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Dan Hess Feb 2014
Happenstance to the melancholic gives leave the sin of pride.
Inbound reconnaissance tells not the bearer of influence.
Squeamish at first: a foreshadowing of calamitous bonding.

A space between the mark of corporeal and the ethereal; a stringent hiatus
That which rattles the concrete foundation of morality is scarcely a malleable recourse.
Regret stains the unfounded soul: an enigma of ephemeral perforations.

A separation of the unmitigated humanities; misandry topples the writhing snake.
Impact; a cleansing of the maker's flaws integrated solemnly.
Complacency arrests the administration of the abhorred; unbridled is the autonomy of a guru.  

Ambivalent giftedness burdens the reliant and haughty.
A flick of the tongue brings forth the cinema mortem.
Castaway: alone to wade in the sea of obscenities.

A temporal causality allows no mourning to abscond.
Negligence is not the enemy, but indulgent wrath.
Hesitant: a stroke of qualia begets the end of a maiden.
Vicki Kralapp Mar 2018
What’s more important, a gun or a life,
a religion, belief, or a child?

Our focus is lost, on extremes that have cost,
us the lives of the many defiled.

Weapons, religion, and money, we’ve made,
give us power to help or defend.

But the weapons we’ve made, and the choices they gave,
became blood of the many that died.

Religions of earth still dividing our world,
were created for souls to be fed.

And money and gold, here to help, we’ve been told,
made us greedy and haughty instead.

We forget that mankind is much greater than these,
calling us to refocus our hearts.

For these can be solved with one law you recall,
that encompasses all of mankind.

Mankind: our brother, our sister, our mother,
remember, that we all are one.

Let me ask this again, what’s important to men:
a child, a belief or a gun?
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
lX0st Dec 2018
I keep the shower window open
In 20 degree weather
There’s somethin’ about feeling
The freeze and burn together
Fusing two halves,
Fueling one desire
Steam pries at pores, like
Needle nose pliers
Winter exploits wounds
Haughty exhales through
Diamond ****** wrist cutters
Cascading
Cherry brandy drain water
Licking ankles purple
Branding Frost’s musings
As my final verse
Fire, ice — whichever comes first
Duality be ******,
I favor efficiency
I’ll marvel as *******
At the sadist who takes me
But know that, once
Is all I can endure
And of this, I am sure
Xant Feb 2018
He's up there
The lonesome astronaut,
with a will to fly,
and a skill of flight

He and a star
that have just collided
both dies gracefully
Like a flower withering in spring
But the star still haughty
And so full of itself it explodes
Into a supernova

He and the star
that emits the brightest light
And obscures the eyes
of whoever that sees
As he dies ever so faithfully

And the flaring light?
Blinds thousands as it emerged
in the darkest seven p.m.
But we were wildly astonished
by the lonesome astronaut
who was a dashing astronaut

-2018-
A poem inspired by a song.
Andrew Rueter Nov 2017
I thought you were a cute
Until you began being obtuse
Forcing me to see through your ruse
But if you could stand in my shoes
You'd know what it's like to lose
The chance at your treasures
And feeling your pleasure
Because you're an endeavor
I would rather sever

You're purposefully vague
My mind perilously plagued
By what I did to deserve this
To be put on your haughty list
On the other side of your fist
I see through a ****** mist

The script of your crypt nondescript
Frustrating me until my mind is ripped
By the confusion
Of your illusion
Of passion and beauty
When you see through me
I look to other places for love
Instead of your obtuse mug
Lucius Furius Apr 2018
Do not think because I have a roving eye
that I am any less in love with you.
A knowing wink, a bashful smile, a haughty stare,
these are the terra incognita
which I, beauty's student, must needs explore.

But like Raleigh in Guiana, in search of El Dorado,
thinking of  his Bess,  
or Daniel Boone in Kentucky,
it is you I am thinking of, always,
and it is to you I will, Odysseus-like, return.
You can see the poem – with pictures – (and hear it) at https://humanist-art.org/do-not-think/ .
Lucas K Jan 2014
I am a ship.
There's nothing special about who I am,
for there are many like me.
Tall and proud,
small and brisk,
each with its unique direction.
Some to be admired,
others to take the risk,
all carved in false perfection.
Yet there is one simple wish
to which we all aspire.
From the day our journey starts,
through the rough tests of the sea
to reach the safety of our haven
is all that we desire.

I am a wanderer.
Send me on a voyage to which I see no end.
I will take it gladly.
When I gaze into infinity
I see far beyond.
So mourn for me not when I set my sails.
I shall return.
Send me through the darkest storm
guide me past the reason’s plea!
I fear no rock nor waves or tide
I fear no whipping of the sea!

Yet, each wave I break
Leaves a crack in my haughty hull.

I am a wreck.
A shattered pile of glorified wood.
A cracked bucket
leaking out treacherous dreams
it could not hold
even when it should.
There are parts of me
sunken
lying numb in deepest chambers of the blue.
There are bits to see
floating
scourged tirelessly by everything
I ever knew.

I lie naked under face of the sky.
I am afraid.

I am driftwood.
Carried around by the will of the waves,
their salty lips against my wounds.
All that is left of me
rocks
in a steady
steady flow
ridiculed by currents
and wind.
Me…
Who am I?
That I do not know.
Perhaps
I do not care.
Today
I traded my spirit for hope
and despair...

Until one day
I am washed ashore.

I am a raft.
Piece after piece put in an awkward place
empty spaces sealed with fiery salt,
scars healed by its sweet embrace.
I am complete.
There’s a soul
clinging on to me with nothing else
but the warmth of her skin.
I am her guide
and she is mine.
I am taking her home
across eternal oceans
in search of haven upon a familiar shore
and I
am not afraid anymore.
Yenson Jul 2018
Yes, its the year twenty eighteen and not Nineteen forty-four

but comrades and friends, hear me out for I know not what to do

Do be kind and laugh you not, or raise your eyes or snigger like fools

the problem is, like Duke Philip, Mark Philips, Snowdon and Mike Tindall

I have known a Royal Princess for years and really like her very much



She is so sweet and nice, ever gentle, warm, kind and thoughtful

smart and clever, fun and playful yet regal and charismatic

and it is said, pardon moi, she has the sweetest honey ***, to boot

I know she fancies me too, for her intense eyes and actions tells me so

we talked, we joked, drink and laugh and share little tender touches



She lives in a grand little apartment and drive a lovely old car

well read, witty and engaging, she's fun and very good company

She,s impressively intelligent with a wide grasp of social issues and life

very versatile, she can turn her hand to anything and does things well

above all, she's a people's person, always sensitive to the needs of others



Alas, that was then, for now in months, we no longer see or speak

for I am a coward, right through and thorough and not very bright

You see I am, though no longer said, a commoner born and bred

and to me and my kith and kin, its always has been 'us and them'

And from birth, our tradition states, never the twain shall meet, so there!



For if I show my real feelings to my Princess and be real, nice and warm

I shall, by my lot be accused of being impressed by 'them snotty lot'

If I show I really care and want to be close and spend time with her

my lot will mock me to high heavens and call me a toady brown-noser

They will scream, crawler, fawner, he's just a flunkey and a groveller



Again, if with her I am real and natural as with all I know in my circle

they will say I am an arduous social-climber, being what he's not

And to boot, were I to be true to myself and have who I really want

I will be ******, shunned and labelled, a big 'Gold-digger,' true

Look at him, betraying his roots and all for shinning lucre from them



So being the coward, under-confident, paranoid, insipid under-achiever

traits, you all know and have, inherited from birth along with you all from our class

So what else to do, but drive my kind, real and genuine Princess away from me

I had to behave rude and shabbily to show I had no regard for 'them Royals' ones

I shouted and scorned to indicate I have no respect for any 'regal' whatever



Its all show with us, so I put on a good show and reported back to my lot

oh, I farted in the Princess' face and took the **** as we spoke, hahaha

Oh, I stood over the Princess and shouted and raved in public, hahaha

oh, I ignored her calls and never text or call her back, hahaha hahahaha

Oh, do you know, I shouted and slammed the phone down on her, twice, haha...haha



Wow, did I win bragging rights or what, I did not betray my roots, I tell you

I walk amongst my lot now with pride, and I can see they are all impressed

Some idiot said, hey! isn't the Princess just another human like you

did she treat you like that, are you not intelligent enough to see past labels

Have you ever heard, 'Do unto others as you want them do unto you'



Alone by myself, I feel ashamed, I think about her and wished I'd behaved differently

but what could I do, what's the right and correct thing to do in this situation

I am weak, I always need others, not confident enough to stand up for myself

Though educated, I am not intelligent enough to be self-assured, fair and measured

And all my insecurities means I need others attention, kinship and approvals



I love 'showing off', I think most of us do it to make up for our inferiority complexes

Nothing beats being able to say, I disrespected those toffee-nosed ones

Though my Princess was very down to earth and never haughty, she is still one of them

But I have to be a working class hero or be shunned and given grief by my lot

After all, I am not Royal and made of sterner stuff. we are not born and bred that way

Hahaha.....hahaha....hahaha........yeah, I'm the man! Who's your daddy, people?



Copyright LaurenceA. 14th June, All rights reserved.
kk Jul 2018
Sunshine!
Sickly yellow
slow-light colored streaks
slithering worse than sweat
down my body.
That golden ball stares down at me
like a haughty goddess,
her duality shallow and hot.
She cares not for the freedoms of humans.
She's a two-faced coin,
purgatory masked by the promise
of freedom from pained brains
and scholarly shackles.
The sun laughs at her own trickery, gargling through melting teeth
as she collects suppressed confessions
from weakened teens.
When her crescent counterpart
offers solace from her torment,
the moonlit darkness
only serves to drown us
and we splutter in our own
self-taught
year-round
lies.
And the sun
rears her tattered, flaming mane
at daybreak,
belly-laughing at idle minds now unrefined,
gleefully adding her own scorch
to already inflamed brains.
summer is worse for anxiety than you'd think
edit: adjusted enjambment
Sabila Siddiqui Sep 2018
Unfortunately you are not for everyone. Not everyone will like you. Not everyone will love you regardless of what you do and how nice of a person you are. Not everyone will vibe with your energy and not everyone will understand and support you.

Even though it is a bitter pill to swallow at times don't let it make a turmoil of your emotion and deplete your energy. Because your time and energy is so much more precious than exhausting yourself by shapeshifting to pander to the whims of others, moulding yourself to fit in every where and hence retaining no shape to call your own.

Choose not to sacrifice your uniqueness to succumb buttering up their bread. To Be selective with your energy by politely waving them goodbye to stand by your values and lifestyles that most deeply resonate with you. Choose to take social risks regardless of the awkward glances and haughty whispers. Choose to not care of what others think to the point it stifles your ability to take risks and disrupt your social satisfaction.

For there is nothing more liberating than to not waste your life allowing the faultfinders to dictate your actions. To seek to align your actions with your heart. To stand up for something, to do and believe what brings  content regardless of it being disliked. It is beautifully candor being your authentic self.
labyrinth Sep 23
What I will emphasize may look to y’all as history
From humanity's standpoint; it’s a big shame and mystery

It sure happened in the past, this ain’t a current topic
Or maybe still around, hurtful and traumatic

I’m not saying it all did start out with Avery
But it’s been a good home for too long to slavery

Man was treated and traded as goods in public auctions
Disgrace was all over but not a single sign for conscience

It’s not just the body, you also bought mind and soul
Wow! You must’ve paid a fortune to buy’em all

What happened to empathy? Please answer me Dear Sirs
Are you taking the fifth? Don’t you know what it refers?

You never thought of yourself in the body of color
Yet gave long *** speeches on dignity and honor

Rough and proud on surface to make them obey.
However rotten inside, and that was all okay

Why captivate a race and give them the stupid belief?
That they are secondary and all they deserve is grief

Motivation’s obvious; too much errand to take care
And Blacks came in handy to use rather than share

Don’t run away now, we just heated the subject
He is a human being mister, not a ******* object

Oh, I see, you don’t wanna face with the sheer fact
That indeed your cruel ancestors attacked

These innocent African tribes for no good reason
In a barefaced manner against the age of reason

And you’re not ready to pay for their deadly sin
Alright! Stand up and admit that we’re all close kin

It’s **** important. Do you even know why?
That is to say residues of slavery bye-bye

Opportunity gap, project houses, ****** education
Are the real meanings of the word, discrimination.

Biased justice with never ending prejudice on black
Are updated slavery forms deserving a good smack

People are haughty for the things they didn’t earn
Race and color are given, but they are yet to learn.

No man’s been a property for your royal dynasty
Facing and accepting this takes a lot of honesty

Freedom became vague, when society was stratified
Where the privilege owners were safely identified

By color, neighborhood and school in the whole nation
In ******* good-old days, during segregation

Therefore, do me a favor and don’t give me the cliché
That all **** sapiens had an equal say

That’s even nowadays neither valid nor truth
Let alone it would be then effective in sooth

For all the years they have chosen to be violent
Slave owners don’t even have the right to remain silent

Before giving me the crap on Afro-American’s wrongdoing
Let’s put you in their shoes and see how you’re doing

By the way, it’s not like Blacks need a defense from me
Look around, you’ll see how they get even with thee

Jazz, rap, hip hop, soul, reggae and blues for that matter
Or non-blacks dropping pants, what a cross-cultural endeavor

Look at youngsters' hands, when they’re saluting each other
Trust me, there is nothing white, it’s all from black brother

In return all belittle, denial, tyranny and attack
They are transforming and painting you solid black

It all began in New York with the Harlem Renaissance
Artistic, rebellious and witty. Possibly the best response

I know what I’m talking about with absolute faith
Once my home address was 135th and 8th

Stop pompously calling this junk as modernity
It’s in fact nothing but big-fat-white sovereignty

Nonetheless you are more than welcome to anticipate
That communities of color will in fact emancipate

You from yourself if you know what I mean
Too deep to grasp, huh? For what you have been

I seem to hear people are constantly asking me
As a white person. Oh no, sorry. A brown maybe

Why on earth am I now irritating the past?
Like what happened back then is not manifest

I suppose it’s both because of my aching heart
Feeling in the history for this vile part

And also because of my Turkish nationality
That’s Europe’s Black these days, with Asian paternity

Add to that as well, keenness for reality
Truth needs to be cried out, it’s my personality

This way or that way, what difference does it make
Ignore who says it. Embrace the truth for God’s sake

In case you couldn’t fathom, to whom I am addressing
I’ll clear that part for you, so you won’t have to be guessing

Aiming at the racist ones, words are my sole arsenal
And if you’re like them too, go ahead and take it personal

All great thinkers somehow felt deeply for human
With their vast and perpetual acumen

It’s not a duty assigned to philosophers only
We must do the same, so no race becomes lonely

There is no other way to the salvation of mankind
Notice it already and don’t insist on being blind

In case you still didn’t realize, what matters the most
It’s your effort to correct the problem we just diagnosed

Make no mistake, we don’t cry over spilt milk here
Action must speak louder than the words to clear

This longstanding injustice along with insincerity
A bleeding wound that is, blocking solidarity

Here’s your chance to make it all right again
Treat people equally. Regardless of why and when

Kindly stop acting like nothing happened in the past
Labyrinth says you can’t be enlightened without the quest
Copyrighted work
zen Sep 2018
A dozen fellows draped in threadbare tread densely,

Profligating goons in obsidian gowns
gathered under rainbow
moonshine shaking bronze hands,
howling and ******,   in the shambles of the moon,  
rap'n and nod'n to the notes of midnight.
The mellow marines mourned over malice,
lionizing over lost ones,
many howled venerated, exalted in wonder
in  favor of their thrilling grace, and delight,
and brilliance, and might!
but some neighboring sticklers,
    behaved haughty and in disdain,  
of the crowdy Cavaliers bellowing echoes
signaling out
                 to the seers of the sea,
singing to the wands overwatching the wedding,
and ravens listened,
   roving like noble patrolsmen.

Traveleres and trainees at sea
   humble and bright
niave, and frieghtened
in traverse,
           volatile and toiling,
           tireless,
Lunatics, (laughing, laughing, laughhing,)
Rumaging through rain,
fireciely,
rallying and rableroused,
through towering halls of mohogony,
     hefty and wholesome were their hearts
though, beast of the woodsy edifice
were foul and benumb
scowling with contempt,
haste to devide and devised to hindrance.

Hence the heroes heed
   to the valleys of rose, and violet,
and strawberry fields of forever,
 seeking Saint Nicholas,
in the bustling Byzantium,
      in the murky shadows of doubt.
Adrian S Dec 2
it's like a lustful liqour night.
like cool cigarettes.
warm bodies.
cold blades.
heavy words.
violent music.
vicious stares.
haughty hands.
like gunpowder waiting to jump the bullet.

it's like me and you.
Rich Hues Jun 10
This morning's opening scene
- A sunrise over a salt marsh.
The opening theme
- A song quickly thrown together by some swifts.

On an island, a short ferry ride from Venice,
People come to look at glass and peep through lace,
Which is the inverse to what they do elsewhere and where the most beautiful women in the world come to buy gowns.

I am out of my league but am tempted...
To use words like 'haughty' and 'pert'.  The cloth fits.

Mallow grows here - a reminder of home and of a place where the women are easier - but at the same time...

more complicated.
Julian Jul 2016
Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though ugly unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream
Life, Love and No Mathematics to God and Gain
Michael Briefs Aug 2017
I.
She moves like life from water!
She springs forth like the bubbling brook,
Splashing free, cool and joyful!
From above she comes, falling from
The grace of the Creator, Mother to Maiden,
From HER to here!

From the lonely droplet,
Clear and oval,
To the lovely rain,
Drenching in elemental purity,
She embodies a universe
Of vanishing, transparent organisms --
All busy like minute motors.
This infinitesimal society of her new self is,
At once, chaotic and harmonic,
Vast in its plenitude
But invisible to entities above.
This is her world within worlds (a cyclical vortex),
Whirling free and purposeful,
Gyrating and making
Things happen!

She grows through her years to the placid pond:
She is calm and open in support of the swimming,
Leaping, floating, flying, green, yellow,
Brown, red, violet, fragrant, sweet and earthy
Communities who have befriended her ---
We surround her, humming our odes maternal.

She evolves to the raging river and plummeting falls;
A being of turbulence --
Rushing, plunging
And exploding into the air!
Submersed within, she sculpts a sharp edge
Of wit and cunning; subsumed inside the surging flood,
She shapes smooth circulars,
The stones of her ideals, hard-won,
Perfected for her slingshot battle-cry!
Her watery voice is now a full-throated roar,
Haughty, rebellious and self-possessed!
With it, she will stand against and subdue the giants
Who dare to constrain her purpose or deny her worth!
Still, the sonar of her soul also emits waves
More limpid:
The lyrical, ripple-pulse of the river,
Melodically mingled
With the shifting sunbeam and the wafting breeze.

There are sensual silences of unspoken longing
That spill, slip and spin upon quieter currents.
She emerges with all these energies…
Our homes may drift asleep in her care.
We move and live over her wet,
Strong, sultry shoulders.
She carries us through our lives.

Her destiny is, finally, joined to Mother Ocean.
Vast. Powerful. Earth-embracing.
She lets go of doubt as she is drawn into it –
Undeniable, unrelenting, untamed.
Caught in the undertow of desire, of
****** rapture, her tinder temple trembles.
She is lost in a clinging, clutching chaos, quaking
From the erogenous flesh and *** of her source.
All of her essence dissolves into a spherical suffusing;
A filling and expanding need.
Deeper…
Darker -- a sounding blue inside her.
The leviathan of lust descends, arriving at a level
Teaming in mysteries.
Here, there are a myriad of eyes searching
In the hot marrow within.  
Above, the thunder, wind and riptide wave;
Below…the deathly, serious
Silence that reveals the primordial
Drone of the universe –
The vibration of the heart of God --
In the midst of all things known or merely intuited.
Wisdom uttered in a language we hear, we understand,
But we fear to speak…
Yet, in a twinkling of the eye, sometime further ahead,
Above the storm,
We will know,
Speak from our hearts,
And be safe, in her fathomless arms.  

II.
The Man: He is a volcano.
He is pure earth, he is unruly fire-lathe.
He is stone, he is air, and he is the gravity
Which girds the foundation.
He is a destroyer and
He is the
New creation at dawn –
Cooled off, enriched, and potent.
He lifts up the trees, the grass, the rose, the shrub.
The birthing and nurturing soil forms around his feet.
Yet rippling amidst the inflorescence and saplings bubbles
A stream or a spring. Her presence is like diamonds, like pearls
In the rich rough -- glinting, splashing and playing in his garden!
He is the green mountain;
He is the red fire within it.
He explodes, in a blinding white,
Causing the new world,
In all its iridescence, to arise!

Woman and the water.
Man and the fire.
Together we are the world, entire.
Our home. Our journey. Our destiny.

Ourselves.
Ikimi Festus Jan 17
Life,
A road diverged, into two
And sorry beloved you cannot travel both
Be one traveller, long to stand,
It's personal, a race to run alone
Look as far as you can
To where it bent in the undergrowth; and see how the
Mortal Society is in a state of constant flux,
With a factor that has never changed.
The majority conform to whatever is normal at the time.
Beloved,
Many sorrows come as consequences of having faith, sitting idle and hoping.
Don't play the role allotted to them because conformity is constant,
for humans are social creature who are always imitating one another.
Pride goeth before destruction, And a haughty spirit before a fall.
They are oppressed by there lack of freedom, thus are drawn to those who are most fluid and flunt their difference.
Beloved
Be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence: that At certain point in your history, it was not fashionable to be rebellious,
but as lots of people start playing that role, there was nothing different or rebellious about it again, but
Two roads diverged, and you
took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Jo Swan Oct 2018
Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
Your eyes is filled with terrified tears.
Can you see your father is nearby?
His eyes burns with the fury of Ares-
Causes your spirit to whimper in fear.
Like fragile porcelain dolls been shattered,
He brutally beats your bruised body-
Leaves your spirit broken and battered

Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
Oh be a sweet darling good boy and listen!
Can you hear the sound of your father’s fist crunch?
Drowning in deluge of emotional distress,
Your eyes has lost its innocent glisten.
With each punch,
Your aura of gentleness gradually dies.
Your heart cold like gargoyles in fortress

Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
The Broken Boy has now become a Man.
His haughty handsome face sneers with disdain.
His soul now barren as the desert of Afghan.
His subconscious mind haunted by past pain.
Lost in the wilderness of his own wrath,
His breath is drunk with the taste of violence,
Has he grown up to be a psychopath?

Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
You have become a man of vendetta!
Following the footsteps of your father-
Belt your boy till his skin turns magenta-
His affection for you begins to languish.
This abuse is a never-ending cancer.
Like you, your son shall wear a mask of anger
To camouflage his heart’s suppressed anguish.

Broken Boy giving birth to another Broken Boy
Will the curse of Broken Boy ever end?
I decided to write a poem in the perspective of the abuser. Sometimes it is difficult for people to see abusive people as a vulnerable person who uses anger to hide their pain.
Sue Collins Nov 22
I found an old ivory-decorated little box tucked away among her possessions.
The box was locked but easy to foil by a person determined to seek answers.
The old woman had a lived a charmed life full of money, travel, and whiskey.

She had worn her classical beauty as a haughty warning to all who came near.
An acerbic genius at inserting the dagger right into the softest spot with ease.
Her own soft spot was animals, the wilder the better. Her feral streak, I guess.

The box felt empty but it was hiding a small crimped note underneath the velvet.
I hesitated. My face in the above gilded mirror was not the face I depended upon.
Flashes of the old woman blurred my vision. I imagined the old cord between us.

The old cord, discarded continually. Seesawing between venom and disinterest.
No back-up plan, no come-to-Jesus moments, just an invisible border wall.
I can’t seem to breathe, the portentous air enveloping me as I read:
“I did the best I could. Mom.” I shut the box and put it back where it belonged.
Net
Haughty
Harlots
Keep quiet
Or further aeons in hell
Is what you'll get
***** are so disrespectful these days. Why so prideful, and condescending to your betters? Bad attitude.

It's Pride, and we can't help you when you **** yourselves n plug your selfish lil ears.

It's not cute.
Ashwin Kumar Apr 1
Being a recruiter is never easy
Hours and hours of research
To identify the right people
Followed by a truckload of calls
Every time a candidate says no
It is you, who loses
The client piles on the pressure
Your boss keeps on nagging you
Like a fly that constantly buzzes around your table
While you are having lunch
Your confidence collapses
Like a house of cards
When you pick up the phone
Your hands shake
Your face is filled with drops of sweat
Your heart beats faster than ever
You hastily key in ten digits
As you click on 'Dial'
You wait with bated breath
Counting from one to twenty
As your call is received
You mumble and stammer
The other person snaps "Wrong number"
And bangs the phone
You smack yourself on the forehead
How could you make such a silly mistake?
As you dial the right number
You summon every last ounce of your courage
As the candidate answers
In a bored and haughty voice
You introduce yourself in a suave manner
As you take him through the job
Your smooth talk is interrupted
With a rude "Not interested. Thank you"
This opens the floodgates
For more and more rejections
Until you are left, with nothing to do
But to pick up the pieces of your broken heart
Being a recruiter is never easy
Poem to vent my frustration and stress while working on a Recruitment mandate for the position of Relationship Manager.
Joseph Zenieh Nov 2018
WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?
Where can l find my peace of mind
while each is drawing the common quilt
to his side not just for a cover,
but having it, no sense of guilt?

I shiver and beg for a share,
but no one listens to my plea.
I'm dying of the freezing cold,
but all are blind to what they see.

I look at their wide, greedy eyes,
but find them full of spurning pride.
They pride themselves on haughty might,
and look down on my pleading dread.

Am l a gent or just a mouse,
that fears to pull as others do?
I've thrown to hell my gentle ways,
and just to me the quilt l draw.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
____________
Alice Dec 2018
My days are not exceptional
I get up, I eat, I breathe
And I go back to sleep.

I am simple.
I'm colored in gray.

She is the sun,
A brilliant, bright yellow.
Her face has color.
In her eyes,
There is light.
She is young.

But I
Am not.
We share our years
In number alone.

Because my bones
Are heavy with time.

She is the moon.
She pulls,
And I will follow
As she commands.

Burning brightly as fire,
I am ensnared
By her haughty gaze.
I will share with her the beauty
Of the world around us.

Once she emerges
From her personal bubble,
From her small
World of self.

With age comes patience.
I can wait.
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