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To Ezra Pound

These are the names of the companies that have made
        money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight  Annodomini  fourthousand
        eighty Hebraic
These are the Corporations who have profited by merchan-
        dising skinburning phosphorous or shells fragmented
        to thousands of fleshpiercing needles
and here listed money millions gained by each combine for
        manufacture
and here are gains numbered, index'd swelling a decade, set
        in order,
here named the Fathers in office in these industries, tele-
        phones directing finance,
names of directors, makers of fates, and the names of the
        stockholders of these destined Aggregates,
and here are the names of their ambassadors to the Capital,
        representatives to legislature, those who sit drinking
        in hotel lobbies to persuade,
and separate listed, those who drop Amphetamine with
        military, gossip, argue, and persuade
suggesting policy naming language proposing strategy, this
        done for fee as ambassadors to Pentagon, consul-
        tants to military, paid by their industry:
and these are the names of the generals & captains mili-
        tary, who know thus work for war goods manufactur-
        ers;
and above these, listed, the names of the banks, combines,
        investment trusts that control these industries:
and these are the names of the newspapers owned by these
        banks
and these are the names of the airstations owned by these
        combines;
and these are the numbers of thousands of citizens em-
        ployed by these businesses named;
and the beginning of this accounting is 1958 and the end
        1968, that static be contained in orderly mind,
        coherent and definite,
and the first form of this litany begun first day December
        1967 furthers this poem of these States.

                                        December 1, 1967
james nordlund Nov 2018
Betwixt our better and worser angel's voices in our heads

That aren't, nor curser, for our inner candle's always lite

So we don't curse the darkness, weeded, bring forth from

The Earth more, demanded by our roots, feet, hands, score.

Solutioning with reality is always diluting or concentrating.
Topological energetic relational reality, as any and all life are relation, furthers   :)   reality
Sean Yessayan Apr 2012
A loved one lost leaves us with less in life,
not a loss to death and his scythe, rather, love’s untimely death.
At first a soul severed does not suffer, numbness reigns over .
For hope, that foolish feeling, whose feigned friendship forges a trust,
woos without warning, whereby a weak body—in disbelief,
hears Hope’s healing message with haste and hardly heeds her coy hint:
“Toil with Time;” therefore, Hope, through truthful trials with Time, teaches.

Time’s quite an omnipotent entity—an ever-morphing force.
The stages of Love’s relations—from first sight to last—change
the flow of Time. When Love starts it trickles from the mountain’s source;
slow and steady, but gains speed as each shared interest adds on.
These streams form a river, Time passes by—Love keeps you busy.
Eons seem to pass in the blink of an eye, noticed only
when that love departs. Time’s effect returns, languishing the void;
that drop of water trickles over your soul making time lull.
The mind replays the broken record of Love’s last visit till
Time’s drop drips from its place onto the rose’s petal, splashing
that prison of longing open, for Love’s return sets you free.
If that drop lands on the posy, for your rose was picked by one
whose hand is unknown, Time causes unfamiliar drought as
that posy shrivels under the sun. Time, now vapor, ascends—
with others joining we form a cloud of soles—growing denser still.
Up here we watch the world revolve, Time’s presence perceived no more.
This Union of Soles float in a blur, each learns from a neighbor.
Knowledge gained heals the sole, but is useless if employed alone.
We pray, forlorn—hearts still torn, till we fall to an earthly shore;
so keep Faith close, along with Hope, for Time will take course once more.

At this point I must disclose that I still need to elevate,
by descending from the misty fog of Time’s timeless smokescreen;
however, my time spent is not in vain. The lessons I learn
shape my view on life’s inner workings—cognition reigns over.
Over and over, I’ve seen the world revolve, patterns appear.
I see sole souls enter this realm alone, then leave as quickly,
for few remain stuck here, jailed in the prison of the timeless.
Most move on— graduated, learned, and having passed Time’s tests.
Alas, I am a mule in a stable—stubborn and restless.
This aside is ending as a descent’s beginning takes flight.

Love is only truly lost when one cannot overcome change.
A switch, which demotes loves to a plane of platonic tenor.
With faithfulness, a likeness to those before the Fall furthers
the Sole’s doles—now brighter—they exonerate Love’s loss of love.
When the soul, driven, has forgiven, then friendship’s re-obtained.
The only way it could be explained-- I apologize for its crudeness.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.eh, the general misconception (katy b - i like you): am i "hung-up" over exes? let's just say, i could have loved the way i loved without having loved the ex... the ex isn't the problem, nor a nostalgia piece... well... it is a variant of nostalgia, but not of the opposite, the canvas of my affection... a nostalgia of the affection disused, disorientated on the wrong person... it's never about the ex, it's about you, and me, and the ex that experienced, but destroyed, and about the me i wish you could experienced without an ex... the ex is, the ugly momentum that furthers "me" to disengage with my equal, "you", and your exes... the fact that a drag effect exists in relationships, the fact that Heraclitus was right: it's a river, but hardly a sea... relationships are rivers, and the generalized social interaction as the sea... oh, i'm not keeping artifacts of my exes with me... they're the me, exhausted having had them... there is no ex... there's only me forever lodged in an inanimate past... with the animate potential future, and the animate present, which is expressed thus: i can't tell you about the person i dated, but i can & at the same time not tell you about the person i was... shrapnel psyche... the same thought then, a similar thought now... but when it comes to the complete individual? ex, what?! i hate being given over to Rubens... the ex-girlfriend is not much more than the more that is an ex-self... and, my god... isn't it such an ugly picture?!

eh... she was Russian...
   eh... she was rich...
em... this is a tricky one...
she called me kakashka
(little ****)...
and she invariably
wanted me to call her
crumpet...
   apparently i acquired
this tongue to the point
whereby
i would say the word
crumpet... and she'd giggle...
oddly enough,
for me...
i visited an Ukrainian
*******, and asked:
am i a hunchback?
to which she replied:
do you not think
women have little,
or no, confidence in
approaching you?
what?! oh right...
the Casanova bit,
has to come from me...
rather than from,
them...
well... i wasn't born
with that sort of a natural
impetus...
guess this is me not
becoming a Casanova!
but my my...
if anyone is to become
jealous...
traditional Turkish
barbers?
hair is one thing,
beard another...
and only Turks can
do a decent trim of the beard...
eyes closed...
**** me...
better than oral ***...
as i once suggested...
so... manhood is taught...
with a pair of boxing gloves...
and a punching bag?!
seriously?!
how about you begin
your lesson into the realm
of manhood,
beginning with...
a good barber?
next? if i am rich enough...
a good tailor...
but... since i have
a background in chemistry...
i'm still bewildered
by the genius of
polyester translated
into clothing...
so for the moment?
no, no...
forget boxing...
you will not lose weight
by going to the gym
expecting a non-existence
of stretch marks
as if you just gave birth
to an anorexic...
bicycle... 50+ kilometers
a day, for a month...
legs do not succumb to
stretch marks...
no major organs in the legs...
and no... forget the boxing gloves,
and the punching bag...
find yourself a traditional
Turkish barber...
you're not a real man
without a trustworthy
barber...
proof:
you walk down a darkened
street,
two girls are walking a dog...
by the body shape:
teenagers...
they turn their heads
and look at you...
what?!
           such a pithy
stance... to force men to
box... how about you teach
how to groom, prior,
or how not to groom,
extend the lack of grooming for up
to 6 months...
  and then force them to groom...

i went to martial arts classes...
the student of the teacher
who became the teacher for
the evening... kicked me in the *****...
did he apologize?
i was curled up in fetal position...
so i stopped learning martial arts...
apparently i didn't
make the HA! sound while
walking forward making chop-sticks
out of martial arts' moves...
the student of the teacher
that wasn't there who acted
as the teacher: learned jack-****!
me?
     i learned something...

she really did call me kakashka
   (little ****)...
i said the word crumpet...
but never called her that...
   turns out... she wasn't even
a muffin!

            ah... all the love's lost...
hence my favorite indie cinema...
my memory.

- ever envision yourself becoming
so bitter,
that, paradoxically,
you turn out to be, the embodiment of
being:
sickly sweet?
welcome to the club;
sinister bitter...
       like most English people...
they're sorry over the most trivial
social grievances...
but never imply the grievance
upon stressing an apology.
Nathan Burgess May 2014
Violent roses
give me woozes everyday
I'm hammered on my own
something
is always slipping through
a filter of justifications

language misrepresents me
I don't think words that
spread ideas like intrinsic responsibility
are relavent outside of cults of personality
So I'd prefer to say
through a filter of new ideas
of what safe thoughts are in a fear house
reinterpreted

Soft violet soup
gifting a brainhorse with a two by four
or convictions falling
out of atrophy
or perhaps
a lack of neccessity

I don't know
maybe
a letting go of an abusive tack
that pressed you to let go of joy

Oh I don't knoowoh
To find yourself a damaged adult
with a mind aimed at forgetfulness and
forgivefulness

A new rage forms in tandem
with a promise
to a menacing question asked
by those who unfetttered their wallets

but that was ages ago

and now it's time for a letting go
at least that's
what the last night alone begot

but who is past that inside lie
that furthers time

well I can't see anyway

So **** it I'll lose it or die.
Clare Sep 2015
Can violence be countered
Only by violence?
To be equals, we must riot
To be just, we must fight
Why every government every state
Furthers the hate mandate
Even
To show love we must ****
Or the enemies will
We say we want justice and peace
Why, why then this malice?
Where does our heart lie
As we slaughter and die?
Overwhelmed Mar 2011
I guess I should start by saying that I do have a lot of bias against the competition because of things that have absolutely nothing to do with the contest or the way it was judged. They got my poems wrong. This basically meant that I was going to be playing with a large handicap of some sort. As it turned out, they let me perform the two poems I had prepared, but for the one that they didn't count on me performing, I would not get an accuracy score. Each poem could earn up to 20 points: 12 are on your performance, and 8 on accuracy. I would not get those eight points, or otherwise, 20% of the possible score I could earn in the contest. To put it simply, I had been disqualified.
So with this heavy thought on my mind I performed my pieces. Despite an air of confidence (which was severely diminished for once) I performed badly, terribly in fact. I could very well say that both pieces were at the worst they had ever been. I went up on stage at the end and had to fake a smile as the awards were given out and it took every ounce of my being not to throw away the "congrats, you participated" diploma they gave to everyone. I did not have fun. The second I found out my poems were wrong, I turned to mother and asked to leave. My mom and the people running the contest convinced me not to go, but I'm still not sure if that was a good idea or not. In all seriousness, I could not have fun. All that work, all that effort, was for nothing. It wasn't anybody's fault and that's perhaps the most infuriating thing of it all. There was no way to prevent this. It just happened. I got ******* over. Good, long, and hard. So what was I to do? My mom commented that I was doing the right thing by staying, and I suppose that's true. My school has never participated in Poetry Out Loud before, and even if I don't compete again, just knowing what it's like will be incredibly useful for the person that goes on next year. This is where I stop apologizing for myself and start making actual criticisms because I want you to understand that most of these negative points came long after I was done feeling sorry for myself/pointed out by my mother. And the first and most crucial of them all is that I would've never won.
Even if they hadn't ******* up my poems, even if I performed them perfectly, even if I made every eye in the house swell with tears and every mouth grin with laughter, I would've never won. They weren't looking for any of that. They weren't looking for emotion, they weren't looking for original interpretation, they weren't looking to get a response from the audience. They just wanted us good little boys and girls to go up on stage in our nicest clothes and recite famous poems in as traditional, unoriginal, and boring way as possible. Two of the winners, the guy who won third and the girl who won first, were, by my and my mother standards, some of the worst acts of the entire show. The boy recited "Charge of the Light Brigade" with his hands folded at his stomach and his voice in a monotone to make deaf preacher snore, and yet, somehow this is of merit! There was a mexican guy who put so much feeling and emotion into poems, that, normally seem like dreary contentious ramblings of arrogant poets, but now jump off the page and offer meaning that you didn't even realize were there. He got nothing. In short, I felt like the winners, and the overall values the contest propagates, are not what this competition should be about.
Poetry in the modern age is viewed as a dusty, unimportant art form that once meant something but now is something you read in English class as a child and never take outside of the classroom into the real world. Poetry Out Loud furthers this belief. Instead of embracing the fledgling arts of Slam Poetry and Dramatic Reading, Poetry Out Loud squashes it in favor of continuing a more "traditional" interpretation of poetry recitation. They put emphasis on meter, plainness, and calm; traits that, in all honesty, puts audiences to sleep and reminds them of boring days spent in English listening to the dronings of their teacher. Poetry is not dead, and while the people running Poetry Out Loud may know this, the methods they use to try and make the world realize this are unproductive at best. I am ashamed to say that this is how such a great opportunity is squandered. The fact that such a large (and growing) organization, with as much fame and ample rewards as it possesses, turns on the very art form its trying to protect  is shameful, but I doubt it would want to change if it were to hear my cries.
Poetry Out Loud isn't about furthering the art of poetry, it's about forcing the works of so perceived "great poets" on kids. They offer a $20,000 scholarship as the grand prize, but really, if you wanted to bring truly great poets into the fold the joy of competing would be reward enough. This contest shouldn't be about other people's poems, it should be about our own. The original work of this generation, performed the way the we intend, will produce performances infinitely more meaningful and insightful than anything that is being done now. During this whole competition, I viewed it not as a measure of my poetic ability but instead of my acting talents. Theater kids dominate this competition, but as the title suggests, this is not "Thespians Out Loud", and emphasis needs to return to the creation of original poems and the entertaining performance there of.
Poetry is something completely unique to any other art form, it is nearest anyone has ever come to exactly writing down real language, with its many idioms, tricks, habits, faults, and mannerisms; and Poetry performed aloud is a near perfect as written art can get. I submit that Poetry Out Loud is not what it claims to be, and although I cannot fault it for poor ambition or malicious intent, I cannot say that I will be condoning it any more, especially the message it sends to young poets, their teachers, and society as a whole.
PJ Poesy Jun 2016
Jingoism at its very best is still zealotry, and anyone with good sense can tell you none of that is good. Where has good gone? Narrowness is boasting ethnocentricity. The mind game of villainous blame furthers unkind possibility. Worse yet, demise of soul, to tout a right to defend, assaults a riffling on pith and marrow with no sane sense of psyche to lend. Basically then, we are told to "blend."

I cannot.

I am fanatical. My colors must be seen. This weathering of dark storm has unbiased relinquishment that must convene, upon a rainbow. With all heart and soul, given to Orlando.
My deepest sympathies to all affected by the brutal massacre which took place at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida.
Shauna Bendel Sep 2016
I remember the last note I wrote,
where he poured venom in ink
scribbled words placed blankly
at the tip of Saturday’s tongue
A mouthful of madness intertwined
between two diverging lives
as returning innocence sparked
cigarette, after cigarette

The warm taste of whiskey
fills a stomach freer than before
The smell lingers at each exhale to fuel the fire  
of a breath’s subtle aching for forgiveness
Conversation now lacks substance
Words slur actions to violently attack
without awareness to rule direction
I felt who hurt you, looking back on it

Heavy eyes spoke language to
disease the mourning of our losses
with something to be permanent,
but not entirely forgotten

Your heart bleeds an intensity
of the darkest hour you could find
Separation furthers an inevitable exit
we both cannot control alone

He falls to his knees uneasy
The fall is an alarming salute,
a goodbye that cannot be understood,
a commitment I failed to believe

Across the room, I watch you
I try and tend to the plans you’ve made,
but I am weaker than you had been

The damage pierces my ribcage
It catches me off guard as it moves through
Starvation vows to carry in its place
to feed the body empty noise
I hear silence engage lost attention
An aftermath of memories led astray
to make believe the truth

I wore the flaws love wounded on skin
The scars gave weight to my appearance
to comfort a lack of confidence

Distance understood what was yesterday,
would not be tomorrow

Existing only to heal the unknown
We should of watched time,
return us to what we knew
Onoma Nov 2014
There is peace to be made with
this irretrievable beauty...
a seeming hands-off policy
of inmost heart.
We're implored to take this seeing
with us...for this life that must
be seen through.
This is how the promise of more
furthers itself...a call to eternal
life--the only way peace may be
made with this irretrievable
beauty.
Victoria Feb 2019
Once upon a midnight,windy,
Graveyard heavy, tombstone weary,
Rose a man of great renowned-
The writer of which works can be found
Classroom sat in many a volume galore.
As the news and folk declare-
The dead whose lungs again took in air,
The writer who now stood before-
T’was Poe (and raven) of “Nevermore”.

“So if it be daemon, omen, curse or hex-”
In deciding action next, he spoke forth these words of old,
“I have been given further morrow, time of which furthers my sorrow,
Yet if I may this new life borrow- borrow perhaps to bring prose more-
In the hope,to continue prose more-
Pen to paper I’ll restore.”

Many a night spent struggling to create rhymes anew,
Edgar realized how language had changed,
For **** no longer meant to slay, and his beloved had turned to bae!
On his desk the perched bird had flown-
To say these words in had it flown-
Quoth the Raven “Just use Rhymezone.”
Michael Benton Aug 2010
The world can be a cruel and hurtful place
We blame fate, or Satan, or even God
All things that amplify
                 our own failings as human beings.

Fate does not deal in good or bad
It can bear no blame at all
All fate can do is point out
                our own failings as human beings

Satan then must be the source of such
But blaming him only furthers his cause
All the dark one does is allow us
               our own failings as human beings

Then God must do these worst of things
But that’s not the God I know
All God does is love and forgive us
                our own failings as human beings

The world can be a cruel and hurtful place
We blame fate, or Satan, or even God
All things but where the problem lies –
                our own failings as human beings
Copyright © 2010 MH Benton
Henry Dec 2021
by which I of course am referring to this keyboard
that i’m writing on now
funny how that works ain’t it
62 minutes until my shift ends
John Prine & the Korean war don’t quite match where I am
clicking pool cues penetrate my headphones
I wonder how many bad games of pool it takes to shake a man’s confidence
by my estimate the answer is never enough
guys that can’t shoot love teaching girls how not to shoot
but the girls don’t usually seem to mind
how very 60’s highschool of it all
maybe Mr. Prine does have something here to say
47 minutes until my shift ends
people trust engineers warns my engineering professor
people trust you to know things he furthers
people trust us to explain
I wish they wouldn’t
tech support & translators for parents & grandparents
people want answers but only when they thought they already knew
40 minutes until my shift ends
pretty good, not bad, I can’t complain
seeing my old highschool teachers at the burrito place where I worked
sinking in the mire of chicken, brown rice, & black beans for minimum wage
ain’t it funny
I can smell the 45 pieces of steak & chicken I grilled when I get home
ain’t it funny
the outrage over the price of guacamole
33 minutes until my shift ends
10/18/21
I was at work when I wrote this
joel juanes Nov 2011
Take a shot for me
take a shot, take a shot
as the clock furthers with it's tick-tock
i drink my feelings away
I'm stuck on this one chapter
time to change the page
time to start fresh and brand new
each shot helps me forget you,
helps me get through
wash away the thoughts of picture perfect
now looking back criticizing it was it all worth it
was it all my fault
was I the reason our relationship came to a halt
was it doomed by default
naw it wasn't me
one, two, maybe three
take them for the memories
and let the cup replenish
and the bad times diminish
each sip let's my pain relinquish
as my cup begins to finish
I start to forget thee
but you
you'll remember me
so **** all the *******
and take a shot for me
agdp Jan 2010
Overcast evening mixed with air and rain
Foreboding hairs rising, thoughts in vein
Words a loss at most to the gloss of this face
Strikingly beautiful to the beholder to trace

And it comes to this,
To care once more
With armor and all,
Flocking feathers fallen a more

There heeds no guide
No aide
To why we do
What our mind forbade

Discipline furthers its stretch
This man and his juvenile mind a mesh
Simply a child seeking a maternal figure
In every woman, a trigger

Trickling on the sides of faces
Are theses outlines for lost graces
Mixed ways in dismays from everyday
Departure to fool into rapture today

This is how it revolves to the middle
Month where a year comes,
To so little
A refreshment course to the choices
Taken hold by desirable answers

Trying to figure not to procure
An imminent ache to secure
12/18/07 ©AGDP
Kobbe Jan 2013
Knowledge enforced to follow, it hurts to turn my back
Lack of truth in its logic, proof to make it easy to swallow?
Befallen by It's calling, resented all the good intended.
Twisted Tables and a created fable, represented by eyes labled shameful. Written words cursed no better, read a recitation, with my own interpretation, ahead beams of light began to enter.

Now they're looking bitter, calling out sinner
Preparing your forthcoming, preparing you for dinner
Forget em, who's rightously judging? First stone, lies are forthcoming.
Fighting our own demons, none but you percieve em
It's this feeling, the darkness and the sickness, the weakness that inhibits the message, soul and will  conflicting at the hilltop. Vanity, the start of your calamity. It had to be that guilty feeling, draging you from your heighth of the ceiling.
Perfection is something we're all missing, lying furthers the evil that you felt. Perhaps you hate what's well and embrace the hateful, but its free will that leaves you blame full. Alone, be grateful, believe in Him on your own accord. As the race of the light takes flight I let it enter

Your mind at times, plays games unkind. Conclusions undefined, leaving its history your mystery. Grasp the signs in life, the beauty of your wife, the power in mere sight, surely you can overcome fright. We can't see the whole picture and all the painters live on the right of the sea. It's time to be who we're all destined to be, peace, love, and happiness at the center. The warm sun surrounding us with brightness in winter, let it enter.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
Descartes' verb interaction is perhaps a shallow fact to grasp, but given the word therefore is an adverb, there must also be a counter to this, given some people are introverted, or extroverted as the original cartesian model suggests - so therefore can also become what the daydreamers get up to, for if thinking precipitates a sort of being, it can also precipitate a sort of non-being (the limit of such reasoning to suggest non-existence is a bit like reasoning the existence of god); i.e. therefore (ergo) apart from being an adverb (toward action) can also be an abverb (ab-, the prefix expanded in modern tongue as: absence - the commuters on the train... just sitting) - hence the after-mentioned mathematical stimulation of deciphering would be better suggested as not =, but as ⇌.

i've noticed this when reading philosophy books,
after engaging in one, you suddenly run out
of steam, you are creating a void, and by creating a void
through lack of hope for originality or demanding it,
and by creating a void you become stalled in what
you deem to be the adequate waterfall of lettering
arrange into word on paper, you create this vast
chasm that's an "antidote" to the cartesian res cogitans...
upon reading a philosophy book you turn into
a *res vanus
, or should i say, an empty thing, a vacuum,
upon rejuvenation you do encounter thought,
but by turning yourself into a res vanus you
encounter thought as equatable with your ego,
as in: this is you, narrating in secret -
unlike the 26 unit equation of Hegel plagiarised
by Ginsberg in his poem the end:
i am i, old father fisheye that begot the ocean,
the worm at my own ear (new testament quote
about escaping hell, the worm at your own ear
gnashing its silica SiO2 teeth turned into glass,
glass teeth that then shatter) - the three words of
genesis are borrowed from Hegel's outlines
of the principle of rights, he too states the same,
the i am i, and furthers it by ascribing the word
am with the mathematical symbol =,
i wonder what word could be ascribed to other
words... perhaps in original terms ergo could be
Gemini as + and ÷... the latter case obviously
symbolical of schizophrenia, - (minus) typical of
depression, and x (multiplier) and ego trip,
that ultimate trip without intake of any Amazonian
substance or ingestion of a Swiss chemists' champagne
moment on a bicycle? i wonder. **** it, i digressed,
moment of rereading to find the river once more.
ah yes, this conception of a res vanus came to me
unlike Paul McCartney's yesterday, right in front of me,
first i read the day's newspaper, very depressing
material... then i picked up Kant again,
only briefly, i felt this sudden suggestion that upon
reading philosophy you are emptied, emptied in order
to become a blank canvas for someone to paint
something into your mind, the reason being is the
championing of thought in philosophical books,
to read them you seem to have to assume being empty,
rather than being brimful with thought,
i.e. jumping to too many conclusions and nodding
or shake-of-the-head assertions - there's no
parallelism with that notion of being a thinking thing
(a res cogitans), it can only come by a stance of
emptying or a pervasive adjective (quality) omni-
as regarded emptiness. i realised that the only way to
reattach myself to my own narrative was to engage
with a philosophical dynamic once again,
prior to yesterday i hadn't bothered to peer in once more
and wrote a detail of yesterday's events, not to my liking,
a lack of continuity rose up, a fizzing nugget of
phosphorus on water. if i left my eyes strained on
merely the newspaper i wouldn't have written this,
it had to be Kant, again.
but indeed upon turning into this res vanus of my
own invention, the principium is followed by
a definite articulation (mediating away from a definite
article) in Hegelian sense with mathematical grammar
via (+, -, x, ÷, etc.) to say: well if am is suggestive of =,
mediating expressive egoism and repressive egoism,
then res vanus, has to provide a similar product,
not a parallelism whereby one man thinks himself
extroverted in the medium of thought, but actually
introverted in the medium of being, but rather a
convergence (Oxford will take years to ascribe an -ism
on this matter)... since after disengaging from res vanus
upon reading a philosophy narrative,
it is a convergence of the pinnacle of decisive identity,
in that i = thought, of course Kołakowsi would
argue counter specifications of this grammatical construct,
he already did so when referring to dancing the tango
in his book culture & fetishes, i'm obviously disregarding
grammatical categorisation as a rigid Eiffel tower
monument to human endeavour,
i can state i = thought since both are personal associations,
Heidegger's famous contribution: we're still not thinking.
i don't care to suggest that thought is an Atlas with
the nouns world, helplessly balancing the many attributes
of what we call thought: the thought to steal, the thought
to care, the thought to obey, the thought to lie...
within such a list thinking is hardly definite, it's indefinite,
but what is definite in this respect is that we can identify
thought as ourselves, this is what stems from the res vanus
principium
, a principle that allows for philosophy books
to be actually read, since reading them is permitted when
the contradiction of the cartesian res cogitans is lost.
wordvango Jul 2017
bless the weakest those who feel the very souls
who suffer if far near unknown
bless those who speak in truths
whether or  not  it furthers their causes
bruises their hearts
takes that toll
bless the meek as the bible said
would inherit this earth
as prophecies spoken
mere worded phrases speak the god
talk the angels wing flutter upon
here
there are angels
there are demons
there is sufferings
and plagues
hardnesses seen how each being each
flowered ****
goes through these  stages
like our blindnesses
we feel how the hurts surround us
and few those gifted
those who deserve blessings
have this new sense this soul
that lifts the spirits of the eagles wings
to soar above the tallest
mountains and me
who tries so hard to suffer
self flaggelate and  shudder
harm myself when others need
take off now
trying to be winged
to be an angel
with time left to utter
a word
a prayer
a hope
The Rotation:

I’m hardly awake in these passing scenes. Each breath I take seems a moment too late to catch my rest, and as I debate what really relates to these hidden dreams behind the sky and what’s within my own eyes. There’s not too much to say as I spiral from the clouds straight to the sound of rushing water and fluid memories they don’t quite flow as softly as they should. And I’m hardly awake in these glazed over days but their value still remains and all I can hope to make is a smile on the clock that just keeps ticking away as I gravitate towards the moon but soon That won’t be too far away and I can barely see my life from here and I’m sure it’s what it appears to be but so suddenly my mind drops and climbs these endless mountains chasing the wind head on, Two steps forward four steps backwards but either way I’ll arrive to the other side of this great circle. And what should the path matter to the destination and why should the visit be all that remains.

Is it so strange to speak so softly to a lion or roar so loud to another, whom other then you've loved? But that’s what I witness and that’s what I hate, but I’m hardly awake to change a fate that drips on down from the rooftops filthy and diseased, as far as some perceive it. Encouragement no longer creates the convinced, but furthers the doubt and in-circles the back of my eye lids as every narrow hallway fails to take us to broader horizons. And what should the path matter to the destination and why should the visit be all that we remember.

I’m at the point where I should have something to say or show for it, but I do believe I’m entirely over it. Left as empty as I began and it’s getting hard to stand. But the depths have not quite got their man, as I’d like to think I’m hatching a plan from these run down streets to the corner of the ring I continually find myself in. So let’s begin another round around this town I’ll take you to it, a place where I once could sleep. But that’s been long since buried in the rubble floating through these skies slowly homing in on me a little weaker then gravity.

As if only to delay and antagonize me further. These rumbles keep finding new fights. And I feel no shame because there isn't much blame for me to claim, but what if I could have. I often stray and stay hidden away within myself and when asked about it all I just can’t seem to stop the fall of these footsteps when they slowly lead away and its not to long after I find beauty in this exotic normality plainly seen but entirely hidden sifting through this trouble floating through my memories slowly homing in on me a little weaker then gravity.

A Wandering Eye:

And I've lied to you, I do believe in love, it’s just never enough.
These hands I swear have worked to long and not to hard. But the earth beneath my feet moves to rapidly, and the scenery keeps my plans far from my own hands. And the distant lands I’d like to see seem to keep growing further away, but there’s no end to my resolve. And dignity no longer holds its own as what I see around me limits the prospect of my soul, as one spoiled drop contaminates the rest, and also the best.

These quiet streets, they whisper around me, about the winter nights I wander on by. I’m not searching for any signs, just wondering where my home has gone.
I won’t speak about love, nor does love speak of me. It’s not that I've given up, it’s only that I dream much more hopeful,
And I know there’s only a few more years left for all of this. Will she love me then? This city she’s leaving and I’m swept under the rug wondering where my family of friends may be. I play these perfect futures like feature films and guard them like a dragon its treasure against these awful waves of grim but inevitably I fail, I can no longer hold onto these childish fantasies seeing the mold growing over them all. And it limits the prospect of my soul, as one soiled word contaminates the rest, and also the best.

The Devils soul is not deep enough to haunt these vivid dreams maybe he’ll find a way to force his own hand straight through my comfort zone. And pull me on back to these treacherous shoals were I may run aground. But I’m not sounding any alarm at least these abandoned islands leave me free. I hear so often that a man who views the world the same in his youth as he does in his commanding age has wasted all his time. But should you not yearn to be correct from the beginning? Are we all simply due to inevitable and wasteful change of thought. Are my actions yesterday of less value to my mind of tomorrow? What about the stars I used to gaze so deeply into will I only see them through a haze of emptied and defeated dreams? These roller coaster rhymes don’t consistently connect, and I’m wondering where the actuality of reality comes into play. When all I realize is that I feel so young although I am old in heart.

And I don’t mind the rain it helps wash away the stains I've left around myself. But when you’re fooling everyone to be a simple man it’s hard to care for the land that keeps you standing. And I still only dream of escape from the future I’m building, this island paradise to most now becomes my prison, and the gate keeper has long since passed without relieving his keys. But every time I punch these concrete walls my blood soaks through their roots and seems to weaken them for a moment, but I’m to bruised to try again, I’d prefer to sit and pretend I’m starving, watching what I could or couldn't have slowly become harder to grasp. Like the spoon they now force feed me with. I’m a man but feel no stronger than a language-less child. Unable to properly voice my will. And though I seem so young I am old in soul.

Anxiety always seems like a new experience never the same as it was. My body trembles at the quakes of its most powerful moments, and the increasing variety of my own created stress presses heavily down around me as if I’m sinking in the darkest depths, but I only feel my heart crushing and my lungs panicking, desperate and tear driven to find an end, where my head can rest. I can no longer follow these maps around they seem so out of date and I’m so out of place, this concoction of emotions keeps changing and I can’t keep up with the ingredients. These small talks are drawn much further out to what I need them to be but only within my head, and whoever was lying beside it in my bed never got much through it. And I don’t feel there was much to it.

It seems inspiration escapes me, I used to believe there was a fine line between hatred and depression but I more often find they collide under the pressure of a day better to stay outside of my head. Waterfalls are seen as beautiful, awe inspiring, and powerful. But as I look at those rushing tears dashed against so many rocks, all I see is the loneliness of a river by name forced to a path it can only bend so far. And I forgot where I was going with all this, and I’m not sure that it matters since the words I spatter only travel so far when you’re across the world. And these thoughts are minimized to avoid regret. I often stumble into traffic unaware nor do I care that I’m only living in my head, and whoever was screaming through it, didn't stick to it, And I don’t feel they couldn't do it.

Simple is hard:

I always know when the hour passes but almost never when the moment will last. And running through this haze I seem to have lost my place in the race, but what were the stakes. I can’t break this pace as I’m marching steadily on trying to avoid these shakes from the earthquakes that tremble along with me. In my latest dream I sank my flesh into the fangs of a nightmare where I’m at that point when you can’t pay attention to a song anymore, you hear the theme and scream for the melody but it always ends so suddenly in a foggy daze and you can’t recall the names or why they ever mattered.

Everything is broken, there were so many other words here. But just like everything else they were shattered and lost, and left me tattered, torn, and here. Things that were supposed to rhythm and make sense of all this, things I know are there in my brain but I can no longer reach them, they are such a blur, an outline at best. This paragraph once mentioned the daze of a man approaching the plate of life without a single clue of what team he's on nor does the crowd recognize the numbers on his jersey. It related to the haziness mentioned before but no more, it is dead just like every single part of what I think is my soul that I've poured into this, although enough of its memory remains to tease me with encouragement to try again. I apologize that I have failed to bring my words to you in one piece, they are still so fragmented. I can't even form a rhythm, I used to at the drop of a dime, and that’s the best I can come up with.

I wanted to continue, I wanted this to never end, like the thoughts of love and truth that we all so desperately chase. But we know all too well that everything is circumstantial. And I suppose my never ending hunt for the truth is an uphill struggle against the landslide of change that in itself is the only guarantee of this limited thing called existence, a hegemonic existence at that.
This poem was originally going to be a life long poem where I added a few sentences every week, but as fate would have it. My computer crashed several times in  row and I lost a page or two and could only remember so much of it. So I wrote the last page in reflection of that event and decided that was a perfect fitting for the end of a self acclaimed master piece.
I hope you enjoyed it! I've never gotten the chance to perform this poem.
Melissa Adkins Jul 2017
Erase Me
Falling. Lost. Falling fast into a dream thats dark as night. A nightmare that steal my soul. If I even have one left worth being stole... So take it. Just take it. Take all of me. Enclose me. Encase me. Place me on display. Destroy me. Let everyone see me. Lie to me. Just make a victim of me very lastly... or was I a victim of me already? Inhale me. Breathe into me. You tease me. Is this your secret to death maybe? Of bone? Of flesh? Of the emptiness that now lie within me? The life i had you took from me. You killed me. Your ******* killing me!
Take it! Take it all! I will want for nothing. I will never again need a thing. From here on I want for not one thing. So Enclose me. Encase me. **** me slowly.
Your wants and your needs were subdued so swiftly, the very moment you entered me. And I hate you. I spit on you. I hope you burn in hell thief! Burn eternal in return for my soul you stole!
My stomach now swoll and any day now will be empty once again. A shell of what it used to be.
So Enclose me! Encase me! Erase that part of me! Erase the empty hole , the very part of me that will never again feel whole. Erase me... because what do I have left to me? Surely no pride, no dignity.... and mourning the loss of an innocent child born unto me just furthers my misery.
Yes just turn the knife a bit further. Please deepen these wounds that scar me eternally ' internally. And then abandon me. Just leave me alone. To stand alone along the jagged rocks amidst the murkey black waters of my own mind.
What little of you, you made mine. And what was mine, you took for you. We are now one in the same? No. NO!! *******! I spit on you! Because i can no longer see the difference between me and you, all I see is you. You, the no-face who maimed me with a violence that I simply can not erase. You who left me crumpled there. Left me with a hole now that I can never fill. Not with any prescription pill.
Just take it! ******* take it all, let me fall. Becsuse i can not keep pace with the direction you've chosen my life take. This is all because of you! You no name, no face, no heart bearing *******... I spit in your face!
And though my physical pain will cease, and my wounds will one day close, inevitably to be forgotten by eveybody but me....I will forever remember. Like shiney new, yesterdays pain will be renewed. Alot like the pain I now know rather intimately. The very same pain that now follow me endlessly. Constantly taunting, reminding, haunting me tirelessly of the girl I used to be. The girl i was once before you yanked my innocence and tore it from me. Washed it clean from me... washed up on shores of morbid curiousity. Because that is about all I've left of me. All the questions that circled around me making me feel a devastating despair and a hopelessness throughout my entirety. I am simply treading water here. Taking up space. I'm just another victim without a case. Insomnia settled in and seems to be moving into this vaccant space you placed and it drives me further insane.
You very well may be the death of me. Nothing but my ashes to settling along the bottom of a vase.
As you Enclose me. Yes encase me in a vase and just Erase me. Place my weary body 6 feet beneath thee so that peace may once again find me. So that you can no longer hurt me.
Free me... of this constant countdown of the hours I may have left to me. Days marked only by the number of breaths I take. And each and every solitary tear that streak down my cheek.
Take it. Take it all from me! And then be gone from me! Have you not taken enough of me? Have you not taken all you possibly could from me already? You can have anything... if only I could go back. Rethink, rechoose, using less of the hurt i felt and more of the fact..... I want my baby back.
Rebecca Oct 2021
If it were up to me, I would fill all of my sorrows into a bottle and throw it as far into the ocean as I could.
Then I would run as hard as possible while they sink to the farthest depths that this world holds.
Reaching the darkest pit they so desperately needs to be.
No longer along side me.
No longer inside me.
Finally, then I would be free from it all.
Still continuing to run as the sinking still furthers.
No thoughts as where I would run but somewhere.
Onoma Oct 2014
Wings set adrift for a tomorrow that worries
for itself.
Wind's plaything whose opulence restores all
retiring worlds.
As if thought perfected down to its wire connects
and disconnects freely the Whole.
Pointedly that Whole knows of itself, and as yet to
know of itself--that lapse that furthers vision in a
flash.
By all soothing shadows that swim hardboiled things...
resigned amongst the transit of other things,
partaking thereby becoming...momentarily.
The welcome home of thing unto itself whose shadowy
screen blew about a holy commune, bows now to its
place to know of it, as an angelic head superseding
gravity.
By blood geared below the surface lapping feverishly...
till a luminosity assays flesh.
Strange the way, The Way is lit...in an instant a world
forgoes itself without changing its heading.
Lone and left to, what's lone and left to...for what
profits an eternity but that which must attain it.
Robert Guerrero Jun 2012
it doesnt come frome
his ability to cry
his ability to sing
or his ability to act
even his ability to think

A Poets Fame
comes long after his death
when children can relate
or when women decide to rest
when men decide to weep

it doesnt come from
his ability to write
his ability to ryhme
or his ability to laugh
even his ability to hear

A Poets Fame
comes when the world sees fit
when life seems worthless
when death is at your door
or when emotions grow to heavy

A Poets Fame
is written in history
bound to the pages
and his lost sanity
furthers his legacy
that we try to follow
Melissa Adkins Feb 2014
Falling.
Lost.
Falling fast into a dream dark as night.
A nightmare that steal my soul.
If I  have one left worth being stole...
So take it. Just take it.
Take all of me.
Enclose me. Encase me.
Place me on display. Destroy me.
Let everyone see me. Lie to me
Just make a victim of me very lastly...
or was I a victim of me already?
Inhale me.
Breathe into me.
You tease me.
Is this your secret on death?
Of bone? Of flesh?
Of the emptiness that now lie within me?
The life I had, you took it from me.
You killed me.
Your killing me!
Take it! Take it all!
I will want for nothing.
I'll never again need a thing..
So Enclose me. Encase me.
**** me slowly.
Your wants, your needs were subdued swiftly,
the moment you entered me.
And I hate you. I spit on you.
I hope you burn in hell.
Your a thief!
I hope you burn eternal in return for my soul you stole!
My stomach now swoll,
And any day now will be empty once more.
A shell of what it used to be.
So Enclose me! Encase me!
Erase that part of me!
Erase the empty hole ,
the part of me that now will never feel whole.
Erase me...
What do I have left to me?
No  pride, no dignity....
Mourning  the loss of this  innocent child .
Soon to be born unto me, just furthers my misery.
Yes please, turn the knife even further.
Please deepen these wounds that scar me eternally ,
Internally.
Abandon me.
Just leave me be..
To stand alone on the jagged rocks,
Amidst the murkey black waters of my own mind.
What little of you, you made mine.
And what was mine, you then took for you.
We are now one in the same? No.
Are we not?.... No!
NO!! *******! I spit on you!
Because I can no longer see the difference
Between me and you,
All I see is you!
And I hate you!
You, the no-face
Who maimed me with a violence that simply can't be erased.
You who left me crumpled there,
Gasping, fighting  for air.
Left me with a hole that now I can never fill.
Not even with a prescription pill.
Just take it! ******* take it all,
Just let me fall.
Because I can not keep pace
With this direction you've chosen my life take.
This is all because of you!
You no name, no face, no heart bearing *******...
I spit in your face!
And though any physical pain will one day cease,
And these wounds, they to will close.
Inevitably in the end,
I 'll  be forgotten by everyone .
but me....I will forever remember.

Like shiny new yesterdays, my pain will be renewed..
A pain I know now,rather intimately.
The very same pain that follow me now...endlessly.
Constantly taunting, reminding, and haunting me.  
The girl I was before you tore my innocence from me.
Washed it clean of me...
leaving me on the shores of morbid curiousity.
This all I've left of me.
nothing but questions left to circle around me
Making me  dizzy.
Hopelessness run throughout my entirety.
I am simply treading water.
Taking up space.
Another victim without a case.
Insomnia settles into the vacant space you placed.
Leaves me feeling even more insane.
You may be the death of me.
Nothing but my ashes to settle
Along the bottom of a vase,
As you Enclose me.
Encase me in a vase.
Erase me.
Place my body 6 feet beneath thee
And one day I pray,  peace be  restored to me.
So that you can no longer hurt me.
Free me...
Of constantly  counting the hours of the days,
That may be left to me.
Days marked by the number of breaths I take.
I count every tear that streak.
Take it. Take it all from me!
And then be gone from me!
Have you not taken enough of me already?
Have you not taken everything possible you could from me ?Take it!
You can have anything... if only I can go back.
Back to the old me.
Back before you ***** me....
                                                     M. Adkins
© Melissa Adkins. All rights reserved
Gerudo Dec 2012
There's a Tree wiThin our cenTer -
a Tree lies aT our core.
a Tree connecTs us all,
holding ThoughTs from us, and more.

iT Teaches us,
iT dreams wiTh us,
To us, iT is everyThing -
iT furThers us,
iT hinders us,
life is whaT iT will bring.

This Tree is us,
iT defines us,
connecTing us aT our core -
iT is our mind,
iT is our soul.
and iT is so much more.
RyanMJenkins Feb 2012
Love is the river that we're all emerged in.
We must embrace it for what it's worth if we ever hope to win.*

Going against the tide causes a lot of frustration
While standing still only furthers contemplation.
Whatever your muse, only you choose to do what you do,
and as your eyes gaze upon that big beautiful blue
you must ask yourself what's best for you.
For in this time when we are carried by the grandest emotion,
you see that the river expands, into an ever-growing ocean.
Jh Nov 2014
Boxed red wine and the stench of cigarette smoke
seeping through the cracked door of the back porch
brings back memories of childhood
Another hole in the wall resides next to the liquor cabinet
the size of your father's forehead
You wrote a novel on your wrists with your fingernails
about the stitches he needed from the fall
You wept to me
Saying the fissure in the wall felt
like the countless hours your mother spends
in front of the computer screen playing spider solitaire
She forgot to ask how your first day of school was
for the second year in a row
You don't remember the last time she slept
You said every night spent in that house
taught you what the inside of a coffin feels like
The photograph next to your bed
of a smiling family of four
taken on your seventh birthday
Whispers a story of a mother who refuses to speak
the name of her firstborn child and
Writes its own eulogy
about a light that was put out
fifteen years after it was ignited.
You said time does not heal wounds
it just furthers you from who you once were
what you once had
Now you wake up every night gasping for air
after dreams of a devastated car wrapped around a tree.
This is just a story, nothing more. Nothing in this is related to anything I have had happen to me.
Thescientist Jan 2016
One can easily take that pungent taste on their tongue
and turn it into an emotion.
But it will only describe that who is you. In truth.
She is so carefully crafted, not a true wordsmith,
but with a scornful mouth indeed.
And her language cuts deep in others,
but her pain showing as volatile and misleading.
A sensation so subjective,
that it needs no signal from the brain.
Taking her is similar to a hint of arugula
and a side of unwanted dill, or the lack of water
while swallowing a pill.
The self-pitty only flies with birds.
There is no beauty in antagonistic pride.
It only furthers the alienation.
And there is no life jacket
when drowning in animosity and resentment.
Which is bittersweet in my opinion.
james nordlund Mar 2018
In a land where convenience furthers
Not perseverance, and 'ignorance is bliss',
Is amiss, as it's far more than "Godliness",
It being, "All", and n'er is perceived,
The universe of a grain of sand, as it,
Like love, grasped, Just falls from their hand,

Even the hollow of belief
Is an unattainable goal,
For the path less traveled
Is more travailed, n'er sold.  
In their opine,
Their best, "skol".


reality
An instant twig of poetree in retort to a quixotic naivate.
Donielle Apr 2017
You're a pillar of smoke
that rises up
out of a pile of ash leftover
from a fire I thought
I'd extinguished long ago.
You're the **** of a cigarette
now smoldering
much after I've quit smoking,
and the smell of you
reaching my nostrils
brings acid from my stomach
to my throat
and I'm forced to choke for a moment.
You're the dark ring
around the tub
even after years of scrubbing,
and I hate it because
it reminds me of the rings,
dark and stubborn
around my eyes.
You're the agitated
pressure marks
on either side of my nose
from the glasses I habitually wear
although I've far outgrown them.
You're the splinter
that sits just far enough beneath my skin
that any attempt to remove it
just furthers my irritation.
I can try to forget about you,
let you slowly work your way out,
but it simply takes one rub,
one bump in the right direction
to remind me
you're still there
and I'm sore all over again.
Simply the thought of you
makes me ache.

I ache from my shins
like I did that night
you swung a metal bar across them.
And my ***.
And my chest.
And the back of my head
when I tried to roll away from your thunder.
I ache from my lips
like I used to when they'd swell
from the contact of your palms
or your knuckles
or my teeth
so I could hold back my screams.
I ache from my throat
like I would for days
after you would grab me -
I swear you'd squeeze harder every time,
and if given a choice now,
I'd happily pick a noose
over your hand any day.
But most often I ache
from my head as a whole -
my eyes,
my nose,
my mouth -
my temples throb.
I can hear my own heartbeat -
Everything tingles
like when you would box me,
pack me up with your fists
into a small package,
sealed with the stamp
of your forehead
pecked against mine
like a hammer to a nail.

But every beginning has an end,
under pressure
diamonds are formed,
and it's only after a star is destroyed
that we see it twinkle from Earth.

Every bruised eye
has made mine shine brighter.
Every fat lip
has made my smile wider.
Every tear, every plea choked back
has made my song louder.

I am now
the tree you tried to cut down
but my seeds already fell
and I'm growing again.
I am the picture
you tried to shred
but I became a puzzle
and someone else
put me together.
I am the star
you tried to black out
with your darkness,
but I became the sun
and now it's summer time.
Trigger Warning : Domestic Abuse
Bard Mar 2019
Blame it on the system
That never helped those within
Blame it on the depression
That furthers a spiritual recession

Blame it on those around me
That ignore, deciding not to see
Blame it on the one at the center
That ignores the cold in winter

The blame rests on my back
The blame rests on all I lack
The blame rests there till I crack
The blame so restless a heart attack

As I fall into an abyss thoughts turn black
Hard fought steps forward just to fall back
The last call back as I step right off the track
Stand tall even as I sink into the depth lost in cracks

Cracks like valleys and in valleys a kindness
Escape from happiness and all that brightness
Lights so painful to my shadowed eyes  
Fights and spite my dark outcries

Lost in the shadow of the valley
The fire of rage snuffed nothing to rally
Acceptance of blame so biased is folly
Is there any blame out there really

The blame dies in my thoughts
The blame dies in my throat
The blame is just a frame caught
Snapped and shuttered shot

Nothing to blame when nothings wrong
Bad break after bad break nothing wrong
Abandoned by those close, nothing wrong
Expectations and high hopes somethings wrong

Assumptions of happiness and fulfillment
Consumption of giddiness and achievement
Got me dying of consumption
Lost in my own assumption

Get ****** over get put down doesn't matter
Bad luck but I still get up and it doesn't matter
Dont deserve any of it not the enemies not the hate it dont matter
Don't deserve any of it not the friends not the love it dont matter

I could die sad and alone completely undeserved
Or surrounded by those closest completely undeserved
I deserve nothing and if I get everything its completely deserved
For all my work to die in a gutter or a home is what I deserve
PJ Poesy Nov 2015
Ambitious as love may be,
integrity has lost sanctity.
As silver train follows slug,
bride or groom or just garden ****?

Not easy to tell, these rapid days.
In any case, I'm not amazed.
For in a place of paradise,
would not all exist, is my surmise.

Yet, within that Eden a serpent lied,
but question still, who let it inside?
Eve forever blamed, an original sin,
much too played out, over and over again.

Find new fault within this thought,
for has not all men bought his wrought?
How original can it be,
when been repeated sea to sea?
Let not these troubles worry thee,
for only furthers society's anxiety.
G Oct 2015
A drowsy mind
furthers a crack in the pavement.

The hope of a static day
is suffocated by his breath.

He then carries
the torpid body,
across the bridge.
Bryan Aug 2022
Whatever's clever
And furthers your endeavor,
Allow it to continue forever...
It's my pleasure.

May the happiness you seek
Find its way into your week
And you never let the meek
Trap your tongue in cheek.

Just spit it out and speak.
Inside my heart lives an angelic devil
She has possessed me with her charming demons.
Every last word I utter is shadowed by a heart shaped smoke
And every time I feel weak she lift me up with her broken wings.

She full fill my incomplete dreams
Like tyra does to her next top models.
When she walks on the idle with he penicured devil nails
I am afraid not to expose the scars she planted with her sharp nails on my garden.

She is my volcano, when I see her I can taste the lava from the layer of my stomach
And feel the heat through my throat.
As my heart impatiently wait for the lava to evaporate
She would melt it down with her icy lips and snowy breath
As if she knew the temperature my body couldn't withstand.

When she smiles my heart earthquakes
And my soul floats inside the hole of Satan.
I wonder how she does it, stretching her wings with missing furthers
And fly like an hungry owl.

She's an angel with horns
Horns where all her strength lies on.
She's an angel with a long tale
A tale that measures the existence of our love.

This devil is an angel.
This angel is devil.
It breaks my heart and quickly mends it.
It marks my garden with its nails and gives me the reason to leave but I fail to
For those marks are a the lines she trace in search of me.
She drew a map on my garden! This angelic devil is smart!

Inside my heart lives an angelic devil
Burning every vein that keeps my heart awake
Man this heart burn feels so phenomenal.
She is fire, she burns our bond with no smoke.
The Guardian Feb 2018
Why should you really strain my freedom?
Never prayed for much
Never wished for less
Why should my fellow sister do your chores?
You are always outdoors
While they wipe your ***** floors
Too lazy to work
You forced my fellow brother to labor
He totally left home and I lost a neighbor

Discriminated against
Pampered with racist insults my hand can’t prevent
Blood dropping with my instinct pulse
The feeling of power made you forget to respect yours adults
I waited on society for results
But In return I received a bag full of insults.

I ask why you should strain my freedom
Should I always stay silent?
While you keep on being as violent
Would my request be as granted?

All I ask for is freedom
Paradise stop
The sound from my furthers flop
Please unchain my Africans as you let them hop with joy

— The End —