"genus" poems
Society, it pins us against each other;
Chubby girls are forced to hate themselves all the ads that say they are not right and that makes them cry at night. They defend themselves by calling littler girls sticks which makes those littler girls suffer;
Gays are forced to hide or "pay for the crime";
We are all separated into our own cliques where we are forced to stay.
A nerd and a **** are forced to hate one another because the athletic and genus differences. Society is cruel but its hard to keep are judgement under control.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
From the woodlands of Madagascar
To the highlands of Ethiopia
Dwell nine species of lovebirds.
Their genus name is Agapornis,
From the Greek agape (love) and ornis (birds).
The French call them Les inséperables
While affection between compatible pairs
Can be a joy to behold,
Lovebirds can be quite territorial
And will defend their nest.
Sexually dimorphic they mate for life.
Like all parrots they need to be well
Socialized and taken care of.
They are very vocal, making loud
High-pitched noises, especially
In the early morning time.
Stocky little birds
With short blunt tails
You can hold them
In the palms of your hands.
They love to snuggle,
They love to preen.
Happy birds: together.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Freedom At Kannyakumari
“The destiny of India is molded in her class-rooms”
Kothari had no confusion; no vision on the fusion-
of the East and the West, as Swami Vivekananda’s vision,
“The comingling of the East and the West will dawn a new Era”.
As tissue culture, transplantation or cloning
we Indians imbibe the Western Culture;
or as G.M cotton or brinjals,or tomato
Indians are produced, transmuted
destroying the very indigenous genus for material growth.
Ayurveda is preserved not in Sanskrit but in English letters, now !
Followers of Lord Maccaulay as obedient servants,
by experiments,bring up Indians only in blood and colour-
in every other respects-Europeans
(using imperialist - capitalist media);
poor sycophants ,for a visa,
the Indians: now , turn to the West for light,
leaving the bright light under the Urn;
cry for a way of progress, safety and food;
and beg:once self reliant nations as cells of a body
No retrospection or introspection,
only putrefaction, hence , no resurrection.
On August 15th ,at Kannyakumari beach , beside me,
a bare body of a woman(my sister?) lay asleep;
I witnessed at the starry cold mid-night:
the surging sea spitting frothing snow
upon the black rocky *******
protruded, greasy, mossy. bare but fair ,
ever young at the feet of Bharat-matha.
Wet in the salty breeze , from the foul smell of death,
I walked and walked searching shelter,
but no room for a single son with meagre wealth.
The tourism net -workers with the thirst of mosquitoes
hummed around me with highly rented room offer-
source of tourism exploitation- I bargained,
till, morning red balloon rose up in the Eastern horizon
cleaving the vapours of the sea,
when , thousand tongues chanted Gayathri;
then , the locals thronged around the woman on the shore;
somebody among them, staring blear eyed
as the police jeep and the ambulance arrived , bewailed
“O! Gayathri, my darling, O! Gayathri…” Unsoothed.
The chanting and the yelling dissolved in the breeze
that passed by the Vivekananda rock, afar, south
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
title: not god, but his clock, will gnaw at us: that we are mortal, and agitated by a libido to continue, as to why the immortals find us so cosmic, for the worth of not exacting a better joke prescribed to other genus archetypes... whether the atheists believe in a blind-watchmaker is beside the point... the actual conjuring of the ultimate engineered thing will undo us... only the gods could have engineered time... space? they can't fathom space, the gods could only engineer time, but they couldn't engineer space: the cliche, think outside the box? even the gods know nought concerning this; and if there is only one god... he has been lodged into a letter: θ - a 1 inside a 0; the being already confined... even gods have limits beyond the stressor of supposed immortality... they can't engineer space... all they can engineer, is a transcendence of time... only mortals, men, can engineer the concept of space... hence nations, hence borders, hence differences, hence the concept of magnetism and repulsion... if gods engineered time, then men engineered space... as now, and forever, will remain so, the quest for a cosmic joke / clue.
it won't be the blind-watchmaker
who eats us up,
the the clock itself -
it will devour us,
it will gnaw our flesh toward
the bone,
and then with out bones
play an instrument
to glorify its procession down
the aisles of our endeavours
to express civility...
was there any to begin with?
our temporal anxiety, being mortals,
equates itself
with the spatial anxiety of the immortals
(gods).
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC
Preventing contamination,
A constant challenge in cell culture.
Contamination not only affects,
The culture in question and,
Costs time and money,
But also endangers the reproducibility of results.
No cell culture problem,
Is as universal as that of culture loss
Due to contamination.
Generally, contamination may be separated,
Into categories of microbial,
And eukaryotic contamination.
Examples of microbial contamination include:
Bacteria (including Mycoplasma),
Fungi and yeast;
Eukaryotic contamination includes:
Cross-contamination with other cell lines.
Bacteria, yeast and fungi,
The three more common types of contamination,
But luckily these forms are often detectable,
Under the microscope and,
By visual cues,
Like colour or turbidity changes in the medium.
Mycoplasma is a small genus of bacteria,
That lack a cell wall and for this reason,
They remain unaffected by common antibiotics.
They are also difficult to detect,
With standard microscopes,
Due to their size, about 0.1 μm in diameter,
And the fact that they often attach to host cells.
To prevent contamination,
Use 70% ethanol for disinfecting,
Equipment & surfaces,
Related to cell culture.
Sterile filter the media first,
Before bringing to the lab.
Fetal Bovine Serum,
A potential source of contamination,
Contains mycoplasma.
Filter it at 0.1 μm, or,
Gamma irradiate it.
Aseptic technique,
Necessary.
The laboratory workers be the last,
But not the least source of contamination.
Teach them the ideal laboratory practices,
To ensure asepticity in a laboratory.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
The Mockery of Fairyland
In silence watching, as fellow, fallow fairies dance,
Sylphs float above while gnomes furrow,
Donating water brothers.
Undine.
Spiritual creatures, unseen.
Creation of nature from nature.
Mankind evading.
Those fairies will still catch your eye,
In form of genus butterfly.
God forbid you meet them.
Stumble on their fairy rings.
You should never ever tell a fairy your name.
For in fairyland you may remain.
For safety's sake.
While you're out walking in the woods.
Inside out, you must wear your shirt,
Wear a ring of of iron!
So you can breach the fairies curse.
For in seven year cycles.
Fairies must donate to hell.
A good soul,Tam Hin.
Because he tricked the fairy queen.
She had to set him free.
Ti's said.
As man folk mate.
Fairies do true procreate.
In a way akin to ours!
Hybrid fairies once existed.
They were such melancholy souls.
Far too sad to live in fairyland.
Too fairy like to live on earth!
Titania she still sits waiting patiently.
For her Oberon to arrive.
King and queen of fairyland, in literacy.
Supreme?
No Fallacy!
By ladylivvi1
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
Letters of the day.
Perhaps Apollo snapped his string
And shot into the beings below:
Synecdoche.
Illuminate your ink markings,
said He,
My eyes long to see images leap from your words.
Write creatures, Write.
Interpretation was weaved together,
And the god was satisfied.
For these words began to walk,
Then dance all around him.
As the edges of his mouth curled upwards,
As the parts synchronized,
As the genus became the species,
As the species became the genus,
A new definition was formed.
The world celebrated the melodic movements
Of mere symbols.
Today’s world must continue the dance
Carry it through screen and paper,
So Apollo remains amused
As all watch the words sway with the wind.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 4:58 PM UTC
There are the two choices. Wicked, wheel-men curving towards that which I wear in the evening when I paint on my black suit. The pitter-patter of organic matter, the Metropolis ground fresh. You tell me raspberry, I tell you I am not impressed. And then from the inimical lips, those bards from distance, sand spots and hordes of watering holes I place fresh Republicans on- and they were stealing the magazines.
Jury on.
Four devils they figure some, four devils. A anthelmintic potion to square away the worms. The pink worm, who takes long-distance telephone calls on your roommates only moments before the red worm, his head shriveled and his limbs crying from ****** she the blue curly worm; she is what we've been looking out and everything about this evening has slipped in the pattern we expected. Red light in fact,
They used the concatenations of frog legs(this was the big deal since My Mother loved the chelura of some tropical varieties of frogs and funny-legged), banjax the first one before the weather catches the summary being the news. Going as far as the the ecstasy of officials leaving the scene. The species catching its last names of life- genus and family alike racing towards safety.
And so I build in the fly zone. I haggle for President, and make sacred the realms of figures; denaturalized are the entanglements of humans, even whatever the mephitic and bellicose shadows shend and fordo their greatest powers.
I lull and lust, my pugnacious frazil, just like my recalcitrant logomachy that I ****** and slide angrily and profusely with m and everything I try to do. Just so long as you can see me usufruct and lobby forthright the message.
Mine. Hate. Anxiety.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
Poem Analysis
1st read, I thought gibberish,
2nd I thought Hmmm,
3rd I thought interesting,
4th I felt genius. billy
your poem comment-dissects my poem
my process,
a marathon interview for a new poem pole position,
limb by limb, word by word,
chewed and re-chewed,
like a tiring piece of bubble gum,
the flavor remaining ebbs, but is not extinguished,
and can live in your mouth,
forever
and the praise and this poem,
not a rodomontade,
for your comment dear Billy,
is the process description of a poet’s labor,
from word first to a baby’s birth,
gibberish into genius
emergent from first pain, then pushing, then tilled, at long last,
the dirtiest immaculate conception beautiful
billy reads my rambling, silly abstruse^ & wrote me:
*1st read I thought gibberish,
2nd I thought Hmmm,
3rd I thought interesting,
4th I felt genius*
this is a much loved critique
for I well recall each step of creation,
a summarizing parallel
that your words+genes replicated so well,
forgiving you a minor typo, Billy,
it was genus, not genius that you meant
(but then again, why quibble over a miscellaneous, harmless, delighting, tiny little extra i...not me, said he, my muse ego )
Billy has gone gray dotted, but his dot, his comment,
with gratitude,
in me, he,
lives for ever
I feel gibberish coming on...
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 2:50 AM UTC
This aviator alone in his cabin
traveling back through time then.
Riding a zephyr to Venus
Contemplating his genus.
Glancing sideways at his bottle
He pulls back on the throttle.
Spaghetti-like wisps of mist
Blurring vision during the shift.
From space flight to ozone light
Coming in for a landing! Hold Tight!
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 7:25 AM UTC
*the ones warring on the flag of defeat can't be called either troll or parasite... too noble such entitlements, they are the **** genus worthy of ignorance, that they are found roaring on the flag of defeat, when such publicity is allowed of public musing deeper than soft-spoken in one's own room, as transcript of thought made public, ironically without one's geographic coordinates... and what lack of honour to be warring with such circumstances being allowed.*
i shouldn't have written my words among poets,
too many simplicities surrounded them,
with the poets came made surrogates,
a stillbirth, if nothing more
9 months of **** as the new economics
that gave us appreciative homosexuality,
a curbing of the expeditions of population
we didn't blame on Chinese or Blue Indians
due to having inherited masochistic Christianity,
the last greek mythology, THE, LAST!
and no more from the greek tongue! no more!
then the second feat of the suffragettes
that became the surrogates...
and yet, i stilled braved to sing
for the escapist tongue of
brotherhood that the misty mountain's cold
encapsulated... in which i braved
the brotherhood, every, second, counter,
to marriage to a woman...
domestication is no adventure! it's no adventure!
there is no fear and sudden death in
domestication... it breeds cattle! readied for
death not ready! *two dungeons deep and caverns old...
the pines were roaring on the hight!
the winds were mourning in the night...
the fire was red it flamed and spread,
the trees like torches, blazed with light.*
this... this is my ideal afterlife! take your Koran
and terrorism and take a **** in the desert with
the cats for worth of knowing such "exquisiteness"
as it might be worth mining in the dunes of sand!
while the thirst of metalloid and abstract horse-tow
gives your false timing...
and when you take this anger written on the flag
of defeat, and turn to warring with it on your own
flag of defeat... you will be conquered,
slain and tortured, as is my promise, always
honourable.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
Sands of time
tinkling through an obscure artefact
the light in you as you recognise your own.
Why and how are long-trodden tracks, forgotten
as my mind unfurls with a fresh green vine
whence before the stubborn old clung dry, and crisp,
those bitter octogenarians of perception.
R&M;, those sweet surprises
winking from behind a hidden door
were small shards in the bright crystal of our day
that felt woven only for us.
You trailed your fingers in the lukewarm water
And across my neck, both, at every opportunity
the warmth of the day
to turn to burning heat of us as light and inhibition fell.
'.....a thousand kisses deep', you read
And those you gave enthralled me
Cruel-clever Fate, to plant us as seeds apart
that sad, never understood genus or cure
to find now the curlicues of tendrils touch
And all to make pure, beautiful, joyful sense
our flashpoint clear in its providence.
How clear and fine, luminous, perfect
your touch and kindness and intellect drew
these feelings from myself, not forgotten
but rather, felt in that day anew.
an older......deeper.....creature are you
curled in dark and bookshelves and things unmachinated
You're art, and never be apologetic
your sorrows, twisted mad moments and lust
sift through you to paper, golden dust
and I find you entrancing
in no hesitation
still, I find I've one eye on the snare.
A red orb signalled our day into night
red wine and red running beneath my skin
I see you so clearly my dear, in mind's eye
and know the feel of your hair in my hands
and your elegance contrasts with slyness and salt
and the glint in your eye with its knowing purport.
Forgive me, I cannot relay
all I felt
forgive me, I cannot I know, more I can give?
but know, incandescence you drew from me surely
for you, kindred soul, have reminded me- live.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
1
O' sprite full Maia, come attire our lands with your boundless prize-
Of joyful swelling by the nature's pleasing bloom,and green surprise,
To sprout a floral bedding,round the yards and shades for worthy dales;
And birds will spin their adorned bowers over the dewy boughs and vales.
2
Hail! to you goddess, deck the forest’s lingering beauty, thus come:
Let streams to flow across the thick and- bushy meadows over your prime,
For hawthorn white and lilies to bud, and converse fragrance in air,
To wind down our minds with breezes- blow,groovy lifts cool us lighter.
3
Mid mate of months, come and show your
primeval splendor and glee,
While south is praising vintager’s autumn,
North's propitious spring does fly,
And make the country lush with garden- fruits,the sweetest scents they spray,
To fill each rose with flavors long,
for all the ardent grooms they pray!
Come Glitter, glitter ***** rays-,
and sun is warm in moderate mood;
Behold! the coming of her-,
bees gathered among the newly buds
Nithin Purple from 'Halcyon Wings.'
REFERENCE:
*Maia— Greek goddess of May month
*Hawthorn—A spring-flowering shrub or small tree of the genus Crataegus.
*Vintager—A person who harvests grapes for making wine.
***** rays—Attraction of sunlight towards flowers, showing a dependency.
*Sprite—Middle English: alteration of sprit, a contraction of spirit.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
Glasses thick
Brilliant mind
But not my pick
To bump and grind
Legs akimbo
Astute *****
But better a window
Than a door
Grade A student
Pass your tests
Keep tongue fluent
Off my *******
Red mark checked
Thesis compiled
You'll never wreck
Me **********
Quantum ****
Solve any issue
Keep your ****
In a tissue
Quick sharp thinker
Professor adored
But I can't finger
Your SAT scores
Six degrees
Pencil *****
Modern Curie
acne genus
-r0
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
put down thy pen,
it is in disrepute,
smash thy tablet,
crack its glass...
house the mouse,
don't be an ***
genus human,
you have been
antihero morphed
anthromorprophesized,
****** simply, replaced
you poem prophecy
returned,
stamped,
Unneeded, Unread, Unheeded
you have been excused,
you have been recused,
jury, a chamber of inconclusive noises
dismissed,
the judge will digitally
write all
from now on...
submit your selected tags
for laughs,
a different poem returned to you,
by a digital "humanist"
what do I crave?
give me your youthful typos,
let me literate critique
the good, the bad, the
trite repetitive and especially
the ugly
poetry,
the kind only
humans can write
so I love or hate it,
your literacy,
with impassioned dispassion,
the kind no machine will e'er transcend
pull the plug on your random alphabet generator,
Eliot of York,
or you might find yourself
upgraded into unempoement!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
We should have gone outside instead of watching one
of the sillier, senseless, meaningless movies it is possible
to rent or buy. Winter or not the fields and woods
are at least real, commensal and understandable if
you know the genus and species. Know the genome
and biome. Learn the physics and music.
But this much reality requires an escape, hence
bad movie. A bad book is better than a bad movie.
A good movie trumps a bad book, but a good book is best
and a great poem trumps all. Will my son Zach be one
who applies the scientific method? Can Aaron explain
God's intentions to the people? Their mother and I will wait.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Apple taste
Placed atop
Your head--
Shotgun
*Klu
Klux
Klank*
Bang
00 Buck
Shattering
Thine
Crystalline
*****
Optera
Forever
Encased
Behind Glass
Locked and keyed
Plead
Plead
Please
Let me out
To
Use my wings
I'll allow myself
This
Dream
Only for a
While of
Rubbing
Antennae
(With"you")
Caked
In Pollen
(All the other children used
To laugh at my unobtrusive
Thorax)
I forgot
The taste
Of Breeze
Please
Free me from
This prison
Cell
Inside
Your
Nucleus
Warm and inviting
I think
I could learn
To lov-
To lo-
No, I understand
You don't use the L-word
In this
Kingdom
Phylum
Class
Order
Family Genus
Species
You
Use much more subtle
Habitual
Mating Rituals
Practiced by
Boys
And Girls
Alone
Once
Their government
Handbooks are issued
Ashamed and
Full of doubt
They seek out
The silence
Offered on
Forgotten
Moons
Where they can
Meditate to
The infinite hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm of the universe
You can hear it
Now
If you listen close
Enough
*Almost
A
Whispering
Deep inside (me?)
I
Think
I could...
love you*
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
there’s more
than 1 theory
in string theory, more than 1 dimension too
sometimes 4, others 26
all of which but few
are flat
genus 2 donuts would have less dough
some things are super
symmetrical, quarks
didn’t exist ‘til 1968, my attention span
shortens
to 5 feet 2 inches, when a String smiles back.
it’s intuitive
that 2 quarks attract
when pulled apart. a tachyon
fits cross legged
in a chair. gum pops sing
and the theory is boring without fermions.
strings absorb in the D-branes
of blue eyes
and matching glasses. stray
hairs, electrified with brilliance
warrant cats
that even Schrodinger knows are alive
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 2:44 PM UTC
There is chaos here
Inside my head
Quit trying to analyze me
You won't get me any more than I do
Just ask and I'll tell you all I know:
I am pandemonium
Absolutely insane
At times I am one way
At others I am another
Sometimes I can't remember what I've done
Where I've been
Who I am
I am anarchy
The rebel yell
A superior genus of rage
My anger is endless
But I can't let it show
Unless someone feels to close
I won't let it free
I am ugly
Appearance
Personality
Thoughts
I am hideous
And I wake to the knowledge daily
I am bitter
I let my wounds fester
And when the seep with the unresolved
They are the fuel I use
To snap out at those who try to know me
Stay away
I am desperate
After my fangs have ripped you open
Put yourself together
And reach out again
And I'll follow
Like the dog Life's made me into
Never again will I bite
The hand that feeds me
I am greedy
It's yours, so I want it
And if I can't have it
I am jealous
I am green
I am murderous
Give. It. Here.
I am hateful
They say they are ugly
They say that to me
How?
Can they not see my face?
Who's ugly, compared to this?
I hate them.
See?
I've told you all about me
Why you'd want to know? I've no idea.
There's more, of course
But I've disgusted you enough for the day
Now shoo
Go away
Or I'll bite
I'll kick
I'll scratch
How dare you try to get close?
I won't show you how I actually feel!
I wear this smile- even through the tears
And when you enter my room
And see me strung from the ceiling
Eyes ever open in death
I'll still be smiling
Like the insane girl I am
As testament to
The pandemonium inside me.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
things I know nothing of
things I know little of
things I know more of
things I know all of
where should I wander?
where should I linger
seriously?
lighten up. time I know, little
enough,
now is, then was, soon
we see
we note
we mark the place on this horizon
that big star rises
or seems to rise
from, but now we know,
some how that star is moving in
time, same as me
how can any knower know
the sweet influences of pleides?
look closely,
------------------
this time, this generation
here,
we're smart, we can do math in poems
12800 years ago, 1280 decades,
128 centruien measures in each
of which, lay remnants of four generations
of **** sapiens,
of **** sapiens sapiens, and
of **** sapiens sapiens augmenticious,
all mixed up and tangle tongued.
Now, 512 generations of beings of our genus
since the
speciation of we, the people of earth;
this time, this generation
now,
we're smarter, more able to know and use
the knowing, than any
we imagine real
before us
in these past five hundred and twelve steps,
from mitomom,
to you. Individuatible you.
to you, thinker of thought things,
to you, thinker of thought things augmented
by with for through witty
inventions, for instance, example gratis, et al
the Vitruvian man made the Vitruvian wheel,
tapping the flow of rain returning to the sea, pulling, nicely, with thanks, at first,
to the river,
power at a rate of two kilo watts per hour,
The old mill stone groaned as it ground seed
that could'a' been boiled
and chewed, but for the lack of knowing
how a fire could be started,
after all the ashes have grown cold.
Oops, time skip. Now, then back
Gen one, post all hell breaking loose
who knew how to start a fire?
was it a secret kept for the few who knew?
Was prometheus as real as jesus,
had we any evidence of things unseen,
had we any substance of things hoped for?
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 1:13 PM UTC
I emerge
fish scarred,
drenched in silence.
A new genus.
Evolved.
Breathing the still
palpable air.
Careful not to drown,
from the scent of noises.
I live now in a land of doors.
I can choose to live behind any of them,
thousands and thousands of them
different versions
same outcomes.
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 1:14 PM UTC
I have discovered that my blocked nose
is not the reason I can’t smell roses.
The smell has been cut out of the genus
for the sanity of sensors on cargo airplanes.
What then, about my children and their’s,
when they discover old books for themselves
and ask questions about the smell of flowers?
About poetry, and the Nineteenth century?
How would I tell the tale of family Plantagenet,
with flags as dead as Lancaster and York?
This tragedy seems so terribly unfair when roses
are so much prettier than instruments on planes,
every petal a miniature piece of God’s own skin.
I need to walk down to the roadside florist if I can
get out of this sweaty blanket into this chilly weather
and find one of these ****** roses so I can dismember
its petals one by one. I must disembowel this litany if I can
she loves me, she loves me not, she wants me extinct
bred out of this world for convenience,
just like the forgotten smell of those roses.
The tragedy to be told is that women are not supposed
to be the main course in your life, the glorious bouquet of roses
that you set the table around. They are more like condiments
to an existence already charmed, but if the ketchup has gone rotten
it tends to put a damper on how everything tastes and everything smells,
I can’t smell the flowers and there are too many forks.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
I eat flesh
prowl alone, for four legged prey
in the alligator juniper, on the gray peaks,
where I am invisible, if still, or quivering
slightly from the west wind, snow chilled
in the craggy highlands
the beasts of the plain
scavenge…in packs,
they devour the upright ones who fed them,
leaving guilty trails of blood in the bleached sand
I share their genus, their jackal jaws,
not their betrayal, nor their lust for the ****
for me, the meal has no taste, only the scent
of silence, the sound of one hand clapping
sating me for another sunset, another dark night
where my ears twitch, cautiously
in rabbit chasing sleep
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
Stomach Churning Mankind, Dizzy spells over the Human Race.
I question and turn, "the top of the food chain."
Creators of technology, bringers of pain.
Yet I see small weakening cracks all over their face.
Attention seekers, stalkers and unwanted love,
psychologically misguided, socially excluded.
small secrets and whispers, where one always intruded;
gossip carried into the skies, like feathers light, above.
Ripping at one's defined thought, ruining it with paranoia,
Pushing one's life aside, focusing on obsession,
Wishing nothing but a pair of eyes, some sort of detection;
a heart leading nowhere, lips quivering with question.
Women are 'weak' men are 'pathetic'
children barely bear name aside ignorance.
teenagers with morality that is of absence.
And the old are useless, eyes bearing something synthetic.
I sit here and give myself every insult; I belong to the Genus.
I feel feebleness grip my heart, that is when purpose diminishes.
I question if old power was real; Caesar, and Dominus!
And I realize, "Every story can be made," And that is where thought finishes.
- N.C
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 7:09 AM UTC