"hominibus" poems - Hello Poetry

dead...that's what you are... dead...for all, you are... clumsy hands are all that are left for you... mutatis mutandis, praemonitus, praemunitus eris sed qui me dixit moritum est hominibus? qui me dixit, non est, sed somnum habere? and that waking up was a thing that just wasn't there... but I WAS to believe... yahweh...blasphemous..."jehovah's" children... yahoo!...is yet, the talk of the times... sitting idyllic on the brick wall...denuded...red all over... are you out of your mind?...what's the matter? ...and the hose-pipe is set...the thoughts gush out...smothering you... it's been the dark night's work...and I am sitting all alone... thinking 'bout you...you, who's not there... and never to have known you with days passing by... I probably will never commit... there's so much do now and such little time... that I cannot forget... what you were...you are...

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Jan 10, 2010

Jan 10, 2010 at 2:56 AM UTC

aniruddha-basu

Time stands still

dead...that's what you are... dead...for all, you are... clumsy hands are all that are left for you... mutatis mutandis, praemonitus, praemunitus eris sed qui me dixit moritum est hominibus? qui me dixit, non est, sed somnum habere? and that waking up was a thing that just wasn't there... but I WAS to believe... yahweh...blasphemous..."jehovah's" children... yahoo!...is yet, the talk of the times... sitting idyllic on the brick wall...denuded...red all over... are you out of your mind?...what's the matter? ...and the hose-pipe is set...the thoughts gush out...smothering you... it's been the dark night's work...and I am sitting all alone... thinking 'bout you...you, who's not there... and never to have known you with days passing by... I probably will never commit... there's so much do now and such little time... that I cannot forget... what you were...you are...

25

The bodies of paradise are the fledglings of humanity-- little chicks that peeped for love and instead found what we attempt to purge. Which is reality instead warping and mourning the placate scene into what our creation has never meant to be. I've become fond of literature and statutes that line a facetious library. One which mangles others from stepping inside yet holds the truest heart. My finest lines are not those spoken but those read from paper or stone, because it is only to those un-living the crēvit are not divined and which Veritas, can come find Amor est vitae.

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Sep 19, 2016

Sep 19, 2016 at 5:57 AM UTC

Penguin

Tempore Crēvit Amor, et non Hominibus: The Romantics

The bodies of paradise are the fledglings of humanity-- little chicks that peeped for love and instead found what we attempt to purge. Which is reality instead warping and mourning the placate scene into what our creation has never meant to be. I've become fond of literature and statutes that line a facetious library. One which mangles others from stepping inside yet holds the truest heart. My finest lines are not those spoken but those read from paper or stone, because it is only to those un-living the crēvit are not divined and which Veritas, can come find Amor est vitae.

29

In public, I wear it well — A mask of smiles, Words sharp and light, Jokes like armor, Eyes that never seem to waver. You see the me I've crafted — But not the pain, Not the struggles, Not the tears, Not the humiliations I've endured. All of it — covered, hidden by: Persona, protege me ab ulterius hominibus qui de me ridebant, semel ostendi infirmitatem meam, et ideo omnes non solum curaverunt, sed etiam me contumeliis affecerunt. But with the mask, All seems like fine, smooth glass — Perfect, flawless, Untouched. Yet beneath that glass, Cracks grow deeper, Thin lines of truth, Splitting under pressure. Waiting for the moment It all will break — And when it breaks, Will they see me? Or just the shattered pieces? Will they reach out, Or step on the shards? Will I be free, Or filled with insults of my weakness? And so, I wear the mask.

0

Mar 13, 2025

Mar 13, 2025 at 3:50 AM UTC

Astrum

A Mask like nothing.

In public, I wear it well — A mask of smiles, Words sharp and light, Jokes like armor, Eyes that never seem to waver. You see the me I've crafted — But not the pain, Not the struggles, Not the tears, Not the humiliations I've endured. All of it — covered, hidden by: Persona, protege me ab ulterius hominibus qui de me ridebant, semel ostendi infirmitatem meam, et ideo omnes non solum curaverunt, sed etiam me contumeliis affecerunt. But with the mask, All seems like fine, smooth glass — Perfect, flawless, Untouched. Yet beneath that glass, Cracks grow deeper, Thin lines of truth, Splitting under pressure. Waiting for the moment It all will break — And when it breaks, Will they see me? Or just the shattered pieces? Will they reach out, Or step on the shards? Will I be free, Or filled with insults of my weakness? And so, I wear the mask.

31