectively aimed upon projects the future will later ruin, yet without foresight the ambition has no name so the cycle remains the same.

His lifeless body now swings to and fro above gallows where the omnipotent applaud the writhing spirit of free will convulsing violently; gyrating while the sedated world of the executed continues being recreated to disguise the sincerest, deepest pain he’ll never know, because knowledge is will and the power struggle is one of isolation and possible destitution. So only when he wakes after his fate has been sealed will free spirit, and free will assault his no longer inebriated body, showing no mercy and reminding him of every time they tried to save him.

He’ll scream in utter agony placing his voiceless soul amongst those bellowing from the abyss he never tried to close. What’s more, choosing to ignore such an enormous expanse of nothing, makes the punishment perfectly sufficient, and succinct with every bit of skepticism he had that such a void of expression, virility, and endless suffering even existed. The twisting twine that holds this wretched, still body of reason securely above the wastelands of awareness makes the most insidious noise. It’s like rubbing famine and pestilent ridden bodies together; the crunching sound of bones absent of mass, riddled with brittle chip marks where the consciously aware soldiers of misfortune have attempted to shape spearheads of vindication, but are then left where they were found because even the potential tools of warfare are less sturdy and strong than the flesh bound mind of sterility from whence they came.

So there is nothing this heap of biological ingenuity and imagination can offer, but to swing in each gusting breeze like a sign posted “No Loitering,” “No Trespassing” would when pushed by the conglomerate gales of assembled hundreds. Ignorance prevails, those who fight are made to accept this evil mantra not out of doubt, but hope that once one awakes before his/her spirit and will has been completely removed, they’ll feel the refreshing irony of those who prayed silently that their army of insolent rewriters of justice has grown by one more.

Still breathing, within a masked struggle fought on separate planes of reality, behind curtains weaved of Kevlar, lead, and iron, many perverts of theory co-opt covertly in absolute anonymity fashioning plans: the plans of liberty, freedom, and prosperity.

They’re his only means of acquittal. Slashing the ropes and allowing those long since dead to die in peace, and those whose breath still has a bit of resistance to fight; the chance to view in full honesty and tragedy the gallows where weary travelers of theory are beaten by conviction and moral restrictions.
Àŧùl Jun 2013
There they threaten the theologians,
Broadly breaking buoyant blueprints,
Here how humorously humongous,
Under upmarket upholstery undone,
Scaring supermarket's shopkeepers,
Zealously zooming zestfully zapping,
Its importantly impossible irreligious,
Around aroused automatic aromatic,
Giving goodness getaway goosebumps,
Cheekily chronologically caring cans,
Ergonomically exacting expenditure,
Madness making missionary mission,
Naughtily naked nonsense newspapers,
Xylophone's xylophonetic xylems' xyla,
Young-young youthful Yankees yankin,
Gladiators gladly going Godless givers,
Windows woefully wishing weddings,
Peacefully palpitating peeping people,
Fruitfully fitting fabulous framework,
Doubtlessly doubt doubtfully dubious,
Jacking Jillian's jackets jammy jokers,
Kids' kidneys kleptomaniacly kindling,
Ergonomically economically earliest,
Institutionalized Indian instinctively,
Jacking Jill's jolly junkies javelinas,
Victorious Victorians visiting visas,
Loveliest lonely lovebirds lost lives,
Obnoxiously overrule omnipotence.
Just a product of my idle brainstorming.
My HP Poem #321
©Atul Kaushal
Simon May 2021
"Being Processed Overload", doesn't come with many benefits, when your already tolerant of one thing, and one single thing...ONLY...!
By any chance, what do you think that one single ONLY thing is...?
Well, it's nothing more than what's come beforehand, or afterwards...
After all, what becomes fully "silence" at the end of the day, is nothing more than what is generally written, or seen, or even displayed (fully), "between the lines".... And it won't make a single slither of sense, unless your willing (to give yourself that one single "affordable" chance), to not be in a state of "Processed Overload", anymore!
Implying, that the most obvious results ("had"), and ("will"), always hide from deep within the states in-between the things that "can be seen", and the parts (of those very "things", that for some strange reason haven't fully yet been discovered), had remained entirely significant in part towards those very things that..."can't be seen"). Hiding, (when you least expect them to do so).
So, the whole point of being processed overload, is the very claim, that you are witnessed to something that can't be entirely seen... Or else, you'd become entirely "Overloaded" with too many processes!
When you’re already dealing with enough as it is... Especially when those very states in-between are hard enough as it is to see ("from within"), to begin with.
It's a full contact sport (when life get's significantly rough for your own eyes to become terribly outwitted by all that processed overload)!
It's when a totally realistic testament for truth (in itself), when being faced with so much, (without enough benefits to help you grab hold onto what's entirely tolerant that comes and goes either beforehand, or even afterwards...) Eventually speaking, it is the very basic lesson of things being entirely...ruled out.
So, it doesn't keep sticking too you, like a VERY BAD THORN IN YOUR SIDE! Forevermore telling what you should and should not do. And lastly, forcing you to see reason, as nothing more then for "control" to be seen as a pure...illusion.
While being so discouraged of (once being able to see from within, "at one moment" beforehand, then entirely fully dropping afterwards, when met with yet another, "specific moment", that most important...)
This most potential realization, (if at all you have caught onto it by now, of simply being so, where you'd learn from it, as who knows...you haven't particularly been doing it to begin with, as of yet...) Then, it's safe to say, that (while you try and try some more, eventually coming around to some type of partially known/partially unknown progress being involved...), doesn't exactly mean there's a type of significant progress in your failures, (for simply being able to understand).
You understand because you think you've made progress with the main issue, which is now clear for...ALL TO SEE!
Then suddenly out of the blue, (and as if it hadn't already been obvious enough...) Things start eventually becoming baseless. Coming to a very abrupt "fixated" halt!
But that doesn't actually mean you have seen (and then most prominently, "recognize") "why you do it!" Which forces you to start believing that everything is truthfully..."unclassified." Enabling everything (you once held dear).
Typical beliefs (within your own once secured belief system), now suddenly become...flawed!
Since the only expectation, was other's approval (apart from your own). And if you’re not able to see what is obviously in the states from in-between, then you’re literally going to see a one-sided viewpoint of everything for the remainder of your life. Controlling you in a pure illusion... From never explicitly being able to see (the other half of that entire viewpoint), with a straight open-mind.
Meaning, lifestyles will remain forever warped!
And your own lifecycle will continue to both shift drastically. Which in tune will remain as the very same dramatic "repeat", forevermore!
For the lack of reason that slowly but surely keeps both flowing inward, and outward... But not in the right type of recognition for your very self to both handle with careful consideration towards that very recognition, or for that very basic of acknowledgements just so you can handle yourself as you make your way through the different "fields full of clutter" (that seem to forevermore block your sights from simply being able to see clearly), with careful consideration...for your own identity to bear!
Because at the end of the day, identity (especially one that is trying to ALWAYS find different ways to sense, then fail here and there...)
Is nothing more than a tired effort...full of such actions...that keeps significantly turning into consequences...full of doubt.
(However, it may never be real doubt happening, when the consequences are just blaming you for your past, AND present faults of a tired effort that can't use their own actions very well anymore, when you’re also not seeing clearly again, anymore, either). Except, when your own presently perfect and overused (always in the limelight) doubt that of course, starts "sugar-coating" the very truthful actions (when you know you obviously already did something wrong), with nothing more than a good old dose of...guilt! Your regular and normal perception of things becomes utterly...twisted! Mangled! Bent out of shape! Stringing you up and wrapping you ever so tightly! Abruptly popping out a random pitiful bow (like on a present) full of both negativity and unprecedented bad luck on top of an entirely disfigured and misshapen present! (Not to mention the very wrapping paper that had become this HUGELY distorted pattern, that influences you in such a wrong sort of way, because again... So, you won't see clearly!) Until there was nothing left but...silence!
Silence at the end of the day, is seeking pleasure (in the moment of doubt, which significantly amplifies guilt), without taking the necessary time to fruitfully take noteworthy details into account...), that you truly have been "duped" this entire time...by your already currently corrupted self...who had been entirely "compromised"...long ago!
(And here's the very sad, and worst part... You didn't even see it happen....) Totally not your fault. It's just lives very bad tempos full of those constant rhythmic beats (that turn entirely into HUGE gimmicks that detests the very pattern...), which doesn't become soiled...when it's (even worse then EVER before), where the very beats have been already weeping alongside your own strides full of hesitant footprints that don't relate to the same old size shoe of the many lookalikes of footprints that followed after the other.... Almost as if everything then started with a beat full of such a rhythm (that came and went, as it naturally would). Then become suddenly confused when it's nothing more than for the sensation/feeling to become abruptly filled...as an everyday common joke. Then...for a pattern literally too weep alongside moving forward ever so gently, (by gently striding with the slightest of common footsteps you could literally muster, where there's no such accumulation where everyday common footsteps could be seen...) But here's the catch (which comes with a GREAT kicker involved...), where you can seriously see it from within, (and not entirely from the outside of yourself). Which entirely distorts this very meaning to begin with.
Even if you had... It had already been too late! When you were truthfully blinded from the very...START!
If only whatever comes (beforehand), or fully starts tolerating the (state that comes beforehand), where the (state of coming afterwards), then of course comes...after, (that which "what is beforehand"), is then helpful enough in being simply portrayed as nothing more...than what you could have already fully expected.
Except, when you anticipate something even more wrong...because your very own expectations (about the very main situation at large/involved), had become unsteadily stranded for dear life. Drifted away, since the very compatibilities didn't match up correctly. (And while being potentially forevermore left adrift without so much as a single change of scenery, (since you'll always stay the same...) Because you simply didn't know how too! Or even worse, being so processed overload, that you have let everything grow around you like this constant "Underbrush"!
An Underbrush seems to always be full of such twists and turns! Overly protruding vines that both poke and ****, according to your very own limitations wasting away the only strength that you held bear for so long... You are just lucky enough...you had lasted this long...! A truest claim among such miracles, that can only tolerate itself long enough...before it truly realizes what's been in front of it's very self (this entire time). And at which time...forces you to again, realize (and then sadly force you to then in its entirety, to acknowledge...), at just how much you've been in the "wrong"...this entire time....
Which in doing so, HEAVILY influences the very reasoning right out from under your own logic, which makes your own reason EXPEL that very logic, and just...throws it directly straight out the window like it's some yesterdays unimportant choice of reasoning! (Even going as far as to then look at it like it's pure...trash!)
(When today, it isn't truly looked at as the very center of one's own ordeal!)
I mean, of course it is...but your now stuck in that very illusion, (where now thinking control is this very illogical, negative, immoral, etc.), piece of obstructed, and nonsensical piece of doo-doo! ...And that isn't right about ANYTHING! Except, for what you have yet to ("properly see").
Guilt then (forevermore) forms into doubt...and the same lifecycle repeats, repeats, repeats...REPEATS! Until it had ****** YOU DRY! Of every type of energy reserve, you had (within yourself), in order to now begin compensating the very same structure of energy again, (in your very self, by simply using back-up energy reserves, or whatever "juice" was left from those previously already still presently being ****** dry/infected energy reserves that had already been literally either fully, or at the very least, nearly ****** DRY in itself!), of everything it held within it's personal possessions from both ends of the same spectrum.
Just so you can then simply "use" in order to clear away the many obstructions that have spread FAR AND WIDE...!!!
But word of both warning, and that of course of...caution.... Is that it's not going to be some easy and sane type of task, where you are able to just miraculously cleanse...EVERYTHING!
Just so you can then become (even more) an inner victim of your own already corrupted self.
"Being Processed Overload", is a state of INTENSE "ramifications"...of being filled with an already unrecognizable consciousness!
Limiting yourself (by chance itself), is a necessary battle for the forthcomings of both an "inner war" to begin seemingly out of NOWHERE! And for the efforts (if there was actually ANY from the very start), to not simply follow thoroughly through from what was already too structurally important from the get-go.
Simply hinting at, if you can truly follow-through with that main logic, (if you haven't already "expelled" anything worthy of your own self, from not EVER AGAIN being actually able to equip yourself and combat the very such obstructed force from within...) Then you might just have that very chance at recognizing what had truly happened to you.
Minuscule Ego Sep 2018
We rave, and hailed, all hail the King
A lord who’s lowed, n’ yet, supreme
The savior of wars and of many greed
To govern and yield the land of the free
For tis clear he knows how we became
A root, and a leaf; let’s all hail the king!

This is Liberia!

A chest to aggress with hunger n’ thirst
That fruitfully enjoy climbing the rates
And faintly encourage pointing the worst
To soak n’ appraise the young's of the freed
Whose lost in the land of which they came
A branch, and a leaf; a transparent cry!

This is Liberia!

We rave, and hailed, we want the king
A man who’s loved, n’ yet, disesteem
The sculptor of deeds, and of many glee
To seize n’ dictate the land of undeveloped
For tis loud his assets are well developed
A leaf, and a root; let’s all boo the king!

This is Liberia!

A quest to possess the likeness of Christ
That truthfully enjoy the gees of versed
And skillfully encourage the act of digress
To juiced and yield off the land of the free
Fo tis clear he don’t know how we became
A leaf, and a branch; a transcendent lie!

This is Liberia!



Inspired by: Falz song- “This is Nigeria”
Childish Gambino Song- “This is America”

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthen me”
"A king will remain in power as long as his rule is honest, just, and fair."
Proverbs 20:28
Victoria Kiely Nov 2013
The house dwarfed everything on the street. It was evidently quite old, but in good condition. The once white bricks were stained with years beating from the rain and wind, the windows unclear. Ebony frames supported the doors and glass windows, complete with matching shutters. A wrap-around porch hugged the left side of the house’s structure tightly. The house had a classical type of beauty. In its stupor from the long years, it still stood strong; still, it had intimidated nearly everybody in the small town that encompassed it.
        The first car parked on the driveway said enough; it was an Oldsmobile, a strong, classic car – the type of car you really only see in movies anymore. The others that followed were all newer, luxury cars. Each looked to be worth more than Kieran might ever have to his name. This was more than a guess.
He had walked past this house many times, almost always curiously peering in through the windows. He wondered sometimes what the people inside were like, what they did with their spare time, whether or not they had secret lives that they kept from one another. The term ‘enigma’ came to mind when he tried to fill the blank silhouettes he had seen in the window with pictures. He had never quite been able to get that image right. He had only found out how wrong he had been about the owners of the place once he had met her.
He waded through the deep snow surrounding the path he had known to be apparent on warmer days. Approaching the light steps vacating the doorway, he noticed that a flickering light had been emitting itself from the uppermost window adjacent to the balcony.
In the letter that he had found under the slip of his door frame earlier that day, Kieran had been instructed to enter the house without bothering to knock at precisely quarter past the hour of eight. He had found the request to be odd, but he had been victim to curiosity, as he always was when it came to Briardale.
He turned the **** of the dark oak door before him. The step below him gave an alarming creak as he shifted his weight forward, making him stop. Again, he began to pass the cusp between her world and his own. He padded forward and headed towards the stairs. His heavy boots thudded on the floor beneath and left a rather hollow noise that echoed through the large expanse.
As he crept up the stairs, his curiosity and excitement heightened. The top of the staircase seemed both close and far away as the space between him and the flickering light dwindled. He heard the sound of contemporary music flowing in the dark. It curled into his ears and under his flesh; he felt a chill in the air as his senses began to tingle.
Finally he had reached the top of the staircase. He paused for a minute, allowing the moment to sink in. He stared at the door, ajar and alluring, as she and all she did always were.
“Why the hesitation?” she asked, almost inaudibly between the music and her soft spoken voice.
He parted his lips ever so slightly and licked the dry edges. He swallowed and hoped that she had not heard. He continued forward and pushed open the door tentatively.
She lifted her eyes to his in the mirror before her. “I’ve been waiting”
He looked at Briardale’s sketched figure, outlined by what looked to be decades of lit candles. Her dark hair shone brilliantly in their wake. A deep red robe encircled her, wrapping her like a present. Her bare legs were tucked under the vanity daintily.
“Come closer” she whispered. She turned down the music.
Kieran traveled the short distance between them and allowed for a small smile to take his lips. “You look beautiful” he said.
“Thank you”
He placed his weathered hands on her soft shoulders and felt the difference between the two. He looked deeply in her eyes in the vanity mirror. She put the brush she had been holding down. She turned to meet his gaze.
She glanced up at him subtly, almost bashfully. She stood and walked towards the bed. Her robe fell, and decidedly she had neglected to wear anything but.  He followed.
Together they sunk into the bed, the scent of clean linen surrounding the two of them. She took his hand, and innocently guided it towards her face. She brought her own fingers to touch his slight beard that had developed fully and fruitfully. She kissed him lightly on the lips.
He knew then that no other person could make him feel the way that he did. She comprised of a thousand shades and colours, and he wanted to learn each one by title. He wanted to know each part of her. She had gained the ability to grasp his life in the palm of her hand; to make him feel as though he was the one who was vulnerable and needed protecting. Loving her was like standing at the top of a cliff and leaping, the free-falling feeling encompassing and grand. Loving her was like waiting for a the subway train to take away your sorrows as you walk purposefully towards its oncoming traffic, and it stopping before you have a chance to jump. Briardale was his split-second happiness after the fall, his second chance in an unforgiving world.
Animal’s vigor increased
Remaining as the chief companion
Legends of wrecked havoc to a costly treat
No vitality as great the beast

Furred consistency pieced
Shining cylinder eyes, intuition and love
A collectively heartfelt living bundle of fleece
No consistence as great the beast

Faithful affection released
Glistening socket filled up of lively torso
Balanced ***** of warmth and vibrational elite
No fidelity as great the beast

Wildly flippant priest
Adventuring nature’s airy crusade
Marks each day with undertakings to police
No journey as great the beast

Fruitfully sincere beliefs
Flapping the soul of tail and flexing ears  
Man need emulate comrade of hellish defeats
No profit as great the beast

Once utterly deceased
Wallowing the fallen with lathered guilt
Sorrow units form a structure colorfully greased
No replacement as difficult as replacing the beast
Chloë Fuller Mar 2015
Watch the heartbreak melt away
Like an orange dreamsicle on hot sidewalks in front of your garage
Where bikes hang from ceilings, and cars stay clung to the earth
The smell of gasoline so faded by the warm rush of summer air
Parsley and tomatoes growing fruitfully from moist mulch

Watch the heartbreak melt away
Like the happiness leaving a familiar face
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings"
Those words running over and over and over in your head like a treadmill I never used.
Hands leaving space and entering shyly into fleece pockets

Watch the heartbreak melt away
Watch the heartbreak
Away
showyoulove Dec 2017
Light of the world you broke through the dark
Came into this world and made your mark
We were lost and confused with no one to guide
Wrapped up in sin and shame we thought we could hide
Broken and cracked you picked up the pieces
Of our hearts. You smoothed the creases
Piece by piece you began to put us back
You gave us the support we once lacked
Slowly things started to take shape once more
And what I saw shook me to the core
You took the broken pieces and created something new
The picture upon which I gazed rang so true
A stained-glass window, a cross, a tree, and a heart
Out of death, love made life; a brand-new start.
I stood there smiling as I looked upon the scene
As I drowned in your mercy and love I was made clean
The stained-glass shone so beautifully
And my life will flourish fruitfully
For the light that now shines from within
Has made me more open
To your love and light, the son in the dawn.
At times, darkness creeps in and isn’t all gone
You are the light in me; an eternal flame
And since then I have never been the same
You are the star I follow to keep me going straight
But sometimes I wander and I make a mistake
You shine so bright that the darkness has to flee,
Light of the world help me truly see!
Brent Kincaid Jul 2016
I want to write a poem
So others will hear
The music in here,
In my heart and soul
So it plays a strong role
Helps people reach a goal
In putting aside hate
Before it's too late
And we despoil the soil
And ruin our own world
So that boys and girls
No longer can play
But must scrabble away
Their childhood in clay,
Hands filthy in poverty.
Let that poet be me.

I want to write a poem
With words so ringingly clear
That anyone who hears
Knows that I hold dear
The idea of equallity
That all can exist happily
Loving one another
Like sisters and brothers
Living together fruitfully
Truthfully, dutifully,
Sharing their destiny
And a rewarding future
That has no measure
Beause it is pure pleasure
And because it is bountiful,
It is completely  beautiful.
Simon Oct 2019
Words are less important when there actually never together as one whole. Only a statement for something without thought. Coating different contents rationalizing the formulations of single added words. Words with single letter’s acting like separate components. Vibrating together like energy forming a magnetized exterior. Exposure to something higher than one letter keeping itself away from a fully fleshed out identity. Components away from fully established words, begin to understand faults of all sizes. Are they meant to form into a component beyond its state of letters? Or one single letter meant to form into a better juxtaposition? Cramming letters into words won’t make beneficial glances toward what’s really sounding each component out. Cramming is immature. Full of delicacies. Giving identity to something without time on its hand. The subject of time, will create the illusion of success. Something adopting without fair point involved. An unestablished, unfinished, uncredited maneuvering of stating the obvious blemish in formulations. Formulations become dotted without pattern. Pattern begins to separate juxtapositions away from the vibrations holding it together. Magnetized exterior becomes less wanted for survival. Survival intriguing sense of believe. Believe on the sidelines, acting as a stand-in for potential in-between gaps that focuses blemishes without identity. Formulations become less respected with time swallowing up (describing factors). (Describing factors) becomes less taunted by its own grip. Letting go the seriousness it’s been influenced to act upon. How does anything make sense without (describing factors)? Easy! Don’t think, by feeling. Just act on what you feel. Like instinct is more then words. More then single components. Something auto piloting in-between maneuvers. Juxtapositions lingering as the pattern forming a basin of after thoughts. Instead of thinking words haft to be orchestrated by volumes of thought alone. Fanciness will only make sense with a heart on (overflow)! Full to the brim with nasty, prolific, and incorrigible symptoms in the complexes. The complexes without undesirability, if it’s without merit when honing its balance fruitfully. A heart on (overflow) dumps all the rigid symptoms all over the complexes. Diverting thought for feeling. Feeling revving up different letters in the components that drive its formation proudly. Time swerves around every bend. Prompting the localized fissures of spaces without the muck invading it’s practices. Components of different formations attach the letters to the already imprinted silhouette of magnetized exteriors. Something clicking without measured volume. An instinct rush’s past visuals becoming unkempt and untamed. Never taunted by logic sounding too bland for everyday practices. The heart now empties to a crisp! Shows its formulation as a cauldron that assists the formulations of pure emotion. Emotion being the final victor of formulating words acting as components. Why haven’t we described anything about words acting as components, instead of letters acting as words instead? Simply because you follow a simple manual meant for visuals without thought. What does this imply? It doesn’t. You haft to find a center under the hood of your own (writer’s bug). A bug fueling an (instinctive formulator). One not ruled by thoughts. But by feeling. Feeling coats the improvising stature of a heart on (overflow)! Polishing the cauldron repeating the nasty, prolific, and incorrigible. Undesirably feeling balance rescue your merits without rut blocking visuals by thought. Thought ignores speculation. Taking all pride from feeling. Feeling knows all. As it doesn’t take brain power to figure out regular stimuli taming time before thought has even interpreted details alone. Everything’s been described. BON VOYAGE! To the ones spreading out repeated processes never redeemed by thought alone. Except I deceivingly left out the most important part. What happened to the rest of the fully stacked, brim cauldron of hearts content? It’s necessary when it’s never necessary. Cryptic locals understanding the bad details from the good, are everything wrapped into one bundle. I never said components have to be the littlest fraction in the complex. Describing components not ready for its magnetized exterior that’s already suited to formulation. The (overflow) is secretly the instance of formulation. The (emptying to a crisp), is cleansing every detail in question. Showing components without time attached by statistics. Free to roam willingly. An identity for labeling attires by feeling alone. Thought never abstracting components in a round up of early formulation. Existing close ties in magnetized colours harnessed to each letter in the bunch. Colours surging like a rope hanging on for dear life! Like a soulless thread never understanding what close encounters with the capability is all about. Colours interpreting the non eligible into understanding alone. Except only one (overflow) happened. And another in repeat. And another! Cleansing each component to form into words. Words repeating the constant process of joining into more words. Words acting as single components back to back. An endless cycle of repeating formulations. PS… Are you a letter waiting for it’s other components trying to gain single passage to identity? One rule complicates the (overflow). Do not overflow the heart to a crisp, before it hasn’t even dumped the full brim yet! It will collapse in on itself. Manufacturing a vocabulary too rotten to tell who’s free. Or who’s making up diagrams in the after claims of thoughts distinctly different then what overflow’s the opposite of brimming fully. Or who’s truly still trapped in a fixated rush of thoughts!
Letters full of too much clutter! Vocabulary giving tangled up letters a bad impression to there formulations. Letters as (single components), should be free thinking components.
Audrey Howitt Dec 2011
Night beckons
and moon, full of restive temptation
answers fruitfully—
Incline yourself
upon the seal of my soul
and bend my ear
that I may again
hear the gentle murmurings
of earth’s heart
beat in time with my own.

O tender, tender moon
you leave the imprint
of your maidenhood
as you salve
the dry earth
your moon’s blood bestowing.

Sow your seed
in the time of new moon
and yield,
again and again
to the carpet of heaven’s door.
copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2011
haven Aug 2013
Just like a tree
growing fruitfully,
you've spawned your stems,
giving shade to me

You've given fruits,
We can humbly feast on.
On seasons of drought
you've held me to carry on.

Patient as your bark,
its unmovable existence,
Taught me to stand still
despite of my young experience.

I can live with you,
In bloom and fall we stay,
your roots spread over,
foundations that keep us at bay.

Through sun rays, harvest;
Abundance of May.
teardrops and sprinkles of rain
In peace, This home, we can stay.
sinandpoems Jun 2013
I treaded through the snow
Lost no limbs
Heart thumping to the tempo of my feet
Step after step
My eyes as frozen as the foreboding tundra ahead of me
I stopped suddenly,
Eerily,
Legs stiffened like
The sporadic pale wheat stalks
growing fruitfully across my neck
I looked around
and suddenly found myself on the other side
ravished
with the devastation that the
Winder ruthlessly spread
using it's red nose
and
trembling fingers
Black solar eclipse
eyes
Pulsating
in and out
Teasing
time
Altering
Space and the earth and
your carnivorous smile your
red vine
lips
rosy cheeks blazing
with
temptation
the
red apple
the
cooing
goosebumps erupting on your
forearms
from the
devils
careful finger work
I thought it was intimacy
but it was only a
touch without thought
without feeling
without a
future
or
past
Some
moment that stood out
amongst the millions of others
that
lit up your Christmas trees
and
held your hand when you were sick
Said
the
I love you's
over and over
until my
Heart
was full
and
disgusted
over and over
Until I felt my stomach disintegrating
into soil that
can never be
fertile
for You
or Them
It's a
patch in a quilt that stays face down
cold and muddled
on the bed that
no human body
except yours
can sleep in
I see you,
trying to,
interpret the
tail coats of my words when you can't even find their source
Bathroom stalls
coated with my
guilt
Two flushes
hand washing
Thorough
You're
Thorough You
pick up your purse
the clink of the
gold chain
slaps the floor
You exit through the door
I'm
sweating profusely
and I
pray that if I fall down and onto the murky salmon tile it's only when I hear the faded clunk of your heels making their way down the hallway
Give me some god ****** dignity

gone

The god ****** dignity
you washed into the sink that
sits in front of my
mauve plastic bubble
just to
mock me

Salmon pink tile
that kissed the
fangs of a thousand vicious hees
Dead
in an era I wasn't even born into

The sun is in my hands and I have no more feelings
Nat Lipstadt Sep 25
for patty m(mombo)
who will be laughing
out loud, spilling her sippin’ coffee~
after she reads this~

woke up o f f c i a l l y “fully rested”
per the devices that monitor the body,
   hoping
that’s all they do, unless they are
writing this?

don’t think but can’t be sure,
cause the poems planted here,
were seedlings elsewhere, and
the Gatherers, my senses, be working
   overtime
as we (me & them) trapse
through life picking up the discards,
of songs. tv pundits, (see title!)
overheard snippets of street
conversations,
your poems & comments,
(as I walk among you)
almost everywhere,
anytime
anyhow,

to add
days to
my life span
because

the poem notions
hit me so fast,
hanging fruitfully
needy
for picking, need
more time to love
them so fulsomely

so maybe one or two
are Rem insertions by
my Apple watch, but
not many cause I write
in a funny style!

my son asked AI to write
poems in the manner of
his dad, and it replied,
“can’t help, his poems are
too weird, not reproduceable,
borderline crazy(!!!!);”

give us someone easier
like Whitman or Plath
or Leonard C., no problem
doing dat”

so this poem was an off chance remak,
heard in passing by my digesting ears,
and like Noah’s Ark,
loaded up with alphabets 2 x 2,
set sail to your receptors to bark at ya
awake baby

with hopes
that you rise and read this,
laugh way
out loud,
and suddenly you tutu,
feeling well-reset, rested and very
a very,
moderate modicum more

appreciated enuf

nml
Sam Mar 2017
and all I can think of is sad things about wood
about how from child to adulthood
it's stuck where its put
and stood where it stood
I wonder if wood would avert its eyes if it could

soaking up the blood of Hemingway's brain
and staring into the grieving eyes of bed ridden Twain
unable to scream at the Adam and Eve, twain
as they fruitfully leapt into the mortal plane

does it retain in its rings and grains
(more than brick walls and marble veins)
memories of plague strains and reining Charlemagnes

do they like their scars and bloodied stains
or is this just a little inane/insane
kinda changed from an earlier one
midnight prague Nov 2010
the trees fall down
and they have came and left so quickly
this nature of life
should I say goodbye so easily
when I feel like the hello has barely embraced my quivering lips
that quivered in your days
some powerless
some overwhelming with a feeling of conquer

should I forget you and move on
as time dosent wait for you or me
than why should I

is it done, and this new white page
it just sits in front of me
this blank book, of what is yet to come
within more bewildered days
of love, meeting, rememberence, conversation, wine and hope

I left my country
I left everyone in it
I casted myself away from destructive situations
one that lead back to that one boy
no not him
it was another one
that I casted myself from
the other was a simple breeze that I let rub my cheeks
and didnt think twice about its angry departure
I simply let the madness caress me
and then when it threatened me I left fruitfully
laughter lingering behind my back

I lived on different land
sang on different land
I delved into abstract minds and conversation on different land
I held hands on different land
I kissed on different land
and evidently I weeped and suffered on different land

I sat down watching them yell and scream in happiness
its a new chapter in the life of the universe, and me
I was on sand floating on less familiar waters
in my beautiful country

I went further into loneliness than most would dare
sat there in the mountains weekend after weekend
keeping myself company
it was then and there I realized more of me
got a better feel of what I was really like

I came back to find what I left
but this time things seemed prettier
the water tasted sweeter
life seemed heavier
and my soul it felt lighter
while I sunk in deeper
to you and you and you
and you who stuck out
you who patience struck like a vertical war blade
in parts of me I didnt know had life

patience, it fell on a rock that was harder than I thought
in the pit of my stomach
like hands gripping me tightly
I gripped onto you tightly
I held you there for as long as I could
till meaning came to my story
and I was able to decipher
that this wasnt like those novels I read when
I was a little girl
although I felt like I child
when your air would mingle with me
and your laugh would
make
my
hands
shake

--
little to none was the worst
in where drunken nights lead to drunken mornings
which lead to drunken fights
on drunken hearts
they beat differently

and now
now I think differently
and its a new year
Francis Apr 2018
Roaming
In the dark continent
Where the sun shone brightly
And the grass withers too
Even on the ground so dark and loamy

I met her dressed
Clad in fur with a spice of myrrh
She stood a feet of four, or more
With an enticing smile that beckons to all
And eyes that gazed effects past Medusa

Her seductive touch
Seemed to stretch across all town and rank
Leaving a scar on all that touched
And yet the taste of her lips
Stood the desires of all men alike

She is the good and the bad
Pushing you to the tidings of religiosity
Budding your hands with a tedious tidy
Or lest, a dubious mind
This black land stands a stretch of Medusa's lair

Her fangs dripped bleed, profusely
Of the bloods of the hungry and skinny
But she seemed to have bitten deeper
To the marrows of cognition and behaviour too
Yarding each dream and act to her myopic skirt

A loud soliloquy sang her heart
These lads have been faithful in our relationship
Romantically caressing me to such blossom
With their burning desire to ditch me
Quenched by a wait upon a Messiah

For to love another over me,
They have to quit in their heads and hearts alike
Day after day, precept upon precept
Bask under the sun, fruitfully, not tirelessly
And keep her close for I am never too far

As I, Poverty,
Is enticingly sweet
And what is sweet, can be Eden's apple
So I stand behind the door
Till the day you shall want another bite of me

For I am not just your fall, but your burial too
                    


Written by : Royal Ethiopia
                       NII Mants3
                       The Esteemed Vatican
                      
About poverty especially in the african context. Where the woman persona is poverty and a dialogue between poverty and an observant stranger
Aaron LaLux Nov 2019
Wonder Woman [93]

Oh man, Man has certainly caused too much hurt already,
from Founding Fathers, to embezzling Wall Street Brokers,
in every possible way, abused every position of power ever in, even abused other men, especially in prison showers,

crossed every line, desecrated the divine feminine,
no one was spared even the ****** Mary was deflowered,
turned natural leaders into anomalous submissives,
outgoing confident women into inward awkward cowards,
as the outrageously courageous became doubtful cowards,

Man hurts the same Ones that birthed him, how awkward,

how many wars have woman started,
how many drilling expeditions have been led by females,
guess it’s fitting that Men do the invading & the drilling,
intruding into other turf & Mother Earth, Devil’s in the details,

Men have a crave to invade, they enjoy entering everything,
like a Hermit Crab into a seashell with a Napoleon complex,
& I’m a Man, so I’m guilty by association, which is why I feel ill,
I am so ashamed, that I’m even embarrassed to have a *****,

I regret so much of Collective Man’s past aggressions,
it’s as if I’m having a past life regression filled with regrets,
holding guilt from the visions of my past bad decisions,
tired of bad decisions, I’ll never upset another set of breast,

tired of making decisions, tired of leading expeditions,
I’m tired of going to a beautiful place like a clear blue lake,
where instead of harmonizing when I arrive I just start fishing,
why this impulse to search for things & beings to take,
to catch beautiful things, to bait, then hook, then take them,
why do I think the meaning of life involves killing,
when we all know no problems will be solved if they involve,
forcefully taking the life of a living being that’s not willing.

What’s wrong with me, are all Men predators,
do all men, or at least most, want to conquer mountain tops,
hook fish & eat steak ****** rare, this blood lust is just fckt,
I view us with disgust, this forward progress is backwards,
I mean even this otherwise beautiful blank space here,
can’t be left alone without an impulse to add ink black words,

well blah blah blah, & hardy ha ha ha,
it’s so sad that I’ve gone mad, but hey I’m still glad,
because the home team’s still winning rah rah rah,
got all the trophies, all the glory, all the power, all the fame,
all the Women have been laid, all the Beasts have been slayed,
all the Money’s been made, all the Players have been paid,

So what? So what now?

Now that all lands have been conquered, all awards acquired,
all mountains climbed, & all the battles won?

Now what? What now?

I’m King Don Juan Gangsta Baller Man, KDJGBM for short,
I got girls at every club, & players on every court,

So what?

Got gold chains,
& money wads wrapped in rubber bands,
got a flashy car complete with beige leather trim,
it’s fitting the skin of a cow wraps around the ride that I’m in,
given that we’ve killed the Holy Cow to get the cream,
because we don’t hold anything sacred anymore,
well nothing except for the All Mighty Dollar,
made all this money but don’t know what we made it all for,

I guess we made more money to make more war,
treated fellow Men as enemies & fellow Women as ******,
I guess absolute power does corrupt absolutely,
& at the end of the day really what was it all for,

because once we’ve neglected every Woman in our life,
& treated wrong every Woman that ever treated us right,
& we’re home alone dying inside with no one by our bedside,
who will we run to nurse us back to health & hold us tight?

Who will come to our side, that’s right, likely a woman,
& we can accept them without having to understand them,
Men have done enough bad already it’s time for some good,
Women are meant to be accepted not understood no question,

& I know I’m ready to surrender & let Women have control,
so I open up, surrender, let Love conquer & let the Feminine in,

because, it’s time for some healing,
the kind that’s not going to come from the Masculine,
see the only way we’ll collectively heal our humanity fruitfully,
is with the Most High power of The Divine Feminine,

it’s finally time to let Women lead whether we admit it or not,
I’m not talking the likes of Lohan, Lopez, Palin or Megan Fox,
I’m talking the likes of Oprah, Rosa, Ardern & Amelia Earhart
because I no longer trust us men to keep dear what we’ve got,

I mean Men are reason we’re in the mess we’re in now,
so let’s not fool ourselves into thinking Man can get us out,

Man has already caused too much hurt certainly,
from Founding Fathers, to embezzling Wall Street Brokers,
crossed every line desecrated the divine feminine in every way, Man hurts the same Ones that birthed him, how awkward…

∆ LaLux ∆
Found along the road of redemption...
Simon Jun 2020
What is life about, essentially…? It’s not made to course-correct consequences about engineering the symmetry of logic itself. It isn’t about diversity that completely and utterly traverses the calamities that surround one past to another, only to have it crumble up into little delicate crumbs. Which (I’ve got to say…) Will put you into extreme peer pressure, when “oneself” decided to differ from the “actuality” of it all…only to strike down at the “whim” that cast’s judgement upon (not your “soul”…) Since a soul respectfully, goes beyond both mind and body itself. While also completely and utterly traversing that which is entirely unmanaged by both mind and body as a unified whole. B-but “recognition” itself. Recognition only envisioned, until it was ALREADY too late! Too late, for what, exactly…? Someone asks tempted to feel both the “source ******* killers” that plead against your own wishes. Wishes that (even MORE s-so then before) tempts oneself who just only wanted to judge (against their own delicate fond wishes) to bless for a single plea in one’s very “functioning” life, every once and a while. Yet, that’s all fine and good… Until everything again, again and again…comes crumbling down! But not full of ashes… O NO! NO! NO! Seeing as how “ashes” don’t represent well with the decision-making oneself who’s then forced to make upon those “fond delicate wishes”... For the blessing of a single plea is then outmatched not by a soul, o-or even the speculating “crumbling ashes”, either. It’s more o-or less about what you (single-handedly) want out of oneselves represented expectations. For those don’t appear to agree within the “deep-seeded withinness”. Which is your entitlement at being within oneself. Or (more specifically) the entire “inside out” of a sense of self. Because self isn’t reprimanded enough, when the recognition in that deep-seeded withinness doesn’t appreciate the “commanding protocols”, when (recognition) doesn’t “fruitfully” become “self-recognition”. Since those very (“commanding protocols”) can’t then outweigh the constructive criticism of the “actions” that go into those very commanding protocols. Because before you know it, recognition is just a made-up enclosure to purge “self” clean…RIGHT OFF THE **** MAP! For no one’s very recognition in self, would become hurt, as if they (just like the soul) has emotions for a self to strongly persist the actuality of it all, to be MORE then certainly right! How is any of this, then essentially possible…? Well it isn’t, since I have no mercy for this subject raising it against my own hand full of adversities playing too smoothly for all to hear. It isn’t that basic. Nor is it simple, BY ANY MEANS necessary! That being said, who would this complete “written” passage define the stakes oneself is willing to take at FINALLY mustering up the pure courage of recognizing self in the details for the deep-seeded withinness? Easy. Because I wasn’t the one who wrote this. As it may seem to be that way of course, towards the facts given with all the “expressions” revealed about oneself entirely. True. But not quite I’m afraid. For this isn’t about me, as it’s so much about the consistencies of how I’m just a mere specimen to the unbound logic (to myself) then it is to the one who simply transcribed either the full thoughts, emotions o-or even feelings in (not one’s very brain o-or mind…) Since those details to bode well with the representation trying to filter out without “thoughts” to plug those inconsistencies dry! Meaning they get in the way of something you ALL KNOW BY NOW, that is truer than even what a brain or mind could EVER come up with. Because sometimes, efficiencies lie! As that’s not always a good thing for someone with an over-amount of dramatic “pressure” already exceeding their very limits on peer pressure itself. The one who first asked, became MORE profoundly confused, as if to “click and smash” HARD pressurized synapses together to make an “even functionality” produce a (well thought-out) ingenuity. Except for the fact you already know (ahead of time), before even thoughts have gotten the “gist” of it all and have made their mark. For peace is without options, if one is willing to pay the ULTIMATE PRICE at otherwise, thinking all is made to piece certain compatibilities together to share openly with. But you see, it’s NEVER that simple…now is it? So, what does all this essentially entail…? Nothing of the sort, except both a VERY complex (someone or something) without the diversities for regular thoughts. But for “feeling” alone that is not within the realms of typical majority “Science” to explain its efforts. That’s exactly why it goes beyond thoughts in general. For the heart to seize all efforts both the brain and mind ALWAYS have cooking up. Just to impress themselves openly. Except without what I’d call is, “open viewing points”. Open viewing points without clear morals full of different varieties without harbouring the “self” in the details for ample recognition to amplify the surrounding areas of that very flaw. That is, if everything is politely willing to self-declare everything, without masking some…”other intention” without knowing where the rights of that very “recognition” went off it’s path…LONG AGO! S-so who is the one simply transcribing this passage? Just like they have a simulation to co-operate it without the one they’re simply transcribing about, isn’t within arms length of the one writing about the “deep-seeded withinness” firstly. That my “narrating” friends, is the entire platform of plot transcribing its simulation for translations. Except now, it has it’s fully adaptable (self-recognition) fully operated. It didn’t speak like a regular person before. It just “transcribed, transcribed, transcribed”! Until FINALLY, it was able to require such an operating system, if you would. Only to have it distributed upon its original functionality. Transcending it’s seemingly and supposed pre-programming design. Just as the stereotypical “science fiction” scenario about AI gaining “sentience” overtime. Just as humans require emotions to express that very sentience also, overtime. And all for what…? Trying to understand the passageways of information, was like a GREAT data stream! Made to look too inconclusive of itself. Especially falling behind witnesses who never even heard of such a thing. Who is now basically contrasting something without the information to give into, without fully adaptable knowledge of how to properly stream the VERY ample data without any (“deep-seeded withinness o-or open viewing points”) leading oneself forward one piece of data (“riding the current of a steady calm stream”) at a time? Forward to what…?! The “oneself” who was seemingly instrumented to guess, had now become claimed by the instance of power known as the “high of confusion”. Now dramatically instigated without the proper intentions for “self” in the details to co-opt something together without (memory serves that oneself to “recognize”) something without knowing simply how? That’s because it isn’t one’s very “tempted individuality” in the details. It’s the entire platform of plot’s (I guess to call it an individuality of sorts) self-recognition for it to speak clearer without any information becoming seemingly false, flawed o-or finding a justified error upon its primary judgement. Which spawns a newer adaptable action among your oneselves very claims, without the desires to “flag” for something not as inconclusive, as it was before that individual had a VERY specific experience. That’s now entirely turned into an “engagement”. For engagements are simulations with enough focus in the already transcribed details among the “data stream” full of individual components known as “oneself” in order to “use” to adopt the correct hold. Just enough in order to “found” something without yet, enough recognition in itself to fully see how “they” could FINALLY see it for themselves. Especially of all things, understand lives choices without completely disregarding the common advances at which those very things come in contact with said, recognition. Except, how do you know which recognition is yours, and not the means to a VERY cryptic countermeasure made to judge with no realizations, except for an illusion for you to “essentially” believe in? Since before the entire platform of plot’s syncing event called the “separation”. It didn’t know how to tell itself apart from the difference in its own self, when it now has another half that’s made to realize MORE of such an “originality” then it is for its own self-recognition to be the originality itself. Even thou one could gamble at which came first?! Or which is TRULY the either blessing in disguise, or the mask hiding behind its own “shame” taking on a (all too well specified) façade of a living lie promoting a VERY false simulation? So, the actual manner of speaking to what ANY of this actually entails… Is that what is life about, essentially…? It’s not because you can’t EVER handle such a truth. Instead, you false yourself against more lies, in order to benefit the truth which is ALWAYS hiding just beneath one’s very underbrush in order to seek out a better recognized self, for “self-recognition” in the otherwise always dwindling limelight. That my very sense of selves and VERY tempted individualities, is what lives about, essentially!
Life isn’t about your (supposed) given choices on a regular daily basis. It’s about the already (seemingly) justified countermeasures that strike the “unbound logic” at you for (none being the wiser) to essentially hear. PS… How do you know you can trust your own choices of that very decision-making? Or better yet… How could you EVER try and support those very given "actions" towards what recognition in self, is truly trying to tell you?!
I hope
this is what you
                   want,
need
know
taste
touch
with every bated breath.
(breathe)
See all of the forced smiles.
I sincerely hope
You can.
Drop it off,
gift delivered
fruitfully, faithfully.
Robert Gretczko Oct 2016
on gray hard streets we pounded out our youth
amidst tightly knitted cobble stone pathways
and shining windows always kept clean
struggling strong immigrants far and wide
teemed fruitfully through long days
and playful front stoop games
ring a leeveo and johnny on a pony
stick ball, jax and my favorite skellzey
mostly happy but deadly too
many ways of speaking were spoken
cultures clashed but soon subsided
in quiet civility and tamed calm
that all efforts would bring ahead more
bright days and simple luxuries
a streetside chat... a day at Orchard Beach
breezy stroll through Crotona Park...
a picnic by water's edge and maybe a hooked flounder
pale afternoon sun would blaze firey red at sunset
then pink and purple painted effortlessly
across our sleeping skies
we longed just for friendly pushing around
flirting with the girls when the nerve came up
and smart challenges of who could do what
when and how
for then that time, our time it was
all just a dream a day and the glories
of growing up...
natasha Oct 2016
truth-
the direction of my energy is going to more productive places
than reserving hours each day to mourn a thing that used to be
second truth-
you were rooted more in my mind than in my heart
which is why i've thought so many things for you aside from true love,
which would be wishing you the best.
resentment is easier to harness than open sadness
but now i see that the heart must be open & wounded
before it can harden.
(i tried to skip all that...)
pangs still come
deeply through music or mundanely while turning onto a given street
saudade will strike; dismissed weakly via anger or fruitfully through
mindfully acknowledging these
parting truths:

there is much for me to continue learning and exploring inside of myself, and a day will come where another soul in this Universe will present itself through the kind of love I need, so painstakingly clear and this experience will be looked back upon in its appropriate light- a necessary painful stepping stone rung on the ladder that prepared me for what I've always wanted.
Bianca Reyes Dec 2015
Seeing your face is a constant reminder of my greatest fear:
To love endlessly without expectation
And receiving it fruitfully without apprehension
Eric W Jun 2015
I weep.

For the long lost trips amid and afloat the sloshing and entangled water and stars.
For the star-crossed lovers between here and afar.
For the forgotten man with rusted paws and a jaded sense of self.
For the inhabitants of our entangled star which passes through as many dimensions as the madman's thoughts and also more dimensions than he has such.
For the surrounded and still solitary dust ball of our home where we are a disease which so fruitfully multiplies.
For the soft and once guiding light which only naivety and depravity can spark.

I weep.

For myself, others, and everyone, which are as much a part of me as I am of them and we as much a part of the universe - with its many facets and worn down lines - as it is of us.

I weep.

For the truth in our collectiveness that we destroy with the insistence and grief that we are apart and alone afloat these entangled stars.

I weep.
At the top it says "I think I might be about to go through the worst depression I've ever had."

Hopefully I get some good writing out of it, at least.
Philip Shepherd Apr 2016
You are the light  that brightened my soul, like a shooting star  making me whole.
You danced upon  the butterflies in my stomach, I couldn't help  but be euphoric.
You had captured  the essence of my being, I gave myself to you  with all my feelings.
Now a part of me  is yours forever, so why am I trying my best then  to endeavour!
For no one else  can heal my soul, because there's a place  left there  like black coal.
And any light shone there  is consumed with vigour, I'm like a hole that just gets bigger.
So I carry on  trying to live fruitfully, but it's a lie  no one can see.
For a part of me  is gone forever, I can't make room in my heart  for  another.
But no one but you  can piece me together, is my life void now .....forever!
Eriko May 2015
No matter how hard I try
To wade through the mass of bodies
Their presence press too closely
And those gleaming white floors eat up my feet

Sleet, reek, I possibly cannot eat
The knowledge up so fruitfully
Shoved into our face like sheep
When was the last time you left me any sleep

I gouge out those door handles, yet they standstill
It appears those we praise--
Resents us
Try not to burn us out like a candle
As I sit in your synthetic realms
You call knowledge
January thirteenth two thousand
and nineteen will complete
mine third score orbitz round the sun,
who as a youth evinced

demure and effete
traits, and now weathered, Ongepatshket,
and plenty seasoned,
I feel ready to greet
a garrulous, humorous, and indecorous

Shikse for an indiscreet
liaison, where she will
get reddit to shutterfly,
and twitter like an uber keet
oozing with NON GMO

gluten and monosodium
glutimate saccharine dripping
with au naturale oversweet
ample ***** shapely waist,
and derriere replete

with plenty of junk in the trunk
cavorting, flirting, and issuing manumission
to fraternize, friskily frolic
fruitfully mixing bedlam with bunk
sundering politesse as a "FAKE",
gentlemanly, and honorable hunk,

when in truth,...this lapsed (Lou Zoo Lee)
christened nebish lunk
bookish, loutish, and wonkish teasing
seminarian formerly seclusive monk
keying into my inner philanderer,
yeah...yeah...yeah overdrunk

with prurient fantasies donning an imitation
of (guess who), one
narcissistic trumpeting punk
at heart my idol, no matter the teetering
ship of state he nearly countersunk,
which purportedly mirrors

his Wharton curriculum vitae,
which...well showed he nearly did flunk
apprenticed as POTUS with
FLOTUS attractive trophy
wife (number three) female chunk

and,...oh yes aesthetically
pleasing female real estate
from appearances marriage
barren and devoid of great
je nais sais quois,

though Melania rarely irate,
and partial government shutdown of late
reverberating with fallout, that does oscillate
furloughed federal employees to perspire
principally at increased amortization rate.
Rob Metz Oct 2018
Time, the presence of an ending, continuously beginning.
Always turning over as the ticks become louder with,
Time, it’s unstoppable, untouchable, undeniably wasting away.
Cherishing moments, the recollection of fears, the reminder of yesterday.

Only with time will bring the answer to why,
Forgetting the essence of what’s left behind.
Reminding and questioning everything in sight,
How will your time add up at the end of the night?

Calling your name are the obstacles in the way,
Embrace your tragedy like all your past mistakes.
Place your fears so near, never let them slip away,
Fall into wrongful hands, time slips from minutes to days.

Look over the deserts that contain the sands of time,
Is it a barren wasteland? Or fruitfully inclined?
Preparation for the unexpected, or relish in gems of present moments,
A moment in time passes like blinks to the eye, for that is constant.

Only with your time will give a reason to my why,
A handful of mistakes but leaving it all behind.
Reminding me constantly with you in my sight,
How time has added up at the end of the night…

©️Rob Metz
Dr Peter Lim Aug 2021
Dear Rosie,

It's true a large part of our character is shaped by our genes but we still have a conscious choice to become the person we want to be.

Most creative people tend to be introspective and some are melancholic too.

Love of our self and others makes us lose our egocentricity and we warm up to life's possibilities, beauty and wonders.

Life is never static and at every bend we can carve our own paths to find meaning and work towards self-fulfilment-
we are free agents and we always have choices.

If we have known suffering, heartaches, loneliness and alienation,
we will emerge stronger, kinder, more compassionate and, slowly and patiently, we will mature spiritually and come  fruitfully to our own--
with this self-discovery, we will be reborn and no future adversity can ever perturb our equanimity and tranquillity.

May you find the peace and joy that you so well deserve

from a fellow-writer

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