"helpers" poems
Bees build around red liver,
Ants build around black bone.
It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks,
It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam
Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, ***** crystals.
**** Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls
Engulfs animal and human hair.
Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs,
Ants build around white bone.
Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax,
Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire.
The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations.
Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down,
With one leafless tree.
Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way,
With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead.
He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on,
He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor,
The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum.
Bees build around a red trace.
Ants build around the place left by my body.
I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole.
He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch
Who has sat much in the light of candles
Reading the great book of the species.
What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament,
Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus?
My broken body will deliver me to his sight
And he will count me among the helpers of death:
The uncircumcised.
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Lone walker,
In the midst of the crowd his heart was always alone.
Sank into the belly of tribulations,
Unlike the missionary journey of Jonah he was vomited into
more woes.
Like how a beautiful mountain in a wilderness thirst for tourist
So his heart was hungry for love.
If loneliness is synonymous to poverty then he deserved this cross.
Lone walker,
He lonely walked on thorns, struggled with everything, sweated blood.
He lived a life of trapped miners in a cave miles below fresh air.
Lone walker,
Rain of respite barely shower on his path.
Sun bit his skin, dews often united with his tears,
For there was no even a free den for him to rest his head.
His days were worse than the trials of Job,
For he had not even a wife to encourage him to curse God and give up the ghost.
Like an eaglet without a falcon, he was accustomed to crying for his dying talents that was hidden too deep for any scout to discover.
To him the world was empty and void of helpers
Until a moment came when he decided to abort his worries, fears and his ugly past.
In a flash he recalled the parable of the talents,
In a speed of lightning he stood and put his hidden gift into use.
I key my mind into the eyes of the reader of his biography,
As I stood in the midst of his children offspring in his burial ceremony fit for kings,
With the assurance that he is not walking alone to heaven or hell indeed
And surely his once lonely heart would be filled with merriment and peace.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
This fact seemed pretty **** self-evident from just about birth on.
I seemed to inconvenience my family, especially my mother.
So with my multitudes of half-sisters
that refused to see me as anything more than just that,
half,
my mother, who was exhausted and
inconvenienced at the sight of me, my will and
my troubled path,
I was a real life Cinderella,
From The Start.
Since I was just there,
my mother figured she might as well use me,
to do her bidding.
I wouldn't be home for weeks and would arrive to an empty,
messy house and a two-page list
of things to do.
Sound familiar?
Just like a fairytale, huh?
So I ask, where's my fairy godmother,
and my glass slipper along with the Prince Charming,
to make sure it fits?
And my mouse helpers,
to make cakes and dresses with me?
Well I might not have a fairy godmother or a glass slipper,
and I'm still missing the **** mice,
but I just might have found,
My Prince...
<3
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 12:36 AM UTC
The progression of Huntington's disease often leads to the need of a wheelchair. My husband resisted using a wheelchair for many years, even though his poor balance and tiredness meant he was prone to falls. I didn't exactly pressurise him into using one. To be honest it was not just because it was another sign of loss of independence, but it would have been harder for me too in many respects.
What I wasn't prepared for, when the time came, was the social stigma attached to wheelchair users insofar as becoming a kind of non-entity! In a weekly blog I wrote in 2008 I wrote about the first time I took my husband out in a wheelchair. It angered me how peoples’ attitudes seemed to change overnight.
Walking down the High Street,
Hand in hand like lovers,
The couple blend into the crowd,
No different from the others.
As the years go by though,
His body having changed,
Has sadly meant a wheelchair,
Has had to be arranged.
Strolling down same High Street,
The woman now behind,
Her lover needing pushing,
Steep pavements so unkind.
Entering the bar now,
With awkward navigation;
People jump to open door,
Aware of situation.
“Thank you” says the man in chair,
When wheeled into the place;
“Welcome” say the helpers there,
But all avoid his face.
Carer gets the “Welcome” mouthed,
No looks with him they share;
Let’s treat this fellow human being,
As if he wasn't there.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
Senior Present
I walked in to the school this morning
To see all of the teachers
Munching and nibbling on food.
I turned down the hallway to be greeted
By a glorious sent that hit my nostrils
I watched as kids floated down the hall way
Towards the smell, they were just out of reach
Of the food, as the smell led them to a closed door
Of the teachers lounge.
Inside were all sorts of candies. There was a candy
Of every type, all shapes and sizes. No one was left
Out every teacher had there favorite kind some ware.
There were cakes and pies,
Fudge and brownies,
Ice cream and frozen yogurt.
There was healthy food
And nut free snacks.
There was lollipops
And twizlers.
It was Halloween all over again,
With a twist of fancy,
It was a dessert buffet
Just for the teachers.
It was a way to thank them for all the
Time they spent teaching us the same thing
To have patience for all the questions, to help us
In till we understood, staying extra hours to help us.
This food display is a thanks to not just the teachers
But to the janitors, the special education helpers
The nurses, librarians, office and consoler office ladies
The police officers and the principal her self.
I thought it would be nice to give you all a special treat
A present, instead a prank, since it is my senior year.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
Windows high or low, windows sing or woe (if they could effect sounds)
Windows are protestants of peace; often the mediator between the inside and the out
They tirelessly shield us from the rain and sun, the dust and even noise, sometimes the wind itself too; so things don't topple over
There are times you open them, when you look out and think of an adventure out
There are also times you close them, when you seek some respite
Windows, if anything, are the forgotten heroes of time
They are your guides, your decision-making helpers, as is the Spirit
Their panes (pains) are to be taken care of, wiped regularly for absolute clarity
They nudge, with the help of wind sometimes, dying not to be ignored
They crave interaction with its user, oh if only our owners knew they cry
Knowing how to operate them for full utilisation is truly, a skill
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
Helpers helping the Helpless
Helpless helping the Helpers
Helpers Killing the Helpless
Helpless praying for the Helpers
One day The Helpers will be the Helpless
One day The Helpless will be Helping
and Soon oh Soon they will both be Helped
by something Higher
The Ulmighty Helper
The Ulmighty Helpess
But who Helps the Higher One?
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
It was Christmas Eve and the house was asleep
I heard a noise downstairs, and went to take a peep
It was Santa! He was there!
With his nose all plump and red
He heard me there behind him,
And turned around and said:
Little girl don’t be afraid I’m here to take you home.
You’ll live with me at the North Pole in a new time zone.
I tried to run away, but before I could look back
Santa picked me up so fast and threw me in his sack!
When I woke up I was dressed in green,
Didn’t recognize myself
And suddenly I realized, I’d been turned into an elf!
So now I’m here at the North Pole, I’m getting used to it
I’m making toys and getting along
With all the other missing kids.
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 8:23 PM UTC
Many have heard that “No man is an island.”
And over most circumstances, no one has control.
So I ask you… “Have you found purpose for your life?”
“With your identity, are you fulfilling your role?”
Escape the snare of delusional grandeur,
for God Almighty has an assignment for you.
Are you prepared with your life skills
and has your Kingdom mission come into view?
Previous individuals came to you (before me)
and broke the fallow ground of your heart.
Has the message of Salvation burst within you?
Are you wanting to serve, but have not started?
Has the “sown seed” inside you… been watered?
Are you on the verge of a spiritual epiphany?
Do you require wisdom, guidance or experience?
Can you determine, why you’re unable to see?
The grittiness of human interaction serves us
as “sandpaper of life”, softening one’s spirit.
We’re to learn from each other, apply God’s Word
and strive to live life… without earthly limits.
Having vested interests in others
helps us to sincerely love one another;
walking in Godly unions and relationships,
bonds us as Christian sisters and brothers.
Remember the complete story of Queen Esther,
whose success was possible by efforts of Mordecai.
Become involved in the ministry of destiny helpers…
For Christ promised to meet our needs against His Supply.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
1 Cor 3:1-10; Esther
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
I used to believe in Santa Claus
So jolly and red and so fat.
I was a big fan of Christmas
No holiday was as great as that.
Not Easter with those funny eggs
Not even Halloween with candy.
No, that thing about tons of presents
To me, that was fine and dandy.
And we even got two weeks off
Nobody had to go to school.
Then coming back with new clothes
That made me look so cool.
Nothing compared to Santa Claus
The flying reindeer, ** ** guy.
I used to try to stay awake
So I could see him flying by.
It was such a great reality
To know that dude was up there
In the frozen north pole air
Making stuff for kids everywhere.
That was the world I reveled in,
Where everyone celebrated.
I knew I was not the only one
Who sat by the tree and waited.
I don’t remember being confused
By the Santas in department stores.
Santa had lots of helpers, I knew,
And this guy was just one more.
I did have a problem with chimneys
And a bag that he could lift
That carried things for all us kids;
Every size and type of gift.
But kids have a way of helping folks
To maintain a pretty fantasy.
We just ignored things that didn’t fit.
We went about it very easily.
But one day, and I remember when
I got let in on the confidence game
And Santa Claus was quickly gone,
Never to come to our house again.
The sad thing is nothing can ever
Replace the joy I once felt.
Santa was not supposed to be
Like Frosty and too quickly melt.
So, I have to make do with having
The grownup toys I buy myself.
Oh, how I could use a flying sled
And the help of a brace of elf.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
White snow falls onto the roofs
as we strain to hear reindeer hoofs
hoping for some of the Christmas joys
that Santa brings to good girls and boys
We dream of the toys that his helpers made
Trucks and dolls, trains and *****
stockings stuffed with goodies and the jingle of bells
and the many boxes wrapped by elves
The room cools as the fire dies
and we strain to not close our eyes
but we slowly drift away into dreams
visions of the North Pole and it's magical things
and when we wake in the morn' sun
we find the milk and cookies gone
with presents stacked under the tree
and stockings full of fun and glee
White snow falls onto the roofs
but we didn't hear reindeer hoofs
yet we know Santa came with Christmas joys
and he shared with all of the girls and boys
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 7:23 PM UTC
when you are down
you must be stronger
than those around
who try to help
but don’t see
what’s got you down
or what you’re doing
to get up
and only see you
on the ground
you must be stronger
than those around
to help the helpers
look up at you
stronger
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
Upon our side, we who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven!—Oh! times,
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
The attraction of a country in romance!
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights,
When most intent on making of herself
A prime Enchantress—to assist the work
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth,
The beauty wore of promise, that which sets
(As at some moment might not be unfelt
Among the bowers of paradise itself )
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of? The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The playfellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
Their ministers,—who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it;—they, too, who, of gentle mood,
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more wild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves;—
Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
Did both find, helpers to their heart’s desire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish;
Wcre called upon to exercise their skill,
Not in Utopia, subterranean fields,
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us,—the place where in the end
We find our happiness, or not at all!
2.9k
I just started my new job
As the handyman in the land of OZ
Seems things haven't been going the same
Since the Wizard up and left that day
First off is that house from Kansas
The one that fell on the Witch of the East
There's no way the Munchkins can move it
So we're going to renovate it right there on the side of the street
And turn it into a Bed & Breakfast
Where all the Good Witches can relax and stay
Then they all won't be so apt to
Commandeer a sphere and float away
After that I'll need to buy some silver paint
As the Tin Man is looking rather dull these days
And while I'm at it might as well, some yellow and green
To give the road and OZ a brand new sheen
And since the Witch of the West has been put to rest
I have all the Flying Monkey helpers I can use
As my professional skills will be put to the test
Giving her dingy castle a good ole OZ spruce
I wonder why they've never had someone before
Oh yea, I've also gotta fix that Knocker on the front door
There are so many things that need to be done
Me being the new Handy Man in the land of OZ
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
Respect
for the mother and fathers who build this playground for us to roam ,
respect for the floating flowers sweet seed sprouting into blossoms tree
respect for the love of self - selflessly
respect for the helpers helplessly
respect for the boundaries
rises climatic waves crash onto soft shore
breakfast on the patio
what could one ask for more
then a wake up call without using a phone
last night's revelries spill over into today's serenity
sacred ground
sacred sounds
early bird gets the worm they say
share the love
spread the love , doctors healers
love knows no bounds
but seeks to reach each tip of wing in illuminated golden heart seen on first meeting
glows the fireflies
who light up the night time so bright
nor the wonderlusting princesses moving in her own skin with so much filling to the brim
overspilling with kisses and loves
spilt beers and american dreams turn to dust on the desert plains
and the silken haze hangs low across the city
bike riding race styling high flying
we already die to live to give
we already sing to the silent tunes of water droplets
and bird calls
tree's sigh in daylight delight and fight no one, not even the night for ...
the tree's photosynthesise by moonlight
leaves drink in the cool wise light and give off dreams of softly fading starlight
and laughing at Jamican tour guides....exucse me while i light my spliff....har har har har.....and over here is the kitchen...
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 2:11 AM UTC
Is he being serious?
I can't tell
Am I being serious?
I'm not sure
feeling on the brink of something
am I dying?
is this what it's like to die?
I had a lot of good words to say
they were going to come out like a sickly ball of ectoplasm
like a desperate clawing scream up from the floor
but now I don't know what they were
everything I consume is somehow related to who I am as a person
I've spent a lifetime
modeling myself after words, images, phrases, sounds
they are like little helpers
but they are not me
"don't be afraid to care"
"what did you see while you were there?"
I am bursting with joy
I want to laugh, dance, be free to love
my love is all ************ right now
it's all I know
the moon & sky so beautiful this strange winter
deadly sunsets and snow
crystalline space and stars
"how does it feeeeel?"
he asks & rolls over drunk, uncaring
I slipped her something mid-conversation
what was it?: a hint, a look, an eye?
I don't even know really
Was I being myself or not?
"the joke is come upon me"
at last, the irony is concrete
hilariously, beautifully tragic
& yet not at all; more like a lighthearted pun
"we all shine on, like the moon & the stars & the sun"
why & how did it become so difficult?
this is the struggle of every man
this is not my father's insanity, nor his father's
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
She hushes me repeatedly
as if my voice could be– too loud
for these shrunken, elder walls
What voice can I revive to tell her
that this little place...reminds me...?
Ratchet up the memories
the young mistakes
my welfare “townhouse”
as if my voice could be too loud?!
Where does anger go to say
These cheesy rugs remind me!
of the smoky halls, stoop-sittin’
head lice, **** roach
fumigated invasion
Music loud enough to blow pipes
induce trauma through the walls
Thud Crash
“Stupid ****
Knife-weildin’, drug-sellin’, boyfriend-of-a-future
A can of beer later...
with stress on hold
the smells of dinner, now—all fifteen of them!
Assault me through the front window
“Ya there yet?
...to this “cute little apartment, I mean?"
So it’s sold…
Someone else will wash windows, rake the yard
Shovel Massachusetts snow
Christmas lights come down
in my mind—
Running toward them still
Toes numb
Skates bouncin on my back
Sled firing off sparks against the sidewalk in my wake
Running and as always late
Mittens soaked, heavy
Like my eyes—
Mom and I
looking out this window for the last time
Looking out toward the daughter of the woods I was
Behind—me
the bride sinks
to the bare mattress—
“Was it really 57 years?
How can it be?”
since...clutching can opener and Coke
He scooped her up and through that door....
“How can it be? Oh my….”
"You can always keep the memories."
she chirps to check the tears
But I can’t taste them!
…Mom baking cookies
stew and dumplings on the stove
Snitching chocolate bits
waiting for the bowl
Impatient little helpers at her side
Colors slipping…
A child husks corn in sunlight
A blue Huffy gleams behind birthday candles
Sheets billow from the line
Sounds fading...
A choir of music boxes
before the Christmas carnage
Doing dishes in three-part harmony
I can barely wrap my words around our voices!
“You can always keep the memories”
Preamble to the dutiful decision
Hypothermic excuse
to dump the place
Street sign shrinking in the rear-view
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
The Straw Furniture (Summertime and the Living is Easy)
The ancient straw furniture, yellow-white, cracked,
My boon companions from the Sun Room where I write,
Give me a welcome back embrace and purposely snag my sweater,
Crackling a laugh and tween boisterous gasps, all wish me a hearty
Welcome back ancient mariner, to your cottage
On the bluff overlooking Peconic Bay.
The deck furniture exhumed from the garage,
Accompanied by a parade, nay a slew,
Of spiders and insects waving Adieu to their winter palace
Climb aboard to get a better view of their new deck digs,
And of me, the anti-hero of their grandparent's tales.
I go down to the basement.
Chagrined,
I come back up the twisty stairs
which designed, aimed to maim,
vowing never to return.
The refrigerator says do you like modern art?
Mold of multifarious colors, heavenly hues worthy of the
Museum of Modern Art,
I bequeath to you freely, no charge!
The clean laundry left out from last summer,
Looks so forlorn, asks politely,
Make me gone, wash away the winter's dusty grime,
Besides, traces of aged balsamic suntan lotion, still inhabit.
The golf clubs say nice meeting you,
Tho we think we met you once before,
Five or eight years or even never-years ago, was it not?
My obedient servants?
No, my friends, my helpers, my guides,
For in their sheltering embrace, in this holy place,
Inspiration floods, overcomes me and I am compelled alive,
Poet renewed, ****** why am I crying...
May 26th
10:15 AM
Shelter Island
In the Sun Room, weeping.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
Did they welcome you back to those halls?
To the insanity?
To the familiarness of it all.
You knew the rules, the people, everything,
when you came back.
Felt the same feeling again.
Maybe you would be even more tired, too far gone.
Maybe this time, it would be the last.
You would stay.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
I am tired.
Tired of feeling alone.
Tired of feeling unneeded.
Tired of feeling ignored.
You only talk to me
When you need help.
When you need advice.
I'll ask
'Hey how are you doing?'
-Silence
'Hey what are you doing today?'
-Silence
I am Sick
Sick of feeling useless.
Sick of feeling stepped on.
Sick of being spoken to
only when those around me need help,
For they know I will never turn down a 'friend.'
A 'Loved One,'
A 'Confidant.'
To whom do helpers turn in time of need?
In times of sorrow?
In times of panic?
What holds the mighty rock?
The rock that breaks the waves?
The rock whose sole purpose
Seems to be protection against the sea?
Who helps the rock?
When the ground begins to tremble
And open its mighty maw?
To whom do I turn?
On whom do I lean?
When I am Sick? When I am Tired?
Because I am Sick,
And I am Tired
And I am closed.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
A QUIET GIRL TO MANY I SEEMED
THEY AREN'T AWARE OF WHAT I CAN BE
MY WAYS ARE IMPROVING THROUGH FINE CARE
I MASTER INTRICATE PROBLEMS WITH FLAIR
TRUST IS SOMETHING EARNED OVER A LONG TIME
RESPONSIBILITY IS TAUGHT THROUGH TRUST AND HOPE
I WANT MY ELDERS TO SEE THOSE QUALITIES WITHIN
SO THAT THEY CAN DEPEND ON ME IN TIMES OF DISTRAUGHT
MY GRADES SEEMED SNAIL LIKE
MY DREAMS A SIMILARITY
THIS YEAR I'M TRYING TO IMPROVE
AND BE BETTER THAN WHAT I WAS PREVIOUSLY
SCHOOL, FROM NOW ON IS A TOP PRIORITY
MY SUBJECTS WILL BE EASY,I HOPE
I AM TRYING MY BEST
I MIGHT SEEM QUIET AND DETACHED
BUT I'M DREAMING BIG, THAT'S A FACT
MY SELF CONFIDENCE SEEMS LOW
BUT MY SELF ESTEEM A HIGH ONE, THOUGH
THINGS CAN ONLY GO BETTER
THAN IT WAS BEFORE
IT'LL TAKE PATIENCE
PERSEVERANCE
DETERMINATION
THAT'S GOOD SURE
THE EARTH IS IN OF HELPERS
TO PROTECT AND CONSERVE HER
SHE CRIES WHEN WE POLLUTE
SHE SMILED WHEN WE MAKE A DIFFERENCE
I INTEND TO BE A PART OF A GROUP
THAT CLEANS UP THIS WORLD
SO THAT IN FUTURE MANY CAN REAL THE RICHNESS OF IT
RUNNING A MILE IS DIFFERENT
BUT THAT'S GOING TO CHANGE
I'M SURE IT WILL
THIS WILL BALANCE MY LIFE
BROADEN MY BRAIN
RELAX MY BODY
I'M GOING TO NEED DEDICATION
MOTIVATION
PARTICIPATION
A COLD PLACE FAR UP NORTH
IS WHERE IS LIKE TO TRAVEL FOURTH
AND MEET A FEW BOYS, WHO ARE
SPECIAL TO ME
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
.
Most of the violence, and that such as he is in the Senate,
The prince wounding thousands, you have to help the helpers
and leaders; I do not want to go down; I do not know
what you are doing, The first server design uses a classic
program and she shows her sports bra - on the Sky Cam and gets a pair of free 3D
x-ray glasses,
Of brandy and white wine from the radio station to a wedding
Weddings are, and not before.
No trading, financial world. Of all the words
The reason why those,
who did not do this, that I may know I can
read the book to know how to administer treatment to
The Wall Street markets, for with thee, I will purchase other
The application will be podcasts, but also superb.
Radio and I shall not find a place for.
to worry about. And the best way to work on that.
Glasses, a robot face.
it is. 1, as John Rose after warning
Atọjade was from England, | Paul was
He moves those, it cannot be that there
are no radio waves. radio
Wedding wedding Cheer
An old man, wish to remain in the water
of the room. if we keep
I do not think we love each other.
Out of four miles he wants to get her for me; I do not know what
First, he planned to meet Temperance
When [ysbryd] appeared, | they and all the games in the program.
Cognac-colored glasses and allowed to sit in the box. for;
the radio and the wedding ceremony
One of the adults, it is said that it is not a piece of wood.
If we take care of the child and the mainstream trafficking
All the words that you know. As part of the book reads
A new way to Wall Street
Fish poisoning complaints, which is also Dutch
Big J Ray
housing; Providing a file's variations.
And a stack of channels, and the best of the best
More, and the other is not. Other applications
Best to be on the radio, and they are most suited.
Where you can also find your location color
The glass on the left hand strongly
that's the best way to a work a gram:
According to John Rose and the beautiful woman
Web England, San Pablo flies.
With the radio waves on
The radio side of the water.
|
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 3:06 AM UTC
I bleed as not in pain or anguish
Nature reminds me of the beautiful crimson within me
My body celebrate in its own way
The crimson flow burst in its fullness rich in colour
Embrace the moment with joy, I am anxious,
Flows between my thighs, warm and thick,
I bleed a beautiful flow
Piercing glances shame me
Disgust is the flow that defines me,
Fear and Silence draw into the depth of a dark cloud
Rejection drowns the beauty in my flow
Joy and worth is ****** with each drop
My voice is silenced by my helper
I bleed a beautiful flow
Golden yet crimson is my flow
Anxiety unravel the shame within me
Hideaway from my helpers just for a while
The flows leave traces of its existence on
Drenched in the cloths that cover me
The ground I sit tells the world my misery
The crimson brighten only the ground I sit
Only darkness will hide my shame
I bleed a beautiful flow
I crawl away to my own dark place
There dignity is nothing but a dream
A cloth to drain the flow is all I desire
My hope is on my helper but no,
They withhold their helping hand
I am drowning silence unable to speak yet,
I bleed a beautiful flow.
I yearn to plead with my helper for a moment
To lament my desire to hide my shame in a cloth
They throw a dark cloud over me, I am a disgrace
I am silenced even by my own kind
They too who have been pulled into a dark hole of silence
Their hope is far Gone with the Wind
Buried in the voices of those who claim to own my kind
My thoughts wander in misery and grief
As one lost in an unknown world,
I bleed a beautiful flow.
A voice from within calls out to me
It reminds me of the strength embedded in my kind
A gentle whisper tells me to celebrate my flow
I must rise and say the first words although fear grips me
I rise like a tide and fight for my own kind
I speak although silence is expected of me
I must fight for my beautiful flow
I bleed a beautiful flow
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 4:06 PM UTC
*We live now
In visual times
Our helpers are
Those graphic aids:
Top to bottom
Right to left
In to out..
Part in whole
Whole in part
Holograph assists
Wholeness found..
Symmetry here
Alerts to show
Symmetry there..
These and more
Simple translations
Inner Eye wakens..
So that now
Deception removed
Our world renews
Its hidden beauty
Dis-clothed…*
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
Does my very existence not fit into your narrow idea of what a human being should be?
That you even hold a belief that my identity should have parameters truly disconcerts me.
First, I feel a reactionary urge to be sorry for not fitting into this tiny little cardboard box you've made for me.
This box you want to close up and push to the back of a dusty shelf.
This is because I'm used to being swept under the rug like a mess you don't want to see but you don't have the time for.
Then, I want to crush it beneath my feet and tear it apart.
But the mother within me caresses your hateful glare with a sorry stare.
Disappointed... worried, I gently pick it up.
With a sad smile, I begin to open it.
Carefully, with the calloused pads of my fingers, I untuck each fold you have created in order for this box to contain my soul.
With each motion, I make sure not to rip it at the seams. That would hurt.
It seems, though, this material has been handled unlovingly to begin with.
Mold has made its way into the corners, and the fibers are fraying at each corner, at every fold.
But I am patient. I will slowly but surely deconstruct each and every hateful box that has been stacked in the musty warehouse of your heart.
I will be here until all unsuspecting souls have escaped their prisons.
I will be here until I die.
But that's okay.
It gives me something to do with my hands.
Plus I enjoy the company of the liberated.
I need their help to clean this place up.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC