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Tyler G Dec 2012
I am the shattered glass on your speckled floor. I am your blatant disregard; I am your car’s speedometer: the needle is well into the triple digits. I am the fresh rain on the old asphalt, the slick, frictionless surface between rubber and wet asphalt.
I am disease, destruction.
I am the spirit that breaks up families; I am a home wrecker. I am six years of marriage, a strong bond, destroyed. I am seventeen years, two houses, two marriages, two divorces. I destroy, I break, I mistreat, I use. I disobey.
I am apathy; “Who cares?” I am natural disasters, I plague your towns and ruin your ecosystems. I am global warming, holes in the Ozone; holes in your brain. I am ecstasy, euphoria, nostalgia; I am illicit substances. I am good, I am bad, right, wrong. I am “three lefts make a right”.
I am your daily struggle; your endeavors to abscond from conformity, from similarity, one-mindedness. Social destruction internally, from the people within. We eat away at our own regime, scouring for anyone different to spite them while we chew away and succumb to our own insanities while the nonconformists, the infidels, the rebels, the heretics, they stand by and watch you. We are different, but join together as one physically, and watch you, you mentally attached beings, destroy yourselves with your pretty clothes, expensive makeup and two door cars.
I resist, I defy, I am a renegade from the mental oneness. I have my personal oneness, and that’s what I am. I am one being, one soul, one complete set of organs, bones, tissues and veins, one sentient form. I am the laughter in your ears, the heckles from your classmates. You are your insecurity, I am your apathy.
This is my harangue, my lecture to society, my discourse of great unconcern. You all, you all one mental being whom cannot think for themselves until conjoined with someone as the same likeness. You cannot understand these words I repress your likeness mindfuck with. My apathy is wasted on the ignorant, the solitary conformation, the greedy mind ***** of this world; you longing to be like someone else. You want to fit in, and henceforth, my words have been squandered, left here on this domain to take up space, this viable invention carrying one more nonsensical harassment of the conformers. I am the freckles on your face, I am the birthmarks on your skin. I am the dandruff in your hair, the pimples on your face, the purity of your skin sans daily application of makeup to hide the imperfections that everyone has, that everyone knows about, the imperfections that you don’t want people to think you have. You wish to be a divine being, one without mistakes, from birth to death, your celestial life will be filled with lies that the conformers are force fed. They crave that. You all crave ***** lies, filthy gossip.
I am a loaded gun; I am the second amendment of this worthless country’s constitution. I am the Hemp paper it’s written on; the implausibilities of this country, this state of oneness, conforming. I am the embarrassment you seek to shun from your life. “Oh my God, dad, stop embarrassing me!” You are your phone bills, you are lethargy with regards to other humans’ emotions.
You lead the conformers; they aspire to be you. You shoot down the differences of the nonconformists. You dash individuality and support pop culture, a culture of mental oneness. You are your disgust and I am rewarded. You hate me because I’m not you, we are not connected through the same telepathic, social, daily mindfuck. We love that; I want you to hate me, because I am winning. I am winning your war against yourself. By being different, I have, unbeknownst to you, pitted that piece of your brain that has been unaffected by your grand scheme of oneness against yourself.
You are bemused, destroyed from within, yet you fight it, because you are connected with millions of others through one enormous mindfuck, like aliens. You all dress the same and have the same values. I am different. I am fine with walking alone, I know how to handle myself alone and I am not afraid to be alone. Point your pristine fingers at me, cover your mouths and giggle when I walk passed; those pristine fingertips will only seek to find the comfort of a cellphone or a keyboard - a reliable second option to your oneness. So go ahead, be the same children, live a robotic life of ignorance and wealth, go, live like kings and queens.
I am happy for who I am and where I’ve gotten because I am different, and you have yet to realize each time you ridicule me, shun me, disregard my absurd practices, you are defeating yourself; it makes me better. I am detached from you, from your continental mindfuck, your baiting fear of singularity, uniqueness. I am unique, different, single; I am also joined together of my own oneness, a oneness of will, of physical bonds between different people. I learn to adapt, to accept; you will botch the young, restless years of your life becoming one with everyone through mental bonds of instability, ignorance, of togetherness.
I am the strength which you lack and cannot learn. I am what I want and there is no feasible way for me to lose faith, my individuality. Point your fingers at me; you are defeating yourself.
She's lace and confetti
With stars in her twinkles
A bright morning sunlight
Where smiling nose wrinkles
Perpetually moving
A bird and a flower
Now growing, now stretching
With all of her power
A tomboy, a lady
Whom nobody heckles
Until someone mentions
Those cute little freckles
She lives in her world
The star playing softball
At times sharing secrets
With kitty and her doll
But few in this world
Can know her so well
As I, sworn to secret
By her radiant spell
She's sometimes the thief
Just playing her part
Unknowing, each day
She steals in my heart
So one day tomorrow
Like roses, will bloom
With joy and with sorrow
Will leave with her groom
But come that tomorrow
Whenever it may
Forever in my heart
Forever she'll stay.

J. Sandy
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Birdsong
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!

Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī (1207–1273) was a 13th-century Persian poet, faqih, Islamic scholar, theologian and Sufi mystic. Rumi's influence transcends national borders and ethnic divisions. He is held in high regard by Iranians, Tajiks, Turks, Greeks, Pashtuns, and in the West and around the world. Rumi has been called the "most popular poet" and the "best selling poet" in the United States. Keywords/Tags: Rumi, translation, birdsong, bird, song, grief, ecstasy, joy, happiness, universe, poetry, birds, songs, singing, songbirds



The Field
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Far beyond sermons of right and wrong there's a sunlit field.
I'll meet you there.
When the soul lazes in such lush grass
the world is too full for discussion.



Beyond
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t demand union:
there’s a closer closeness, beyond.
The instant love descends to rest in me,
many beings become One.
In a single grain of wheat ten thousand sheaves germinate.
Within the needle’s eye innumerable stars radiate.



Untitled Rumi Epigrams

Raise your words, not their volume.
Rain grows flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your heart’s candle is ready to be kindled.
Your soul’s void is ready to be filled.
You can feel it, can’t you?
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is love: to fly toward a mysterious sky,
to cause ten thousand veils to fall.
First, to stop clinging to life,
then to step out without feet...
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am not this hair,
nor this thin sheathe of skin;
I am the Soul that abides within.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let yourself be guided by the strange magnetism of what you really love:
It will not lead you astray.
The lion is most majestic when stalking prey.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Forget security!
Live by the perilous sea.
Destroy your reputation, however glorious.
Become notorious.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Two Insomnias (I)
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When I’m with you, we’re up all night;
when we're apart, I’m unable to sleep.
Thank God for both insomnias
and their inspiration.



Two Insomnias (II)
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When I’m with you, we’re up all night.
When we part, I’m unable to sleep.
I’m grateful for both insomnias
and the difference maker.



I choose to love you in silence
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I choose to love you in silence
where there is no rejection;

to possess you in loneliness
where you are mine alone;

to adore you from a distance
which diminishes pain;

to kiss you in the wind
stealthier than my lips;

to embrace you in my dreams
where you are limitless ...



I Prefer
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I prefer to love you in silence,
for in silence there is no rejection.

I prefer to possess you in loneliness,
for in loneliness you are mine alone.

I prefer to adore you from a distance,
because distance diminishes pain.

I prefer to kiss you in the wind,
because the wind is subtler than my lips.

I prefer to embrace you in my dreams,
because in my dreams you are limitless.



Untitled Rumi Epigrams

I am not this hair,
nor this thin sheathe of skin;
I am the Soul that abides within.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We come whirling from nothingness, scattering stardust.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why should I brood, with every petal of my being blossoming?—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why should I brood when every petal of my being is blossoming?—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Elevate your words, not their volume. Rain grows flowers, not thunder.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bare rock is barren. Be compost, so wildflowers spring up everywhere.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want to sing as the birds sing, heedless of who hears or heckles.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your heart’s candle is ready to be kindled.
Your soul’s void is waiting to be filled.
You can feel it, can’t you?
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your heart’s an immense ocean. Go discover yourself in its depths.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The only prevailing beauty is the heart’s.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is love: to fly toward a mysterious sky,
to cause ten thousand veils to fall.
First, to stop clinging to life,
then to step out, without feet ...
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What you seek also pursues you.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love renders reason senseless.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love is the bridge between your Heart and Infinity.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your task is not to build love, but to bring down all the barriers you built against it.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let yourself be guided by the strange magnetism of what you truly love:
It will not lead you astray.
The lion is most majestic when stalking prey.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon shines most bright
when it embraces the night.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon shines brightest
when the night is darkest.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon is brightest when it embraces the night.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If your heart is light, it will light your way home.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Are you still in the dark that your light lights the worlds?—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why do you remain prisoner when the door's ajar?—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why do you remain prisoner when the door's wide open?—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As you begin to follow the Way, the Way appears.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come, come, fellow traveler. Wanderer, worshiper, itinerant: it makes no difference. Ours is no caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken ten thousand vows. Come yet again, come, come.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Forget security!
Live by the perilous sea.
Destroy your reputation, however glorious.
Become notorious.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t be satisfied with stories of others’ accomplishments. Create your own legend.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I was so drunk my lips got lost requesting a kiss.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eyes identify love. Feet pursue.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Everything beautiful was made for the beholder.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The essence of the rose abides not in the perfume but the thorns.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ignite yourself, then seek those able to fan your flames.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When will you begin the long trek toward reconciliation with yourself?—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is eloquence in silence. Stop weaving and the pattern is perfected.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The universe lies within you, not without. Look within: everything you desire, you already are.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You must understand
“one” and “two”
because one and one make two.
But you
must also understand
“and.”
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



The imbecile constructs cages for everyone he knows,
while the sage
(who has to duck his head whenever the moon glows)
keeps dispensing keys all night long
to the beautiful, rowdy, prison gang.
—Hafiz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An unbending tree
breaks easily.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Little sparks ignite great flames.—Dante, translation by Michael R. Burch

Once fanaticism has gangrened brains
the incurable malady invariably remains.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their ****** for exotic positions.
—Thomas Campion, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No wind is favorable to the man who lacks direction.
—Seneca the Younger, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hypocrisy may deceive the most perceptive adult, but the dullest child recognizes and is revolted by it, however ingeniously disguised.
—Leo Tolstoy translation by Michael R. Burch

Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel,
or a house when it's time to change residences,
even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.
—Seneca, speaking about the right to euthanasia in the first century AD, translation by Michael R. Burch

Improve yourself through others' writings, attaining freely what they purchased at great expense.—Socrates, translation by Michael R. Burch

Fools call wisdom foolishness.
―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch

One true friend is worth ten thousand kin.
―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch

Not to speak one’s mind is slavery.
―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch

I would rather die standing than kneel, a slave.
―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch

Fresh tears are wasted on old griefs.
―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
Thomas Mar 2018
Life heckles my happiness
Every positive I gain
Must be countered with a sadness
Of a loved ones torture and pain


Momentum shifts from good to bad
Each exaltation  of bliss
Is followed with an echo gone mad
A celebration, a moment to rejoice
Finds itself mirrored
With the sound of a past pain's voice


Clouded by guilt  for wanting to smile
Offering a shoulder
Holding back your my own tears
All the while


Wanting to please all and make not a foe
This task is impossible 
When my conscience is at war with my soul


To pick a path or ride the fence
Decisions, decisions,decisions
My sanity the expense


Am I asking for guidance 
Am I praying to above
Should I give into compliance
You must pay for love 
Happiness isn't Free
antony glaser Jun 2012
For those ailing worlds,
Brave leaves blow erstwhile.
Those suffocated trees
poise down the High Street
fickle wind - heckles
once proud alleyways,
whose heavy Terracotta pots
are moved from their base
and so broken dahlias lay prostrate
lamenting their cruel dominion.
Westley Barnes Mar 2016
Each time I attempt to conclude
this equation,
I arrive at the same intersection of doubt,
as if fate sees me coming.

1) Highway ****** Crash
2) The Evasive Goings-on in The Puppy Court
3) A Picture of Susan Howe in a Man's Grey Overcoat

These sequences of event all appeared to me in dreams. The same dream, repeated, over a succession of winter nights. The first few sober, the last an alert blur, wherein the images seemed to make the most sense.

All I can be assured of is this:
because the police officer in the dream was a police officer
Not a garda síochana or police inspector
the dream was definitely set in one of the Midwest United States
where I've never been, yet oddly interests me more than Canada,
where the same applies. It was definitely  freezing
(perhaps the blanket had been pulled off me in sleep?)
and the police officer definitely spoke English and said
"Highway" Hence: American.

The first night the dream arrived
It was that time of year when the night sky
subtly tricks you into believing that
morning is imminently about to break.

Those nights
A reminder that nature
was the first coy tease of suspended disbelief
the first pay-per-view special that took its time
getting going and then ended all too soon.

Two trucks had split in two a mid-size saloon-
That was the first of the dream's episodes-
But a voice arrived like a roll call of ice before an avalanche
-whispering that it was "a setup"-
which I presumed meant "collusion."
So I had a ******, at hand, in my dream-
speaking to the mustachioed Midwestern police detective afterwards-
as mutually understanding as if we had been in the same all-boys Catholic secondary school.
He had the suspects-so we then presided unto-

"THE PUPPY COURT"

Which was-yes, a court whose racial make-up consisted of young Dogs-
(This being a dream ; Dreams which are often the dictionary definition of Surreal and often don't mean anything)
The more I consider it, the Puppies were also most likely Puppets
Acted out by humans who had fists shoved up their *****.
Perhaps this court was a speculative court-it was, most certainly,
A "Kangaroo" court
With no justice being presided over, as such.
Heckles sounded throughout most of the exhibits,
A sternly yapping Yorkshire Terrier banged the gavel to no avail-
He was consistently rudely interrupted by a cocksure Golden Retriever-
who seemed to have as his boyos most of the bench and the jurors.
I never did find out who was responsible
for the horrific collision that spelled the end for the saloon driver,
as at this point I would usually exit the court in disgust
and for some reason found myself reading a poem in front of
an audience of one-
the acclaimed Irish-American L=A=N==G=U=A=G=E (that's how they spell it..) poet Susan Howe.

Yes, she was indeed wearing a Man's gray Overcoat
Resembling herself in the picture I held in my hand
Next to my own text
And as I looked toward her
The room's low lighting seem to reflect
the sparse "Black and White" filter of the photograph
and she was also wearing what looked like
the same Man's gray (Houndstooth maybe?
She Looked ALL filtered through "Black and White")

So the intention seemed to be that I was reading,
or perhaps presenting, maybe even pitching?
to Susan Howe. ("And how!"-might have been the before-or-after gag I might have used to anyone who new how it was going to go or how it happened-what gamey fun, these puns be...)
Susan looked on with penitence, as if prematurely unimpressed...
I look down to the poem I was expecting myself to read, and realised...
why the ******* did I choose that?

It was a poem I had written several years ago (well, if several means seven, lets say six)
Its subject was a young Canadian (possible Motorway Crash Link? Perhaps I misremembered her as midwestern?..) Muslim student whom I had shared a class on Hellenistic philosophy with back in the first or second year of my undergrad in Dublin (oh the hedonistic, sunsplashed, affordable Dublin of those days) and whom I had shared a flirtatious rapport with, innocent enough of course but always backdropped by a underscored leitmotif that instilled the threat of a problematic outcome across religious and possibly less so cultural divides

(Breath)

Nevertheless, she laughed at my jokes and self-deprecation and would squeeze my arm tightly when particularly amused , would hug me enthusiastically at the end of every class and although I never saw the full profile of her under that headscarf her ****** features Vogue beach fashion shoot stunning and after the module ended I never saw her again oh but how rare and strangely puritanical the lust...

Regardless, the poem began as such:

A Stir in Yemen/ must have been the catalyst for the smokey condensation/ in your gaze/ the mocha swirl in your pupils/ and the vex in your smile/ alluding to double meanings/innuendo that treads together like an Ernst canvas/ a blessed triptych/thrillingly

This poem was typed onto a model of Nokia phone which I have been made aware has since gone out of fashion, like it's producer.

Max Ernst-the surrealist painter, of course. A manual in style for most of us.

In response to my reading, Susan Howe merely nodded silently, seemingly all knowingly, as if she had thought the poem written for her or contained an interpretation that I had unintended (or, if asked by the real-life Susan Howe, would pretend to have intended all along.)

And there the Dream Triptych always ended.

As I said at the beginning I dreamt it twice more that same week, once intoxicated. It always followed the same sequence, and I don't read books on dreams so I have no idea what it meant, why it had three distinct parts or whether if most likely it was all a bit of nonsense. But at least it was INTERESTING.

Make the rest up for yourself.
Westley Barnes Jul 2012
Are these tears of blundering laughter
or heckles of contempt
that spirit on these haggard few
to rhapsodise our era’s curtain calls?
They who brought us mounting debt and conscientiousness
which seems only to be healed in the appeasing fluorescence
of 24-hour supermarkets and the purgatory
of weekends spent at home?

Such stifling, nervous coughs
are head as responses of
today’s domestic questionnaires
Gung-** reformative advances
and calls to “pull up our socks”
Mixed with the state-sponsored fortune-telling
Rationed out to boys languishing on the dole.
Which All falsely transpires,
intimidatingly revealed as being
About as appealing as vacuum cleaners for the soul
aimed at the resolutely bored to tears.

Despite our fears
the sun will come streaming again
through fresh fir trees
which decorate contemplative, sheltered lanes.
These last, frostbitten years
seek replacement with halcyon days
in order to suspend dogmatic disbelief.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves:
Pessimism is ****.
Even in the most roaring of times
we remained despondent and calculated.
Sarah Waters Mar 2012
That point where perspective fails
Is a sharp and shameless end
A failure, yes I must confess
For I have preached and I have practiced
And yet I have managed to fester a mess
Acquired a weightless collection of because
While fate heckles with his game of luck
Conducting an explicit scene
That has made a joke out of my childish dream
Finding solace in the irregularity of unearthly absolutes
I will carry my sore knees, drag my swollen knuckles
To rescue the sweet of my laborious fruits
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
symphony arrangement for poetry - personae distinctions of hidden violins and woodwinds, somewhere along the way brass - leaving Cabaret Voltaire (Zurich), moving to the Beat Hotel (9 Rue Gît-le-Cœur, Paris), ending up on the Cowgate (Edinburgh).

when you read newspapers you realise that dinosaurs roam
the land, the fortress of printing press, unlike the printing press
(which was taken seriously from the word go!)
the internet has been largely squandered; you read these
things in newspapers, the evolutionary reaction - ensuring that
among these dinosaurs are also opinion pieces, dinosaurs write accounts of what's happening, batrachotoxin amphibians write
opinions: i.e. what isn't happening: opinions go forward unchecked
and undisputed, added that there are many potions in the cauldron
it's hard to pick one out and dig deeper until both parties are in no position to hold such and such opinion, given the missing
muscle of implementing change or the skeleton to keep
the status quo - but this is a slight deviation from what i
was intending to convey - the old guard of printing is worried
sick that it might be usurped in the long run - it prints damaging
reports about the existence of the internet, looking at it as not
a niche environment, which it technically is - but cats, ****, cats,
****, apparently we all log on to meow and moan -
as a tool of entertainment it's the least thrilling source of
the desired "entertainment", the unscripted nature of this niche environment is what's actually good about it, in that a single
person can become both writer, editor and publisher -
but indeed, the internet has been squandered,
although it improved from what used to be a wholly anonymous
environment peppered with dangers of random encounters -
the infamous chat rooms changed even more to infamous
phone-books: you heard it, stories of cyber bullying - the internet
has been squandered, by all means, trying to save it is a bit like
trying to save the world, or as one Tao principle suggested to me
early on forged in me: the best way you can aid the world
is to forget the world, and let the world forget you.
a film director would say, well, i'm stuck in the house,
i'm thinking of shooting a biopic of Lawrence of Arabia...
i see a desert, a man riding a camel through it...
but you have to then start muling over the facts: you'll have to get funding, get the casting right,  but no one likes shooting in
the desert, you have to get  the catering sorted, you start shooting,
but the camera track ruins the desert, so you have to move
to another part of the desert that's pristine with wind parallel
ridges in the sand, then the studio calls you and says you're
spending too much money, then peter o'toole stumbles
out from the trailer hungover almost everyday; sure, you need inspiration and ideas, but that's only 1% or the whole,
99% is working with people - as a director you're not actually
playing god, you're helping other people, De Niro preferred
mumbling something prior to a scene, but Seymour Hoffman
went into a scene like a crocodile quickly snapping
to the shout of cut! and the clapperboard.
i suppose poetry could be like that too,
99% being the audience and the necessary oration,
that would work - unless of course you'd do the same with
painting - but whereas with painting you're invited to critical
thinking, see an artist next to his painting elaborating on
the themes and use of colours? i don't want to assert common sense
wisdom from one profession and apply the same wisdom
                                      to another with a trans-occupational
relativism: that red           is relative to               crimson -
              but we'll have to do away with lighting,
              darkening and what not, so yes,
red is relative to crimson insofar as we forget lighting
and Edward Hopper. anyone can appreciate the
lazy approach, but i took to some mammoths without the help
of audio books, a reasoning man, not a mob gob emotive conjurer worth a tonne of heckles and haggles - but i guess the dream
through this gamble would be the monetary reward...
you know... after so many years writing for peanuts i have lost
all appetite for spending money beyond what i consider
to be a workable cure for insomnia - i don't have to buy music
any more since i can stream it, i have more privacy without
a mobile phone, all i have is this little brick wall that's stationary
in this virtual jungle on which i scribble - with the radius from
this point being anything ranging from 1 to 6 sensible miles,
beyond 6 and we're talking blisters on feet; can you imagine what
our predecessors could endure in terms of walking? they had hoofs
instead of feet, while we have skin as smooth as a baby's buttock
cheeks on the soles of our feet. the strangeness of modernity:
1. a man drives a car with with a bicycle on the roof, just so he can    
    peddle down a scenic route...
2. the volume of skimmed milk bottle is the same as full fat milk,
    but if you bought full fat milk and added water to it the volume
    would triple (via semi, so yes, triple)...
3. healthy diets - 350% increase in vegan population
   in Britain over the past 10 years - the protein problem
   (once it was the fat problem, low fat yoghurt came about,
    turned everything into a sugar problem), i.e. women aged
    between 19 & 24 requiring to hit the 58 gram daily
    recommendation of protein would have to eat:

everyday foods
chicken breast (251g = 276Kcal)
eggs x4 (460g = 658Kcal)
salmon fillet (291g = 533Kcal)                                 v.

clean-eating foods
quinoa (1,318g = 1,582Kcal)
chia seeds (371g = 1,818Kcal)
                              goji berries (405g = 1,504Kcal)
                              kimchi (3,222g = 863Kcal)
                              tofu (707g = 70Kcal)
                              ******* (384g = 632Kcal)
                              coconut yoghurt (3,422g = 6,844Kcal)
almond milk (14,500ml = 3,625Kcal)
avocado (2,900g = 4,843Kcal)

  as healthy as stuffing turkeys for Thanksgiving, can you imagine
  drinking fourteen, fourteen litres of almond milk?! i don't even
  have to imagine drinking 700ml of whiskey to get the point
  and reach the threshold of the effectiveness of sleeping pills...
  no alcohol, no sleeping pills, better sit it out than take so near  
  ineffective buggers; although as a warning: you might end up
  sleeping for *12 hours
- variations on the BMI and previous habits
  of drinking - socially? not so much, medically? primarily -
  not in favour of the anti-alcohol lobby being part of the "safety"  
  guidelines given to the public...
4. charities' costs eat up 78% of donations,
    another 21st century anomaly, effectively dismissed
    by the church's alms giving history depicted in Sistine opulence,
    so no wonder whether in cardinal robes or suited and booted for
    the near-invisible secular religiosity, such poverty of symbolism
    compared with the predecessors, at least back then you'd
    know who to send to the guillotine - and this is how Louis XIV
    treated his courtesans, he made a certain type of clothing
    mandatory, a Versailles school uniform as it were,
    most the the courtesans went bankrupt having to buy the
    clothes, some pieces would be equivalent of a sports car,
    they went bankrupt to remain in the club,
    so they borrowed monkey from Louis, and so Louis kept
    them in his pocket: poor rich people, or necessary
    leeches (as once used in medicine, Louis' absolutism
    being the sole malady, abuse of power necessitates
    paranoia); or to quote Lisolette about the royal *******
    'mouse droppings in pepper.' Philippe (Duc d'Orléans)
    was the transvestite who charged into battle
    and conquered the Dutch, much to his brother's
    shame at having only made conquests in the bed - well
money here, money there, shoving a piano into a concert hall accompanied by an orchestra, something Chopin would never
do not wishing to leave the comforts of salons - although
Metallica dared to.
                                                             ­           welcome to
the age of silica and chameleons (cha cha cha champ a camcorder anyone? well, imagine what scrutiny Narcissus would pay a photograph, imagine giving a photograph to Narcissus and
wonder would he change his behaviour), get fooled by
the adverts once, second time you'll eventually see needing to feed
a charity's bureaucracy rather than an African, hence the migrant
                                                                                                    crisis...
sometimes there are no surprises as to where certain things
originate, Marxism and England, zenith of the empire,
or as historians claim, the decadence of the Romans was their fascination with food prior to the end: ready-meals and
microwaves among cooking shows, currently the daily program
of channels, esp. that of 4 is culinary and horse racing,
all the interesting programs are broadcast when everyone
is about to fall asleep... Saville bankrupted the B.B.C.
posthumously: a game show, "jackpot" of one grand.
- advertisement didn't expect live T.V., the mute button,
the pause button and the fast forward button...
but in a 100 years time if not more they'll look back at us as
having finally exhausted Groundhog Day (starring Bill Murray) -
sure, the technological breakthroughs were great, magical,
but the content? 20th century most probably,
the ideal time of fluid and at ease plagiarism - obviously
exceptions were made, but this walking nightmare
of the exhausted second half of the 20th century caught up
in the 21st century - dialogue replaced by visuals,
clash of the titans (1981) v. clash of the titans (2010) -
the only good bit of the latter is the inclusion of Hades -
it's beautiful, i'm nostalgic to a history i was born in and
belonged to, i'm not a nostalgic Nietzsche or Hölderlin
bumming about singing praises of the Ancient Greeks -
you see, it's close-at-heart nostalgia because i belonged to it,
the infant of it - a peculiar circumstance to be in; or coming
to terms with the first signs of decay: cartoon network's
cow & chicken with i r baboon - have you seen the horrors
of modern cartoons compared with computer graphics?
readies them to  pick up gaming soon after,
given gaming graphics. in summary - some say sitting behind
a computer screen is a sign of a lack of self-assurance,
or confidence, self- anything you want to suffix with, well,
that could be true, but you have a photograph included,
and the days of the typewriter are over - but i could also say
the same about certain brands or shops, are they too lacking
self-confidence to stop their existence on  the high street?
the royal mail delivers junk, you might get 100 junk envelopes
and a christmas  card... o.k. make that 1000 to 10,000 envelopes
of junk and one letter directly addressing you that hasn't been
written using an analogue like

dear mr. / mrs. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

we would like to inform you that your insurance
claim has expired.            etc.

the infancy of this century is what's deceptive, the greatest
deception i can think of - the great health scares and subsequent
over-usage of antibiotics breeding super-bugs in hospitals
anything and everything under the sun - including
that damnable idea that the planet Mars employs people whom
it's attracting into its orbit - earthly geologists must be bewildered
that the only subject of learning from all of man's
capacity to send into space is geology: and on the return flight
home we realised that we'd only be bringing back some arenite
(sandstone); that quote about about painting being 50 years
ahead of writing, the same is true with science fiction and
actual science.
Jim Davis Mar 2019
Standing at the lookout of Mt Scopus
We heard our loved begotten say “I do”
As they joined in love as one
For none to put asunder

Gazing upon the Shepherd’s field
We heard the angels saying
There is a new King born to rule
Who is the prophet’s Messiah

Treading carefully in Bethlehem
We heard a baby’s wailing cry
And his ****** mother in a lullaby
Knowing he was the chosen one

Discovering Magdala’s uncovered ruins
We heard the broken bleeding woman say
If I may but touch the hem of his garmet
Our Saviour saying  “who touched me”

In flowered repose at the hillside cave
We heard his voice teaching
Chosen apostles and us only hoping
A mustard seed’s weight of faith

Walking the Via Delarosa alleyway
We heard wood scraping stones
And heavy, exhausted breaths
Jesus bearing our burdens

Sitting beneath Christ's Thorn Jujube
We heard blood dripping to the ground
And a loud cry of mortal agony
Why have thou forsaken me

In sight of the ground near Golgotha
We heard heckles of laughter, lots cast
Time standing still
And finally the words “It is finished”

Near the rich man’s guarded tomb
We heard the stone roll back
For use as an angel’s seat
Revealing only the linen cloth left behind

Sitting near the Garden tomb
We heard our most innocent one say
I am the only way, to enter the gates
You must become like me

Buried in the flowing Jordan River
We heard the Lord say
You are now mine, arisen anew
We heard the angels singing

Gazing upon the Golden Dome
We heard the Lord say
Forgive them
For they know not what they do

Standing upon the heart stones
We heard the Lord say
Upon this rock I will build my church
Beginning the new covenant way

Standing close to Peter’s hiding place
We heard the denial thrice
Then heard the loud **** crow
Hoping for us it would not crow twice

At the second century baptismal
We heard bells ringing
Proclaiming the salvation we
And early Jews found in his blood

In the synogogue
We heard the sound of his voice
With those in amazement saying
Is this not Joseph’s son?

Stumbling the stones of Korazim
We heard the voice of Jesus saying
Woe unto you, your fate
is worse than ***** or Gomorrah

Wandering a Roman cardo Maximus
We heard the voice of a Christian
Singing Something About a Mountain
And heard us and angels in applause

Walking the obstacle maze of memories
We heard the voices of 6 million saying
From the ovens and chambers
Never again, Never again

Sailing on the Sea of Galilee
We heard the red, white, and blue say
As it flew with the blue and white star
We are your friend, Oh Israel

Scaling the heights of Masada
We heard the rebels shouting
To the assaulting Roman Legion
You cannot take our freedom

Sitting in stillness under the olive tree
We heard the voice of God
Saying “I am”
There is no other

Strolling the seashell shores of Galilee
We heard waves lapping at eternity’s silence
Knowing we will live wearing the crown
Sitting next to the throne

Looking within our hearts
We heard ourselves saying
Forgive me Lord, I have sinned
But have found Victory in Jesus

©  2019 Jim Davis
Driving in to TelAviv right now to fly back home!  First time in the Holy Land!  Our daughter had a destination wedding in Jerusalem!
Marcus O'Dea Mar 2013
The Warped Man
He opens his veins and lets invisible blood flow in.

The Warped Soil
From where his **** sinks into the earth like a clenched fist.

The Warped River.
A fake bloodstream. Dumpster of The Soil. Promises. Threats. Velocity. Value.

The Warped Sea
Born outwards, ejected from an invisible heaven. Poisoned by the soil it kisses. Pumped with hypodermic streams.

The Warped Sky
Looks to the sea and follows .
Once a mirror of our potential.
Now it gets ****** a heckles us.

The Warped Child
Mushroom jungle above him.
Dreams of the dust.
Exiled by everything.
Tell him what to breathe and he will inhale it.

The Moon
A silent prodigal lord.
It gave us light to obscure.
It gave us lakes to **** in.
It gave us maps to conquer.
And it once gave us dreams.
Deepak shodhan Jan 2017
Don't give up sweety
dnt give up
When failures knock your
door
Don't be afraid to face them
even more
When people around you
laughs at you
Don't ignore; show them
what you can do
Keep walking sweety
keep walking
when thorns appear on
the way
When ground under your feet
is decay
When you are surrounded
by fire
Evil heckles, only what you
can hear
Remember sweety remember
You are born to touch the
stars remember
Never stop sweety
never stop
Till you reach your goal
never stop!

---DS
Hypocracy Jun 2013
You’re the dreamer.
The poet and the pauper.
A scratch just waiting to be itched, an unlit matchstick and a patch half stiched.
You are the computer’s late night glow,
the ink that flows,
from ideas in code.
You are community owned.
You are the keyboard taps and headphone beats.
Evolution for free.
Fighting for the peaceful dream.
You are the words of change and the winds of rage.
The shadows that skulk in the street.
You are the heaven that heckles hell, the bellowing of the brittle bell.
But they can’t break your bones cause they’re the echoing of our souls.
You are the half finished manuscript, the crescendo before the storm.
You see through their lies and live out our lives.
You are the positive patterns of our neurons.
You are the death cry of white dwarves.
The picture of perfection made pure by repeat,
the flowers that bleed through the cracks in concrete.
You are the hopeful birdsong at morning’s first light,
the cradle of the night,
and freedom’s plight.
You are the mirror we all look into when we’re lost
and the cycles we’re chained to when we’re not.
There were times I thought
about not thinking about it,
aborting its fruition.
One final hug,
one final glance,
the marble floor colder than before.
And that was it.

What felt so foreign felt so adoring,
what felt so right was so wrong.
My soul a frozen climber clinging for life,
unaware he’s freezing.
Starting first in his knuckles,
spreading through his veins,
finishing in his heart.

It was snowing,
two,
three feet at a time.


Each snowflake staring at me in desperation,
tacit gasps dismantled by the concrete.
if only I heard their heckles,
      their pains,
               their signs,
                       their wisdom.
What astute advice they gave I’ll never know,
but I thank each one.

I found love,
and gave it back.
Studied myself, and came right back.
It became its own fruition.
Rigmarole Sep 2016
All to readily I disagree
in spite of knowledge deep within me
to vex myself in such a way 
challenges and makes me disobey

Too short too quick I drop into responses 
but only to raise the heckles of dunces 
and engage to rage a million nuances
yet still I continue until I find
that one person that I can easily bind

A communication that’s easy to shift
that’s rewarding uplifting and holds a gift
to bring together inspired fresh thoughts 
and with new minds on these rare occasions 
when the like meets the like 
rewards me enough and entices celebrations
Ryan Jakes Aug 2014
A walk on the beach in the morning
is never a simple affair
once the dog is dressed and the kid's on the leash
we leave with the breeze in our hair.
We walk along the shoreline
and watch the changing tide
we clamber over rockpools
where creatures deftly hide.
I'm not a morning person
My brain remains asleep
for at least two hours after
my eyes begin to peep.
So I take in the horizon
with a deep and grateful sigh
while boy and dog go running
off to greet some passers by
the fishermen are chatting
showing them their daily catch
while the dog he begs for something
from the bucket, just a scrap
So the guy picks out a live one
and shows it to the pup
who jumps away quite quickly
treats forgotten, heckles up.
My son he takes a finger
and reaches out to feel
this shining, writhing creature
in a bucket made of steel.
He flinches as it flips it's tail
annoyed that he can't catch it
but it slithers through his tiny hands
and back into the bucket.
We turn our tails and head for home
and talk of what we've seen
the boy says in his grown up voice
lets not have fish for tea.
Devin Ortiz Jul 2018
52
Alliteral allure.
Boundaries bottomless.
Controlled cantor.
Deities demonize,
Ethereal epiphanies.
Future forfeits,
Gravity's grandiose.
Humility heckles,
Indignant ideologies.
Jealousy's jungle,
Karated killers.
Lunacy's lovers,
Maddened martyrs.
Noise, never,
Only omens.
Purgatory persuasion,
Quintessential qualms.
Revenge, revenge.
Sultans suffer.
Tyrants terror.
Unilateral understanding.
Violent venom,
Worn wonderfully.
Xenogogue's xenial,
Youthful yearlings.
Zombie zealots.
MrsP Aug 2018
The inner workings of my mind,
I always try hard to be kind.
Smile at my haters,
chat to my friends.
A sense of anxiety that never ends.

Do the school run and then home to make,
see what items I can create.
The orders flood in thick and fast,
how long will this madness last.

Reality is, It's more a steady trickle,
but each time an order comes in
I feel my heckles prickle.

"But this is what you wanted"
I hear my mother say.
Yes, but not to be alone all day.

"To be your own boss and have time to make"
Yes Mum, but I feel like a fake,
Why would people want to buy the items that I create.
My first ever poem as an adult
SassyJ Sep 2017
Inspiration flows from the veins
reigns where once there were
dynasties, a destiny and the mystery
roads of the unhidden remissions

On the bed of roses, lies the beauty
a shine of unspotted fading gestures
Tilted metaphoric of synched moments
strolling on the myth of an autumn day

The glow of a heart that lights oceans
shimmering the waves of bluey strokes
those glistering movements of the untold
harvesting the arise of the siren responses

Smile lovely one, show the shimmer burn
like a fierce cupid aiming the toward arrows
of parallel sequences of the hot and the fire
the flame of unhidden kindles and twinkles

As the Caledonian pines unwind on a terrain
willed on the essence of a tantalizing dance
the echoes and the heckles of burnt seals
astounding the strength of another length

Last night, the time stopped and I ceased
sat on a log of peace minced in ventures
of lessons and visions, reasons and treasons
as the clock struck and the lock was undone

On the fervent course of roads walked before
as voices and hymns mashed within the storm
building mansions upon the diffused seasons
where life remains unbroken by bonded souls
Four cycles I neither nourished nor idled
As I pondered the sameness of it all.
Heard Solomon’s voice.
Shrewd as ever, but varnished with sorrow
Like mine.
Could it be?
That once that filmy overlay,
So seemingly inane,
Has been pulled back — the vacuum seal breached.
No longer sustenance in enterprise?
But in repetition one must sate?
No!
The story of man is not a tragedy!
Of shackled ankles and nine to fives.
But a dialogue with God!
Where the audience jests and heckles.
But is moved again
And again to silence
By a mere visceral soliloquy.

Today,
From our cells of subjectivity
We shout and dance for progress.
But is there a better way
To breach the barriers between spirits
Than by rediscovery of the known,
But ignored,
Forgotten,
The pathway to our wholes?
Are we then just fools
Wandering eternally through a mist?
Have we once again shed
What’s most precious?
To reveal what?
But our shameful nakedness.
For what Solomon knew is lost today
When I interact with the world.
All is vain but the path.
Till full circle our story begins anew.
clangorously declaring emergency, fate grimly heckles,
implies jackknifed life, killing my natural optimism,
positivism quashed, re: sort to undertake vitality,
wreckage xing yawping, zigzagging, alms breeching
charily. death embraced for grave happenstance,
indigent jarring kingdom, losing my native ordinary pleasure,
quivering ringing, singularly tripping uppermost volume
while Xeroxing yellowing zone, albatross blithely crushing desire
effecting fun, grippe holding impossible, Jackhammer
keeps lamentably mashing nasty oppressive pierced quaking,
reducing sensibility to utterly voiced worthlessness,
x-rays yield zero ambition boosting capacity driving
existence, future gloomy heralds iffy joie de vivre, killing
lousy male negative outlook presages quintessential
rage spilling thru useless voiceless wretched xiphoid zeal.
Meghan Jul 2019
I can’t stay here
I can’t run from reality anymore
This flimsy tent of white paper and black ink will not hide me from the howling storm outside

The cardboard cutouts of people that I’ve propped up against the walls of my mind
Won’t satisfy this ache for human connection
This painted scenery can never replace the mountains and forests I’ve forsaken
Their depth and dimension will always elude me
Unless I choose to step outside and accept their embrace
Bright hues of bright blue and yellow won’t give me the freedom of open sky

I can play whatever role I wish in this hidden performance shielded by stage curtains
But when the makeup is washed away
My identity will remain the same unanswered question mark
I may be safe from the audience’s potential heckles and jeers
But that is because there is no audience at all
I perform for empty seats because I dare not hope for real applause
The only answer to my voice is an empty echo that grows smaller and disappears

The statues I carve that guard these gates will never be breathed to life
While the stone that shapes their bodies may be stable and constant
They will never provide the warmth and will of a real person

No, I must escape

I must lay the cardboard cutouts quietly in the corner
I must take a final bow and leave this hollow theatre
I must step outside the protection of my stone sentinels
I must push aside the pages of my paper prison though they may rustle in protest
I must breathe the fresh air no matter the weather or season
I must make clumsy, fallible connections with other clumsy, fallible people

One day when I am brave enough I will invite them into my familiar sanctuary
On that day there will be no more masks or roles
The only part I will play is myself
I will release my voice into their custody and trust them to do as they see fit
But I will no longer rehearse for that day
The real stage awaits me
And so does my audience
Riding on wisdom saddles,
Looking at those in a babble,
Social media, bubble heckles,
Souls spotted like a speckle,
I can't help what I seen,
Can't unseen what I saw,
My soul is so keen, to the unseen,
Universal signs of law,
Angels blowing trumpets like satchmo,
With a humor like Groucho,
Marks this day in age,
Another turn from the page,
In the day of life, closed in on strife,
Death cuts like a knife,
Deep inside, we try to hide,
But we can't hide, forever,
Life and death can't be severed,
Fading footprints, of the unconscious,
Talks of nonsense,
Trying live up to that and this,
But life goes on and on,
These media freaks have us leeched on,
To less of right, and more to wrong,
It's just that same sad song,
Repeating in our carnal minded heads,
Everyday we make our beds,
Walk out into a world,
Where no words are said,
Spiritually dead, in a mental coffin,
To often, I feel the soften,
Acting with a heart of stone,
But deep down, they're alone,
Waiting for the day of atone,
Another place where only, the
Angels roam,
I see three heavens along,
The side of the earth,
Lighted beings, being dimmed,
As Azreal, makes his trim,
Fear not, those who **** the body, but rather the soul and energy,
Who am I, I am he and he is, an imagine of me, the darkest energy,
Move only by the multiples of three,
Six and nine trilogy,

"So mote it be"
I cry a tear

The other scolds a feeling

Nights go by and you feel emotionally bankrupt.

No one to turn to too

You start feeling like the “catch 22” staring at a ceiling.

You hold back your anger and your fear

The other still smells such and uses their own sadness

“the doggy didn’t greet me the right way. You don’t

deserve or appreciate anything!”

The cycle continues until you have reached the limit and melt into madness .

Once  the other snaps out of their “toxic trance”

their apologies flow as well do the promises

“I only wish for my friend not to become “Mr. Hyde  out of Dr. Jekyll .”

You are the strength of the household without investment to regain

Energy and funds to “stop spinning the wheels”

and move out of the warpath

“The Harm of the Heckles. “

You learn to wait for the opportunity to “catch them in their sleep walk”

The “thief caught stealing from the cookie jar”

Don’t the sick “understand the demands and power of their emotions which erode”

a once peaceful soul and sand….?

You have a little way left, in which to back up your talks.

Going forward in life…..

If the other would or could break out of their “spell”

People in conflict and turmoil

Truly caring for one another but afraid to show their “weakness.

To get well.”

When the day comes and they value the relations and finally admit to

the portion of chemical waste that has nearly killed two bonded hearts

The person in the daze never understands this “war’s toll”

Two in a team, can empower one another

to build one another up.

Instead of shooting flames that burn one another’s souls.

Melted from hurtful heat, instead.

A nuclear storm is building up..

“Chernobyl” devastating the lands that were made

from spirits connected to friendship so kindred..

Saving a once thriving force, that is your friendship…

From being placed in a grave

That this “Chemical war” had taken it’s toll

No time for liquidation of the aftermath

The time needed to heal is enough to purify

The feelings of both…The neglect of this

Downfall

are bright hearts who shall die, instead.
sandra wyllie Feb 2023
on the sun
little dots like ***** shots
blotting the sky
with a tapestry of poetry
and a side wedge of lime

Freckles
like ladybugs
on a redhead passing by
rising up to the top
like mom's homemade apple-pie

Shekels
jingling in her pant pocket
bits of silver castanets
like hand and feet
come in sets
making music to the beat
of a silhouette

Heckles
from the crowd
jeering jabs of barbed wire
can't fence in
this spitfire

Deckles
framing paper pulp into sheets
to pen the lines
of valentines that couldn't
take the heat
SCHEDAR Jan 2021
Spend hours and hours
positioning words
the family heckles
they think it's absurd
Bob B Apr 2022
Dangerous you might call her.
Off her rocker as well.
Her strange, obnoxious behavior
Is hard for her to quell.

How she was ever elected
Is anybody's guess,
And yet she's found supporters
To give her the guise of success.

Totally out of place
In Congress, she carries on
As though her sense of decorum
And decency are gone.

She heckles speakers in Congress
And always seems to be lusting
After ill-gotten attention.
Her antics are disgusting.

Her wacky QAnon stories
Are so far off base
That any sensible person
Would find them hard to embrace.

Now she's attacking opponents
In her typical style:
If you oppose her ideas,
You're called "pro-*******."

She lives for lies and drama
And loves to make a scene.
You must know who she is:
Marjorie Taylor Greene.

-by Bob B (4-7-22)
Yenson Nov 2021
Please let us ***** the narratives
that subjugates the fact
that we have been in the presence of greatness
for we found no inspiration
rather we are overwhelmed by our porous limitations
and captured prevailing inadequacies  
in taunts hisses heckles and jeers we find religious fulfilment
abating our frenzied seizures' of mediocrity
in bland vigour we invoke the doped surrealism of stunted minds
and drown our sorrows in heady flippancies
the comfort of disparages finds fitting refuge with pale heated malice
hatred and envy are our protected tenants
in our gross souls they adorn our derelict minds like fake trinkets
let us ***** our toxic narratives its the totality of us
for it represents and speaks ingloriously about us in us for us about us
Please let us ***** our narratives
Lenora Dec 2022
I’ll never show it to you personally but remember what lies in this vessel
The tears of an aura made in constant heckles

The wells behind my eyelids can no longer contain
What they always attempt to maintain
The failing membrane
Who’s only connect is the end game

Now passing by makes me. Feel shame
I Relive trauma in an area. I feel insane

As I lay all I can think about is the act of disappearance
As my tears blur my vision and give me no clearance
See I got lost
But Mostly in my thoughts
Because the endurance of bartering the validation of my emotions has a cost

And with that many things changed
Soon they’ll be a shift when somebody calls my name
Because I can’t answer the same
and anger builds up until we burn in pouring rain

Lately it’s been effortless to cry
My emotions connect quickly as if satly tears were identical to the blue sky
It's also been easier to speak my mind
But sometimes my sight goes blind
And I look back the situations on high
But to be talked to in a way where I feel disrepected I cannot comply

In true I don't appreciate the way people treat me
Forever blissful days until you beat me
Where I felt uneasy
And you treated me like I can't get sleezy

and I'll never hold bad blood again
But after all I've done how could you treat me so poorly then

It always ends up being the ones closest to you
With pain.. When it comes to this ill act like I never knew you


Pt.2

Remember I said it’s hard to show it to you personally if I share all that lies in this vessel..

The reason I retreat
That often looks like defeat
And my plummeting confidence that glued my eyes to the floor like feet

There’s so much I could say to you that would ease any suspicion
The reason I move how I do travels back to being Christian
If I was in a space to show you Lenora I would
Given that’s the entity you want to know and I want you I should
Every moment I think to touch you
And you run through my mind crashing like boulders once sudle
If you had a sneak peek at how I live
When you ask not for dominance but to be assertive
My *** drive all time high
And I only want to look into your eyes
But it seems I’ve been terrified to touch
I know that it deals with my past traumas and such
All the time I want it
Even though it’s not the persona that flaunts it

Most times I sit in silence not because I have nothing to say
But because I spend hella time in my brain
I have so many responses
And many different voices in my conscious
But it’s almost as if I’ve been trained to be silent
And to unlock a true voice you must find it

My mind stumbles around the end game
As if I pass the talking stage
And never make it to a hall of fame
When they claim im some sort of a trophy
But I retreat because people make me feel like there only trying to rope me
in…

— The End —