"herded" poems
her rigorous objections
are herded slowly down the sheep trail
by studious pencil thin men with stylish mustache's
who have deep pocket pickers for friends
they gather round the weak willed and the willing alike
looking for cheap thrills and spare change
everybody needs a new road
when the old one seems to never end
but she with eyes cast down
mumbles her unappeased desires
as she shuffles a little closer to the truth as she sees it
she has it all written out in secret languages
she has books filled with life's coded thoughts as she see's them
barn burners and dare devils grace the cover of her latest creation
self titled to her own romantic name
she is stylized in her own way
so she adores the pencil thin men
with their dashing devil may care good looks
i wrote her a letter yesterday
full of stories from the great highway
full of chipper go getters and the glum go gotten
she is a forever stone on a necklace
she is a moonstone on a bracelet
she is graceful when it counts and
thats more than enough for me
the pencil thin moustache men
come to conquer the all night diners
in the small shoreline towns
but slink away in dawns first light
with stolen smiles and borrowed kisses
that they promise profusely to return tomorrow
but never do
such is the romantic night by her side
such is the wonder-wheel days of our
journey on the great highway
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Misunderstood
Making decisions that some may find hard to swallow.
Ethically, my soul may seem hard to follow.
Some clash with me and claim I'm just too hollow.
But those who quit may find themselves suppressed by their wallet.
I'm misunderstood because they misunderstand
That I don't do what I should but I make my own plan.
Because what I will do is not always what's good for me.
I try to pursue the truth to make my own ends meet.
Recycle, save the the trees, but don't ask me to concede.
I believe it's the truth that will always set you free.
Life is precious but only one life has no meaning,
Populations come and go and eventually blend into the green.
We are part of a whole that must carry ourselves on.
We can't get caught in the moment and put perfunctory blinders on.
We need to focus on greater good like we really should
And prevent ourselves from becoming truly misunderstood.
I can see all the sides to this perpetual story, man
Like the reflections from the great scrub, John Dorian.
Sap stories of pressure and plight make me sick.
Just **** it up and try to live your life in the thick.
You are always nothing unless you can make yourself.
Struggle is completely natural and we must all try to fight for health.
If you spend your life to only strive for material wealth,
Then you will never truly come to ******* know yourself.
Maybe one day when you finally come to your senses,
You'll realize your whole life that you've been completely senseless.
Your goals have only served to benefit you immediately.
Now you can see that once again you have absolutely nothing.
The rise and fall of this material life creates emotions
Of unbearable strife ending in your utter destruction.
And you'll realize that you've just been herded through the motions.
And at once your life will end before the reconstruction.
Like a flood that caused the soil to avulse,
Society will shift at the last beat of your pathetic pulse.
This won't matter to you but it will effect everyone else.
You left this world misunderstanding yourself.
The life we lead
Will always be with us.
The things we seek
Are within us already.
The price we pay
To seek our necessity
Will always be...
(x2)
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 5:55 AM UTC
It was as it had been, but the
Ring of oak
Shattered,
What was locked behind
Ventured Forward caressing
Bark,
Leaf,
Wood
Was tainted upon its departure.
Hollow structure, a leaf now skeletal
In a moment decayed from life,
Did touch upon depressed oak.
And like ash it was pollen of death, in
What once stood tall, faded into oblivions halls.
All but one did fade to the winds,
As freed upon the world old evil,
Not one noticed, never seen,
This oak of strength from which acorns
Did fall,
Sunken beneath the ground,
Nurtured by the nature, now scarred
Upon black seeds
Corrupting,
Tormenting,
Stained
Is the ground, but these majestic little
Things grow, sprout from the ill ground.
Where tainted now roots invigorate
New growth, the evil is herded upon
This ancient ground, where many had fell,
Now new ones take the places of old,
They are a beacon of strength as that which
Was loose now in this ring of oak.
Buried for time once more for each one
That falls, another acorn will fall to take its
Majestic place,
The old ring of oak, canopy of secrets hoping never to be told.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
The Slow-Bullet
by rgpage
In the early days of Viet Nam
the American draft was going strong.
Young men in their prime of life,
were forced and herded into world strife.
A generation of America’s best, were
then brought home and laid to rest.
Wall Street smiled, the money flowed
the “fat Cats” called it money owed.
In towns and cities big and small,
families waited, worried, and cried.
Groups appeared, dissention grew.
"Mothers grab your son’s and hide."
There were those who felt their duty strong,
to take the leap toward blood and strife
with McNamara herding them along.
Known to the grunts as “Mac the Knife.”
The madness grew to a global scale
with those that were for and those against.
In bombing, selective targets became the norm
keeping the rest of the world from harm.
With those who didn’t feel their duty strong,
a path to the north they took.
They packed what they could, burned their cards
and paused for one last look.
With this some parents felt relief,
while others felt the disgrace. Of seeing
the grief so many went through after
having their futures erased.
The war took over 58,000 American lives;
men and women both, (before we flew away).
Wall Street got their wages for blood, with
broken lives in pain, many thousands more would pay.
With thousands more that were yet to be lost, after returning home.
Physically and mentally scarred, even those seeming
perfectly whole. Then saying good-by to the ones they loved
in their own special way. They stoically waited for the slow-bullet to come to finally take them away…
Suicide has taken 3 or 4 times the lives than the war took. My heart cries for every last one of them…Robert G. Page, Viet Nam Vet. ‘66-’67.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
As though their roles are irreversible,
As only comforters to bread winners,
And thought as weak oft perceived as sinners,
The men rules, women seems incapable.
Dear fathers why burdened your daughters so?
Of women's jobs but forced the girls to fill
The pails with water, wood from distant hills,
Instead of school to learn what they should know.
Herded at tender age to married life;
Heaven's rewards engraved on simple minds;
To tidy, cook and wash, no cuddly toys,
Be ever present, good, obedient wife.
They need your love, affections so be kind,
They strive in onerous world with men and boys.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 5:25 AM UTC
A baby clutches his mother’s dress
Unaware of how it will save his life
Unwary of the saving grace that will come to rest
The child is soft and clean
His name is Eugenius, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a babe, no bigger than an infant can be
A toddler clutches his mother’s dress, the hem
Unaware of tragedy
Unwary of the Horror that awaits him
The child is frightened and shaking
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a little one, no taller than Mama’s knee
A child clutches his mother’s hand
Unaware from behind her skirt as they are herded
Unwary of the disaster to come from the cart
His name is Genie, the second of three
Before Mikey, after Richie
He is just a child, no higher than Tata’s knee
A boy holds his brother’s hand tight
Unaware of the danger he is in
Unwary that the coin from Mama’s skirts will save his life
The boy is healthy and strong, though not for long
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Michal, after Richard
He is naïve, but soon to grow up prematurely
A prisoner holds his own shirt, unsure
Unaware of the pain that is coming
Unwary that he shall walk away nevermore
The prisoner is hurting and ******
His name is “Gefangene,” the second of two
After Richard, before the crimson mess
He is crying for a ****** towel carried by
A handicap clutches Mama’s leg
Aware that he cannot cry as she shuffles him out
Wary that outside her skirts is the hunt
The handicap is hurting so badly
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before the new bump
He is unwilling to believe
A kaleka holds tight to his brother’s back
Aware that he is a burden
Wary that he is a load
The kaleka is waiting, waiting.
His name is Gene, second of three
After Richard, before Theresa
The kaleka is ready for release
The dziecko holds again to Mama’s skirt
Aware that he is now free to leave
Wary that he will never be independent
The dziecko is elated and mourning
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Theresa, after Richard
The dziecko will never be the same
Sixty five years later
Gene holds Rosie’s hand tight
Aware that he is old now, having lived fully
Wary that death is imminent at last
The great-grandfather is peaceful and content
His name is Tata, Grandpa, Gene, husband, and more
He is the last one left of his war
The survivor is ready to reunite with his family
He gives thanks to Hattie’s skirts
That kept him alive though the hurts.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
We’ve been herded by hook and crook,
To obey convention, and read textbook.
The uniformity is maddening,
And the subjects are baffling.
The whole wide world is grand and open;
Why cordon the mind off in a tiny token?
Rules were meant to be broken,
To usher change and issue motion.
Creativity, art, they build up cultures,
Not to be picked at by robotic vultures.
They always nitpick and they scavenge,
Intent on making things a challenge.
Passion is the cornerstone of all,
It survives when things are squall.
It’s the sun that rises within you,
Makes you things you never knew.
Question everything, for your good;
You’ll find more than you ever could.
Explore everything, be curious;
For the world out there is glorious.
Challenge everything, be skeptical;
Your brain is knowledge’s receptacle.
Think outside, and break the rules;
Don’t blindly follow, like the fools.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime,
Kept slush waist-high and rising hour by hour,
And choked the steps too thick with clay to climb.
What murk of air remained stank old, and sour
With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men
Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,
If not their corpses...
There we herded from the blast
Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last,
Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles,
And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping
And sploshing in the flood, deluging muck -
The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles
Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.
We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined
'O sir, my eyes - I'm blind, - I'm blind, I'm blind!'
Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids
And said if he could see the least blurred light
He was not blind; in time he'd get all right.
'I can't' he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids',
Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there
In posting Next for duty, and sending a scout
To beg a stretcher somewhere, and flound'ring about
To other posts under the shrieking air.
* * *
Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed,
And one who would have drowned himself for good, -
I try not to remember these things now.
Let dread hark back for one word only: how
Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,
And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,
Renewed most horribly whenever crumps
Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath, -
Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout
'I see your lights!' But ours had long died out.
2.5k
Minions marching to the pied pipers flute.
Sheep herded, dressed in fancy suits.
Walking amongst the crowd.
I wonder if I'm allowed.
To buck the trend.
The rules we bend.
When It's hard for us to compute.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
The wind blew,
Monster Frog Rock sat high and dry
Baring his soft white underbelly
Where Old One-eye Bob the Bass
Napped on summer afternoons
Back when the cities did not drink so much water.
The wind blew,
A flock of four fowl dived
And herded dragon-flies to
Where the trout out jumped the carp
For the sapphire quad-winged engineering miracles.
All in all, a great day fishing at Lake Morena.
The trout chose dragon-flies over
Walmart eerie-descent Power Bait.
No loss, over all, a net gain.
No bait spent for nothing,
No time wasted,
No hope lost.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
a polish pork head terrine?
my ******* god...
how can the jews and the muslims
take to culinary criticism of
their own, respective gods?
ever watch the t.v. show
billions? where they're having
breadcrumbs fried pork
ears?
last time i heard...
the best pork is encapsulated
within the pig cranium....
all that excess cartilage?
yummy finger licking good...
seems funny though...
it's not exactly discussing bone marrow...
it's pork head...
all that excess cartilage...
and mingled with sweet & sour
gherkins...
just my idea of Anastasia...
a porky's head...
chicken hearts / chicken livers....
raw Baltic herrings?
who the, **** needs to glorify
american hamburgers...
if not some jerking-off
megalomaniac?
you eat, what is given,
you don't ask for nuances,
you don't make excuses...
you eat what is on the plate..
you **** the omnivore "gimmick"...
pork head flesh,
meat mixed with cartilage?
tasty as ****
so why would islam
or the partial strand of judaism
be so critical concerning the most
economic carnivore animal being
farmed, herded, industrialised?
the monotheistic celebration of god...
within the confines of a criticism,
so trivial would make a god laugh...
it would appear the dogma was written as a joke...
earthquake and hurricane
are o.k., but pork?
the ******* bubonic plague!
i love how "god" is celebrated,
but at the same time,
kept under a critical acclaim
of having one of his creations,
namely pork...
given a punching bag status of criticism...
since, what is so ******* pristine,
and spectacular, about chicken, lamb
or beef meat?
according to islam... mad cow disease
never happened.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 9:19 PM UTC
Humanity
Has lost its way
Forgotten what it meant to live
Greed rules the lands
Hate divides
And ignorance shackles
Humanity
Has began to die
Corruption reigns with an iron fist
Can't seem to find the light amongst the fog of evil
To give power to those that would lead to healing
Humanity
It means we'll all rot
To be herded by the lies of the media
Beauty is the only way
Thin is beauty
Shallow is beauty
Fraud is beauty
To be separated by outdated prejudice
Gays are sinners
White is the true superior race
Money can buy anything,
Even love
To be set on a road of self destruction
Poverty is for the lower class
Intelligence is for the weak
Individuality is for the outcasts
Humanity
Has forgotten what it means to be human
To find the balance
Love without fear
Fight the injustice for freedom of thought,
Freedom to be unique,
Freedom to live,
To live with a purpose
A purpose
That's what Humanity has lost
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 12:41 AM UTC
To hell with maintaining a fire just so faces could be seen.
I danced on the embers extinguishing little stars and I scribbled in my notes and waited for that one girl to shut up about Twitter and Halloween costumes so I could hear—
the fog dragging its tongue up the valley.
Finally she began to realize the contest she was losing,
took the quiet advice of myself and the wind and went
to go tuck herself
into the tent,
into the safety of ceiling.
But,
you and I
opted to be
coyotes on the hillside.
I took the trail away from our sleeping counterparts,
and flayed you on the dirt where I stripped you of your fur,
howling to the fog and plowing valleys in your flesh,
your legs grew into roots, and wove length by longer length
‘round all the sturdy angles, the anchors of my hips
and you, oh you,
you would **** the marrow from my bone.
And when we lay out, raw and steaming
knees bleeding from the drainage ditch,
a gnawing fades out, falls to dreaming,
we, peeling off a well-known itch.
Then we play a game with satellites
Where bouncing mirrors reflect our minds
And laugh when the reflections never fit.
I gather up my skin, step one foot in and
stumble when the tightness traps my leg,
You pin up your ******* to please our sleeping guests
that wouldn’t take to anything irregular.
On the upward hike ten million lights, ten million lives
herded on the table of L.A.
A Serengeti of fire, a mass migration;
mammoths marching, tusks dipped in flame
Sitting around campfires once taught vocal apes to rhyme
but a million conversations
bleaches each the other white
and now a million electric campfires
bleaches L.A.’s lower sky.
And though I stomped out ours
the ash remains a scar
where we had nearly forgot
how to speak by choosing to not.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:22 AM UTC
I have found peace
Boredom will bear my scars
My mind has become a discovery
It is an island at sea
It is a mountain peak
It is a place to be free
I traveled to a place
And retained my senses
But that was all I brought
Not my memories
Not my heartaches
Not my desires
Only my senses
The canvas was blank
I wanted to borrow colors
And steal the things I see
It was a chance to be new
I wanted something good
But it didn’t have to be
I took all the stars
And herded them to one side
I wanted to see how far darkness went
But the only thing that could penetrate was light
So did I find the end of the light
Or the end of the darkness?
Regardless the answer
I asked the question
And I forgot about anything
And anybody
That's the point
It’s so easy if you let go
It's your place
Somebody may fit
But it's still yours
And it's good
Let go of the outside
Let go of what was said against you
Let go of being alone
Because you’re not
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
Apollyon will destroy
your mantras with the truth.
Be without fear
for all of humanity shall perish
in it's own denial
Fear not judgement
Fear not prosecution
All sheep will be herded
off the cliffs of stupidity
and burn in the fires of their intolerance
May they see the light
and be free one day.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:28 AM UTC
Poetic People..
we are not herded sheeple.
We are word lyrics, song makers, mind shakers, current speakers, history makers, past revealers..
Word life breathing, comfort givers.
Word Movers, Books of chapters and mental creators of Intellectual content givers.
We teach, subtract and we word multiply in many unique stanza, rhythms and soul dynamic gifts.
Poetry people we can ignite, warm up or cool down to enhance hearts temperatures Spirits our words lift.
Poets are examples of writing freedoms and of all 12 styles and forms of Poetry formed arts.
Sonnets, Ballads, Concrete ode and Prose. and the many mo's are starts.
Poetry People are such a variety.
Best leave us free!
As living Poetry!
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 12:12 PM UTC
The children are running and stumbling
A humbling experience, but deliverance
Is only gained here by running in fear
Away from those who hate and ****
And warp the will of those too young
To see people hung and murdered.
So they are herded with the living
Into an unforgiving world of pain
None should see, even less see again
But they remain in these clusters
Mustering and lining up for food
A homeless brood of adopted waifs
That should be naifs instead of this,
Nomads, glad of a blanket for bed
On the hard ground, all they found
To call home during flight, for tonight,
Not all are children, but the hurt
From blurted out hateful names
Is not the same for the young ones
Who should be having fun and not
Suffering through this hell they got
From being born in the right city
In a time of no pity and no rescue,
No kindness the world should do,
Instead they cringe from angry faces
As if they were disgraces for living.
Nothing left for giving to them.
These are orphans now, not sons
Not daughters, what was begun
Has ended for them, permanently
While nations stand by silently
Watching the perfidy and sighs,
Ignorant of their cries and destitution.
No restitution can ever come to some.
To most there is only memory of death
And running, out of breath, nowhere
Because nobody is there for them.
It is their problem.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
What sights
are seen around
this flower cart
The ever changing
sea of humanity
The exciting sounds
that shout about life,
young and old alike
living to the fullest
and some unfortunately not
Young and old busying themselves
in fast-foot-paces
Vendors of every
nationality pre-existing into one nation
Besides a lot
of people stopping long enough...
to buy and smell the flowers
I raise my petals
to the sun,
sitting in this whitened
cart
a fragrance
bundled joy...
Please take me home
and gently whisper close to me...
I'll send you
to
my
love
forever be
Filled to the brim
with goodies for your nose
and colors for your eyes,
while in the middle of beehive hustling
this whitened cart
of ours holds
little flowery kisses
helping to kiss away
your hectic day
Here time stands still for you
and entwined magic leafy
flower wands
help change your worldly view
A kindly wink from nature
A kindly gift from you...
I once fantasized
a fantasy
of lilacs
of ferns of forget-me-nots
and many more
All herded two by two onto a pushing
ark-cart of white
But soon a flood of humanity
encircled that ark-cart you see
And soon they stormed their
yearnings for fresh fragrance
for lilacs
for ferns
for forget me notes
and many more
And the outcome was a pleasant
calamity as you can easily see
For those blossoms were
all swept overboard,
caught in the wavy arms
by the sea of humanity...
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
It's the smell. The smell of hundred-year-old
hardwood floors in this old school I recognize most,
floors grown thick and corpulent with untold layers
of pine-scented oil - floors darkened, smoothed
by the trample of children herded, then corralled
in dank stables down those long corridors. I also
remember the confinement I felt, pinned within
those stables, wanting nothing more than to run free,
with the wind of youth combing my untamed hair.
–
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 7:43 PM UTC
And as he lit himself on fire
he though "you are all just liars"
And he knew deep in his heart
We wouldn't die for our beliefs
As the flames grew ever higher
and the man became a pyre
We realized right from the start
We were never really complete
And as we watched this martyr burn
Before us into ashes he did turn
We knew that he knew what it all really means
He would burn for his beliefs right out there on the street
For all of us to see he burned right in front of me
Sending a terrifying message with his manufactured scene
It is obscene, that we won't even stand up for our dreams
We get herded just like cattle to the end of everything
But that man, he went and chose a different way
He didn't want to be herded for another god **** day
I appreciated all his rage and his savage final play
And I think I understood right then what he was trying to say
Screams sounded out from the hollows in the daylight
As the people rushed towards ash and dust just so that they might
Help to save a poor depraved and crazed man with firm beliefs
It was at that moment that I felt like I could finally see
I doused myself and shouted out against the worlds injustice
I followed the example and led the most extreme of protests
I wept and screamed as my body burned, though I am not much of a crier
But sometimes in order to change the world you must set yourself on fire
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
For Anastasia
*Give patience, Lord, to us Thy children
In these dark, stormy days to bear
The persecution of our people,
The torture falling to our share.
--
When we are plundered and insulted
In days of mutinous unrest
We turn for help to thee, Christ-Saviour,
That we may stand the bitter test.
-Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna Romanov*
Weakened by the revolutionists,
they lived their last days out simply.
Cold borscht and cabbage rolls.
The family was herded to the slaughter house.
Precious jewels and ikons sewn into their clothing,
Give strength, Just God, to us who need it.
The baby boy was butchered like a suckling piglet.
Low ceilings and dim light made it hard
to take aim and fire. Tears and prayers collided
with bullets and blood, spattered on the walls.
A thick cloud of smoke and plaster settled
upon a dynasty dead.
She raised herself from the dead,
Clawing, moaning, screaming,
stifled by blood--
Then disappeared, falling into
the abyss of immortality.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
I became stunned by the roaring cheers from the townsmen.
The men and women herded together like cattle for this long-awaited celebration.
Countless faces known and unknown encircled me.
I had finally received my much-needed recognition.
I had become a phenomenon whose story would be passed on from generation to generation throughout the entire nation.
I noticed my cheeks had become soggy, stained with a salty residue.
At last I was someone, someone who attracted immeasurable admiration.
I eagerly looked around for my family; I wanted them to join me and take part in something so great, but they were not present.
This slightly saddened me, but it was rather short-lived seeing as how there were multitudes of attendees there to honor me.
I suddenly became distracted by the beauty of a young woman who possessed emerald eyes, red locks, and tiny-dotted freckles.
She came forth and put daisies before me and then quickly disappeared into the boisterous mob.
I called out to the woman, not knowing her name.
I wanted to run after her but I could not move.
I rapidly became frantic.
I was screaming, begging, and pleading, but no one bothered to help me.
They all just stood there staring at me; I felt pathetic.
Then there was a tall, broad man - a giant to be exact - who stood towering over me.
I noticed his freshly-polished, black boots were stained with crimson that trickled down, staining the ground.
His shadow blocked the sun and my view.
I looked up at him.
He started to slowly arch his back and descend towards my face.
I recognized him…
We recently had a brief encounter with one another.
A peculiar man he was - he just stood in the corner of the stage, staring off into the distance without muttering a single word. He was motionless, almost catatonic-like. He didn’t even have the gall to face me during my commemoration.
He was clearly an insecure and paranoid fellow.
He hid under his blackened hood and guarded himself with a glistening, silver
axe.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
no one believes in me
no one thinks that i can see what i want to be
no one thinks i can do even one thing on my own
they say i have no ambition
that i left home with no ammunition
to fight in a war of attrition
with no foreseeable outcome
but i'm not cattle to be herded
i am a voice to be heard
and listened to
i will accomplish so many things
i will set out to be anything
i will be set on the highest pedestal
my life will not be some humorous spectacle
my dreams are so much more than skeletal
i'm more than the hollowed out bones that no one knows
where nothing but emptiness grows
because you don't know me
you don't see that i'll be free to scream
so take me from these demons
i am no longer the old shirt
left hanging in your closet
i am no longer a speck of dirt
floating aimlessly for you to witlessly grasp at me as i head to see the minds that i can change
my voice will be heard from the high heavens to the depths of hell
my words will mend the broken skin that we all live in
my ideas will free us from the suffering and the covering of our eyes
and i will not just be believed in
i will be known
and you'll wish i could see you
[holyoak]
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
By day the fear defines me;
By night it envelopes me,
Perpetually reaffirming it's hold,
Refusing to release me.
Escape would be the sweetest taste,
more so than this surrender
to which I have become accustomed,
and to which I have not the strength to nullify.
We are given this inadequate kit,
of alternate emotions and yoga poses,
with which to fight the fear,
as though we have a chance.
Yet no matter how tense my anger,
how jubilant my happiness,
or how serene my meditation,
this fear has found a forever host.
From adolescence we are told
that this fear is a human construct.
Oh, the absolute worst kind;
this kind has no solution.
As teenagers we are herded into groups,
and told they are what will ease the fear,
and yet, the same emotions exist in all.
So what then is our option?
Is it to find love?
A kindred spirit whose fear mirrors our own?
I do believe so.
Oh, I do believe so.
As young adults we are told this is wrong.
We should be independent;
searching for love will certainly lead to heartache.
We must just live a little longer with the fear.
In our 30's the advice is more rushed,
as though we really do have timers.
We are now told the time spent afraid,
was time wasted.
What a sick joke,
that we are given false testimonies,
and are bombarded with warnings,
all most surely unsolicited.
I will not listen.
This fear is mine, not yours.
It has been my dearest friend for so long,
but it is now my choice to leave it behind.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC