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Find the LOVE
In your heart
Let it be your LIGHT
It will shine from your eyes
The rays will BURST within you
Explode
A nova burning brighter than
The sun
Flares in your mind

The stars bow before you
Highlight of creation
Glory radiating around you

Express yourself
   Pick up the pen
   Let it take wing
   Fly to the outer reaches
   Down starlanes
   And garden paths

Roses
   Color of burgundy wine
   Glittering
   Glistening
   Gleaming
Sunlight on the petals
Dewdrops on emerald leaves
Reflections of scattered points of light

Butterfly emerging
Cocoon erupting
Revealing starchild destiny

Metamorphosis
From roots of earthiness
Free to tumble and glide
In cloudless azure skies

The chains fall away
Taste winged freedom as you soar

Capture the moments
The way you were meant to stride
As a giant
across the firmament

Golden gate spread wide
The road opens before you, beckoning
Starting in the dusk
Through twilight
Into the dawn of your new day

Set a torch to  coals of joy
Banking the flame of your essence

This instant in time was made for you
To seize all that was poured into you
Like wine
Drink from the cup and...
Humanize yourself
What does it mean to yield? How do I do it?

Do I have to stop,
or do I merge into what’s already flowing?

Do I just let God plant a seed in me and let it keep growing?

Or do I stop and see what’s coming, hoping I’ll make the right choice somehow?
What do I do God?
There’s so many things always pulling, I get lost and forget which way I was rowing.

But then I see your signs and remember that there’s something more worth yielding for.
Something more worth giving my life for.
I know the truths in me and I’ve found something worth fighting for.
Worth dying for.

but

I’ve never cried Lord, more than when I’m on the floor.
On my hands and knees begging you please to hear my pleas.
Because this world gets too heavy, and the burden doesn’t just hang on my back.

It slips in the cracks that have formed over time
because this broken soul tries to climb without a harness.
This broken soul tries to be someone he’s not.

Lies, steals, lusts,
but still gives it all he’s got.

This broken soul can’t carry the burdens of the world.

They’re too heavy to hold,
when the same hands and back back are trying to carry a sister who was addicted to crack, who’s marriage has fallen to pieces and she’s trying to stick them together and get it back
but she’s forgotten that you’re the thread that keeps it all together.

Without it, we’re dead.

This broken soul tries to hide the lust but whenever no one’s looking, he falls back into old habits and selfish desires that requires him to de-humanize women and see them only as things that bring him satisfaction.

There’s something so terribly wrong with that.

Something needs to change and fast.

And it’s this same mouth that lies and slanders because he wants people to like him and so he puts on another face in hopes to hide away the toxic black that builds up when he forgets to yield.

When I forget that there’s beauty in the brokenness.
When we finally come up and confess.
That we’re all a ****** broken mess.

and then we hope for more because we’re told to score.
but we never make the cut,
there’s few that do.
but when they’re through,
they’re broken too.

There’s beauty in the brokenness

Someone loves this broken mess.

We’re stuck safe in our heads,
at least, that’s what we think until it all caves in or someone breaks the code and walks right in.

Then we’re left lingering in a place we can’t escape, and we have to accept that it may
never
be
the same.

At some point we have to admit that we don’t have it all figured out, and listen to the cries of your heart.

Shout, let it out!

There’s beauty in the brokenness.

The one who loves that broken mess,
is the same one who can put it all back together.

He can make it better.
Heal the wounds that tear in rough weather.

He'll fix the locks,
reset the clocks
and turn back time to when your doors weren’t closed,
when do you suppose?
you’ll have enough strength,
enough courage
to last the length it takes to show that you have nothing?
it's takes everything
to show that you have nothing.

And realize that it’s when we show we’re broken,
share we share that token,
that we become everything he wants us to be.

When we finally yield,
slow down,
stop,
look around,
we’ll remember that we don’t actually need to go anywhere.
We don’t need to do anything.
Because no matter what you do,
where you go
or how many times you’ve fallen down
no matter how many times you’ve dirtied the gown

He loves these bruised

hurting,

damaged,

anxious,

depressed,

lustful,

brok­en messes

and nothing will change that.

No more, no less.

So, what does it mean to yield?
remember,
There's beauty in the brokenness.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2015
for T.M.R.
our "fellow" southern friend*

the southern way,
she-poet
teaches me
via long distance
breaking of the
braking neural inhibitions of
the loudest silences
that only humans can
mistress

photos, stories,
Facebook posts
how the earth rebirths
taking unasked
unwitting but wisely
both of us
to be refreshed,
so verily
the southern way

sharing worldly  
southern words
betraying a
more than
passing
(how I hate that word)
expertise
in spring colors
glorious to every sense,
best described
as nature's way to humanize what we wordily call
hopeful,
self-betraying herself by the
she -poets
innate
southern ways

calls me
northern boy
in a
true voice,
raconteuring,
quick retorting
always in the midst of
d r a wling stories,
about all crazy frogs
of Columbia County,
jumping multiple courses

all about
she-poets navigating
life erratic,
half ecstatic
yet singularity colored,
characteristic of a  
ninety percent southern
Tennessee whiskey blues

hear clear
she-poets
welcoming swirling
undertow undertones
lying just above the calmest
morning water surface glistening
words betraying nothing,
yet saying
all in
between, in
pauses of
speckling sun drops spectacular

she-poet
has her places
in woods, knolls and
rarely visited mountains
where cold brooks and cold beers
southern sooth
in ways
I will likely,
wanting but unable,
never learn
to hear clear

the southern way
is never flex,
nerve never
never bend, smile,
still fighting
the prior lost cause
ignore the
cracks coverup

until and when
the afternoon sun
ceases to warm
the orchard porch
daylighting no longer
when no one is around
she-poet
weeps out loud alone
in the
southern way

and I,
northern boy,
student witness,
having obtained
a learner's permit
for her teachings
re
the southern wayfaring ways
of living life

weep along side
in my unsatisfactory
northern way,
learning that,
who knew,
tears are also
glue
anywhere
For Tonya Maria
Devon Baker Apr 2013
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic *******
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Carmelo Antone Apr 2012
Twenty-three and coming from my teens
I’ve developed along already categorized genes,
By those who think they know me,
When I’m only twenty-three with a molding mentality

I was once vicariously raised through parentally guided means
Socially slit by those that promised me prosperity if I was studious,

Taught the importance of individuality,
Yet forced to be obedient
Then indoctrinated with an educator’s prescription,
An addiction they picked up in a higher institution

I’m finding it hard to follow your lead, when you found nourishment in my youthful innocence,

Socially stitched through generationally fostered fixes
Notions that you could promise me providence,
I’ve been cradled in a crib riddled with termites

Time shows little sympathy for those who have yet to comprehend the promise of a six foot end,

Yet you trained me to believe you didn’t domesticate me
Despite being conceived in a place I was not well received,
You taught the importance of obedience
Yet I’m finding it hard to accept your ancestral credence,

When this place has been passed along bloodlines,
When my generationally guided grandparents' felt the final close of their eyes,
And left me a world pieced together by both atrocities and glimpses of humanity

I’m finding it hard to speak in a world with such narcissistic sympathies of the traditionally raised

Yet I’m socially sutured by the fact that I still breathe,
While being born in a place that once found stability through a slave trade,
A middle passage that led to a devious democracy
I’m so grateful we can mend what barbarians once began,

I’ve had time to age, enough to take the reins,

Though before we build our shrines of this age,
You can still pray for something beyond the grave,
Yet never forget how we've been stranded, left here to continue, or to fray,
To humanize a species that earth derived,
Or to let the braids of life untwine and give way,  
During our generations' stay.
Please Enjoy
Poem can also be found on: http://mantone.net/
Content copyright 2011-2012. Matthew Charles Antone. All rights reserved.
Comments: mca@mantone.net
Vale Luna Jun 2017
I'm trying to humanize you
Rip you off
That stupid little pedestal
That I put you on
Make myself realize
How ****** up you can be
How mortal you really are
How ridiculous I am
For thinking
Your anything more than
Human.

I'm trying to deconstruct you
Tear to pieces
Your squalid crown
That I placed on your head
Understand
That your heart
Can be cracked too
That I'm not the only one
That gets hurt

I'm trying to objectify you
Stop building you up
In my mind
To where you're a queen
A goddess
On a throne above me
Ruling me
My thoughts
My actions
Attempting to perceive
The reality
That you don't own me
My mind
Or my body

I'm trying to humanize you
Fight against
Your stereotypical perfection
And acknowledge
Your flaws
Your weaknesses
Your mistakes
Your problems
Your defects
Your cracks
Your brokenness
Your ****
To finally appreciate
That you're nothing more than
Human.
Loving her is killing me. I have to stop putting her on a pedestal and realize that she's just as human as me.

Hope it's soon.
I mistreated you
I cheated you of a freedom needed for us to mend.
I was wading, waiting just to swim again.
against the tides is where I’ll find the path to pave the space needed
to make way for every ounce I couldnt appreciate
Never sing a song to a woman who wants to leave
I’ve turned into a madman, I think that’s enough for me
Will I make it to the end we’ll just have to wait and see
I ain’t Think that far yet but there’s no time to be
The one to hold you in his arms when your heart bleeds
I can’t humanize my **** disguise we’ve parted ways
My soul and I Parlay
prequels fondly pondered I’ve tread onward
focus was astray
Ive taken bigger bites than one can chew
Without a stain
I’ve seen it through
I came to play with aftermaths
And whatever’s left of sanity
don't know it all and won't pretend i Am saint
To me, imposing my beliefs would be deceit
Can’t captivate
man who has refused to see
Reduce the heat, don’t slave away for poverty
Its uncommon to solve problems with commodities
You’ll have to seek beneath the skin
My best attempt was making peace with the friends ship
allowed to sink
I keep the channel open, hoping that we meet before it ends.
I'm finding new approaches to the dreams I will transcend.
Now with all I know I can make sense of the events, a toast to the amends .
Desire Dec 2018
We all got stories.
Stories are life's language;
language impacts perception - our
own, others, and nations.
"Stories dispossess, stories malign,
stories empower, stories humanize,
stories rob and break dignity,
stories repair whats broken..."
Single stories are scanty.
All stories, stitched together,
complete the composition of you.
Many stories matter - yours.
If your life were a book,
what would people read about?
We all got stories.
Share them. All of them.
[they MATTER]
XIII. Making History
-
Inspired by Chimamanda Adichie's speech, "The Danger of a Single Story."
-
Originally written/posted: 20181202
Rooted Whispers May 2013
To the human who bears the marks of an angry partner, the young adult who struggles to humanize the body that others have objectified for so long, and the child whose mind bears the seeds of poisonous hatred waiting with baited breath to burst with life as the offhand comments increase in number. Take the sharpened blade with conviction and place it far from your traitorous fingers. Believe my words, blood pulses through your throbbing veins, not the black ooze of hatred. Your skin will never be a canvas to taint with red. The red will collide with the peaceful cells, and the violence will not be a masterpiece. You are not just a number, you are a ******* gorgeous universe encompassed in mere atoms that strive to do your essence justice. Gather your soldiers and prepare to fight the enemies that make your body an anomaly or your struggle commonplace. Those horrible nights, where only the moon bore witness to the horrors you carved, are not “typical” and should not be a widespread ritual. You are beauty incarnate. I implore you to lace this statements around each particle in your body until your cells sing with conviction, and fight those who have brought you to your knees. You do not belong there.
Keenon Brice Mar 2016
(oh yeah)
(right)
thats what feels bad
(not right)
(that the bone has been eaten away)
(i'm feeling where the bone has been eaten away)

all of a sudden i'm back in my body

disease has so much personality
(when (once) you humanize it)
(you just have to humanize it)

i thought i learned that before
Patrick McCombs Jan 2016
Only poets read poetry
Only liberals watch msnbc
Only conservatives watch fox
Everybody is entrenched
In their own sound proof bubbles
A perpetual echo chamber
Where lies are repeated
Until they turn into truths
There are no debates only battles
One preconceived notion
Forever pitted against
Another preconceived notion
It is the duty of poets to humanize
To use our pens as swords
To burst our bubbles
To show that we are all humans
But only poets read poetry
Keenon Brice Mar 2016
(oh yeah)
(right)
thats what feels bad
(that the bone has been eaten away)
(i'm feeling where the bone has been eaten away)

all of a sudden i'm back in my body

disease has so much personality
(such trajectory)
(once you get to know it)
(you just have to get to know it)
(when (once) you humanize it)
(you just have to humanize it)

(floss so hard you (i, we) get out the familial grief  in between your teeth)

i thought i learned that before
Sarina Mar 2013
Gauze on your arm –
reddening, the skin a shadow you
call after and summon home.

Like sunrises, the big half-moon
has its purple flab melted.
I humanize everything.

I make it all warm
even death piercing a door hinge –
where children hide safely.

Ink is the blood of another being
not like us, but you write
with your own on a pillowy peel.
Texas: The Grand Facade

“All my instincts, they return, and  the grand facade, so soon will burn”. Songwriter: Peter Gabriel, In Your Eyes

§§§§§

and so nature does it best to humanize the arrogance,
“can’t happen here, can’t happen to me,
I’m too young, a brave Alamo Texan,”

forgot Gabriel’s admonition, the grand facade, is exactly that,
a coverup, and skin is not deep enough, even your tough hide,
cannot keep out what you
cannot see, is stronger than you,

did you weigh the scales,
do a cost/benefit analysis,
write down the pros & cons?

think of coronavirus like love and ***,
——————
good love is a treasured blessing, a live long song,
wine to be pleasured sipped, you get drunk on beer, and
hookup ***, give yourself ******, aids, and/or the clap,
a bad decision, a haunting, a hangover that is marked on you face,
that you’ll testify to
every day for the rest of your sad, sad, existence,
in the bathroom mirror
a facade always gets revealed,
too bad you chose the
wrong thing to believe in...

you unmasked yourself!
Mitchell Sep 2011
Death looks at his reflection in the mirror
Weeping tears of sulfuric ash

"You were never given a childhood old boy!"

I suppose

They are right

Humanize one's worst and only true fear

The release
After the storm

A place where sanity can only be reached
Through this work
And the work after that
And hopefully

The work after that and that

Plays are written for the penny loafers of penny pinchers
And a step is memorized
For its imbalance
And blasphemy

When I hear the church bells ringing
And the organs echoing like light missiles
I know the stuff
Is getting worse

How many heads are within this place?
How many mad men truly have a case?

The windows are chuckling for they have seen all
Even the pictures blush as they hang upon the wall

Meek
&
Maneuvering

For their own
******
Sake

Tables are cleaned for the next round
Of grub shovers

When her mouth voices love
I try to believe
That it is
Enough

Enough to satisfy
The greedy game
Of feigned liberty

We try
And we'll try
Again and again

And
So on
scully Aug 2018
Last night I read a poem about God, and
it sounded so good I almost believed it.
God, hands out the window and hair blowing,
God, smoking a cigarette in a passenger's seat.
Even when you humanize all of your fears,
You can still
Spit them out in the middle.
God, moving her lips with the music and the hot sun,
God, breaking the law with that look.
God, being small enough to cower over and close
Enough to stare in the face,
Where do you take someone like that when they ask?
All the way, I suppose.
The seat next to me is godless, and I almost believed it.
I imagine someone being strong enough to
Cleanse me just by looking at me,
I imagine holding onto something that feels holy and
Not having to deal with burnt palms.
If I could take God anywhere, I would take her to
My grandfathers grave. I would take her to my
Best friends grave, I would take her to the site of
My life changing and,
I would watch her chain smoke cigarettes and cough it all out.
God, with her sharp teeth and quiet tongue and
God, with her hair pulled back and her gaze removed.
If God was in my passenger seat, I would take her to
All of my hurt and ask her to pick it up.
I would ask her to take it all back,
And she would laugh.
God, that laugh.
Ashley Barrios Mar 2011
The sky is not crying, neither is it blessing you
The trees do not dance, neither do they feed you
God does not curse you, neither is He watching you
The predator salivating death doesn't know its prey
We want to connect everything to us, humanize the unfeeling
We name the stars, the children, the earth
It doesn't matter, because they will always be what they always were
The storm comes, regardless of what we call it
We perish, regardless of whether we praised life
We live, regardless of whether we worshipped death
This is why we are crumbling, if and only we remember to stay unnamed
If we unmask our humanity, underneath is nature, waiting
Underneath is where all we know is existing
Joshua R Laird Dec 2012
So what is it that brings you to my words...
To stack them and pluck them into your life like little bricks
To grind them and hold them and mold them until they work for you
What is it that I say that you need to hear...
To extrapolate my intent and humanize your fear
Why should it be me whom lay naked my soul...
So you can clothe bareness in your life and once again feel whole.
Why must I eviscerate experience and gut my past...
So you’ll have meaning in yours and love that might last
Why must I shake and tremble and grind my teeth...
And shed tears over someone I’m still waiting to meet
Why can’t I now lean upon you...
And hide behind your walls and bury my truth
And will you be there when I can’t hold on...
And I need someone else’s words to help me along
Keenon Brice Mar 2016
(oh yeah)
(right)
that's what feels bad
(that the bone has been eaten away)
(i'm feeling where the bone has been eaten away)

disease has so much personality (when you humanize it)
you just have to humanize it

all of a sudden i'm back in my body

i thought i learned that before (?)
NJN Sep 2017
The spirit of time
lies upon your cheeks
Here we are
with the sweet search for a remedy
While the lights get dimmed
It is getting so dark here

Cutting of all information
that is there to seek
because time is born in the moment
that you follow the hint
Senses whistle like the wind
After the rain has fallen
I can hear them calling

Night owls eyes sense changing skies
He is coming
you are ready within
to cry, fly alive and humanize
You got to be ready every day to begin
when the call goes out for you
There is nothing left to think
Watching you, waiting for you to get through  and deal with the zone that is all opened up to you right in front of your own two feet
If you can see.
Trust your gut feeling :)
neth jones May 2020
come out of your grief
there's no crime in life ;
this signature
        these beliefs

you'll be sought out
           by the weave in your manner        
found you chasing a hollow banner
show us all                    
           a snapshot of your soul


there's no sleight of hand
just your self divorce
welcome to design

chalk it up to our crude behaviour
can't sanitize mother nature
feed us all
         the habits of your soul


wasted time
              entombed in your glamour
clapping in delight
                      camera chronicles
out go the lights
                    and out goes the kindness too
so mad at the way you're treated          
so ugly as the pressure beats you down
hand us over              
the very shame of your soul


let us know your final decision
sat flickering                
            before your television
grant us access        
to your broken soul
address your face in the mirror            
ask it's advice like you are its wearer
let us in                                        
the burrow of your soul
fess up                                            
             the officials have the room
open wide                                      
and humanize your role
we
   shall
clock
the
degradation
   of
  your
wilted soul
no folding time in a holding cell
Jayanta Apr 2020
It was a sunny afternoon
You identify what is new with me,
I was in puzzle, unable to internalize
“What new you talks about”?
Then you underline on my notebook ‘
Put a margin remarks,
It is different here
Appreciate ‘humanize dimension of nature’
Be careful
“Do not replaced nature from the frame
Never forget about identity of culture rooted in nature! “

That’s you are, a curator of younger
And Pater for many one!
I know you become tired
In the long journey of loving and living!
I know you become aide-de-camp
By rapturing of your beloved one!
I know you want to go for a long sleep
  Please take rest in peace!
We will run-through the practices of curatorship for young
But not for incubation!
In the memories our  adored teacher Prof. Tritha Borkatoki, funder HoD of Geograpohy, Cotton College, Guwahati,Assam , India
The Celestial Spirit of Vernarth began to walk through the Castellum from Horcondising, after the parapsychological regression in its conclusive auction and purgation. It loomed at the Horcondising Keep; here all toilet modules, food, and medicines were well equipped, except for the inks and writing papers that were totally exhausted. Here you can see his mother Luccica, who was in a position to scribble and write on an upstairs desk, and in the other hand she had a rosary of liberation, which anonymously appears before her purgation in the presence of the protervative spellings that still wander through the cells and bedrooms of the Castellum from Horcondising. His mother is seen crooked over the voices that polished the eight moons that she had designed for her son Vernarth since the very machicolations of the Castellum, but now with a rosary of liberation. It was clearly seen in the leaves written by her, which said that “My son abandoned his arms, now in fluids of holy water, symbolizing real chimeras for the Matacanes, to those who read his life verses in our Castellum, in Gaugamela and Patmos”. Vernarth, mostly Hellenic, awaits to manifest healings for all creation, pouring water from moon storms on Rhodes, and lighting Matacanes wall light at the door of the Messiah stand.

Vernart says: “my adolescent gaze must be reborn with that of my father Bernardolipo; a whole Chamberlain, making himself free and a supporter of the baronies that were part of the servers of my servants…! Although now to climb his cabinet I have to raise my knees higher before the amplified step, calling us all to try to be closer to a new bell to call us to dinner, as an entity of pride of its architecture defined by pen, ink and white sheet to mention. The mother I have to mention; My mother Luccica, rests not condemned or corrupted before her flesh, rather perfectly united with her spirit that envelops her free of sin, so that her company would be of complete solitude in our Castellum, we will continue to be in conformity with spirit, because our mansion is a beautiful spirit of things, life and peace, that our esplanade holds hunger and cold indifferent to solitude, cooling and pleasing the company of its own cold, rising from the first rays of the day, as well as rising from the first pinches of graduated ink , fellowshipping in the corrals where my father already lived according to his life among debtors, mortifying what he has not been able to mount on his steeds that inhabit his senses, leaving not so far to greet them in the morning free of the sins of not greeting, even when the least space is left to think of him as a joint heir. Because the laments sob, and others are born in the virginity of the light of the world with other lines Luccica can scarcely write, writing her co-age spirit, manifesting itself foolishly when suffering perfection; manifesting itself as everyone's delight, although ringing with anger at not freeing itself from a glorious freedom. Not all sing to the tune of the disability of putting strength of the grapheme of posterity, rather we are blind to put hope, but of patience that we arm ourselves losing value by having it. Our will is of holy value when doubt and fear entertain us, according to all the things and purposes that irreversibly surprise us. I do not know where I have to walk here in this tower, because I know that myths of the unknown will fall according to the fact that I am his son, being the first-born of all men in the world, speaking of who among many intercede before tribulation or anguish, That strips me of all spirit, still asking for it and justifying that I keep talking about them, but that I was gone for a long time. For this reason, venerated mother, wake up from this frozen cell of the keep, because I am jealous and I believe that neither death nor life will fill the dead suspended in your room, who support more lives with their angels adorning their bindings and paragraphs, with principalities that go increasingly so far more than close to come to please you. When your name is tried in real vices to increase, they are being stripped of the sons of the principality in which they shine from afar, but with our feet dancing on the despotic brilliance and not of the hollow that still does not fill my heart for you”

Emerging from the last lights of the Castellum from Horcondising, Vernarth bids farewell to his reign, leaving his mother Luccica in the company of three Angels who mined her with sallow light amber mistletoe. However, she will remain frosted on her desk with ink at night and by day, so that when the day ends, she will draw ink from the darkest night to continue writing to him that she can already be without Him! Near the Necropolis of Hallenika in Rhodes, a statue of Peltasts stood, shielding the place where the “Vas Auric” Auric Medallion would sporadically rest, which came between bilges now inside the Eurydice. It came predestined with the sacred amber robes aleonade, to make up for the between Peltast mediators who guarded them, to deliver it to its Commander Vernarth.

The Apostle Saint John says: “Jews like us in exile did not see reasons restored in our union and tradition; we resembled a diaspora that did not derive voluntarily, according to events that occurred in my case in Judah at the hands of the Romans. The Alexandrian Jews form on my part certain Israelites scattered in my prayers, leaving us where the radiance of our faith makes sense and dispensed power to us. My economy is to create furniture that will live in laborious houses, even among those Jews and mercenary soldiers, freeing themselves from prejudices and clothing that represented them alone and fragile, being sensitized by the diaspora. The world separates itself from the matter cell, clinging to the consciousness of unity of dispersed Judaism as a sacrificial cult, to cater to those who write history more distant than a synagogue without a Rabbi. When bad winds blew there, they often made the situation worse for those scattered in a foreign land. At the end of the Hellenistic period, there were Jews in Persia, Mesopotamia, Syria, Phenicia, Pontus, north of the Black Sea, Cappadocia, the rest of Asia Minor, Egypt and Cyrenaica, Carthage, Greece, Macedonia and Italy. Now I am in Rhodes with the Vas Auric, to trace the true image of Judas Thaddeus, my co-religious in pursuit of an intellectual and theological religious activity of edifying centers of prayer and universal unification, here in the Hallenikka Necropolis, where some Davidian Psalm, it will be in more regions right here documented in my precession as a parallel religion to Hellenic situationism. Their religiosity is felt, and even remains open in a proselytism that causes the indefiniteness of the half-convert and that implies a risk for the identity of the Jewish religion as support of a people with not a little original conscience”

Etréstles with Vernarth go to Eurydice, before descending into the bilges, they begin to found the ventral conceived from the word of Judas Tadeo “Yehuda; Praise be to God”. Judaizing verb in Veronica, or true image of the Via Dolorosa, among some apocryphal documents another historical and definitive truthful current is mentioned.   Detailing the aforementioned image in the shroud of the woman who seconded Jesus in the Sixth Station. The apostle Judas Thaddeus, is warned along with the auric image, providing confidence and praise of stands that walked in the murgas of Rhodes, before the iconographic variety was present with the image of Joshua overflowing by the Auric Avas, levitating among the circular margins, transforming into his banner with maces, which represented his martyrdom escorted by a sword or Shamsir, in the shape of an Arab cutlass; This being attributed to his beheading, but close to a hagiographic fatality.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Saint Jude Thaddeus the Apostle; He brought the Mandylion (Canvas of Edessa) to the court of King Abgar V of Edessa, to heal him. Being actually Thaddeus of Edessa, but the iconography was rectified by mistake. With a flame on his head at Pentecost he symbolizes us embroidered with a Chrysoprase, the green gem of his praise. Right here in these damp platinum chrysoprase bilges, it is that they emerge by themselves as an integument stamped in the peripheral curves of the Vas Áurica, they are attached to the Mandylion, frisked to my clothes to take them to the Hallenikka necropolis. Ulterior Vernarth and Etréstles pilgrimage carrying the mass of Vas Áurico of solid gold, groping him before taking them with decisive worthy praise to be brought before the sight of others who prospect to be before dark in the necropolis "

Saint John the Apostle continues: “Before dividing as Hexagonal Birthright, we went to Tsambika and others to Hallenikka. We head to Tsambika which is located on top of a hill on the east coast of Rhodes.   Bowing down to the praise of the iconographic and religious corridor of Mary. Here is the golden legend of Rhodes in Crete, of Rhéa and Cronos, for their ******* and mythological manias. We insist here we pass first to walk towards the heights of Tsambika, bordering the nature. Earthly possession of magnificent iconographic blessings”

Right here Demetrio Poliorcetes, acceded to the island, completely failing, resolving everything with high peace, with the mediation of some Greek polis. The military of Demetrio Poliorcetes left a large amount of armaments, for this reason the Rhodians sold the solid material and turned it into treasure to build the Colossus of Rhodes. In this same way the Primogeniture, thus began to gather the estates to summarize the hagiographic heights of the Vas Auric and the Mandylion together on both sides, for the final departure to Patmos. Being the necessary time that allowed them to be in this open, those who accompanied him in silence discovered new silences that amended the rotations that the Vas Auric medallion gave, exhibiting the half circumferences of a new world, with the organic body community of San Judas Tadeo, doing praises of a tender being to the Hexagonal Birthright who escorted them to save the world.

Eurydice parapsychological channeling:

Eurydice says: “Tsambika was left by the route located on the east coast of Rhodes before reaching the town of Archangelos, we passed through a cypress forest. It is said to be the origin of the name that is due to the word "Tsaba" (Spark) and refers to the history that involves the discovery of the icon of the Blessed ****** of the Nativity at the top of the hill. This icon turned out to belong to the island of Cyprus and was immediately returned to its place of origin. But the icon would reappear over and over again at the top of the hill, so they decided to build a chapel in honor of Panagia Tsambika. The miracles that the ****** worked were many, among them blessing with a child the women who prayed her and could not conceive. Since then there is a tradition of calling the child born by the ******'s work, Tsambikos if it is a boy and Tsambika if it is a girl. Right here our Hex Birthright will procure the votes for Rodinense culture. We went to the town of Archangelos to a delicious gastronomic with Barley breads and Pure Wine, Akratismós the locals told us, taking small pieces of the basket with figs and olives, decorating them with tagenites cakes, continuing later with more Wine and Steamed Ariston with stews and fish for lunch, which were arranged on small tables with zoomorphic legs. Women ate after men according to tradition, but now it was all of Aristotelian virtue, for immanent actions and passions of the soul; being able this time to dispose ourselves to perform the best acts and do well and always better, according to the right reason that is chosen from an intellectual disposition called prudence here in Archangelos; in charge of uniting us in knowledge and action”
Vernarth says: “Aristotle was the teacher of Alexander the Great and me too; in his virtuosity we learned the exercise of forgiving habits, with training, with experience and time to exercise it in them. Furthermore, with the tasks in accordance with virtue, being by themselves agreeable and as virtuous men judging righteously; this is how happiness shines for the Stagirite Aristotle; where our teacher was born. Herein lays his inspiration in living and acting well, the activity of man being good in it: beneficial, pleasant and happy, so it is directly related to virtue and the actions of the chaste man. In this reflection, virtue as a way to prosperity, the efforts to achieve them, will be analyzed, and some of the intellectual and moral virtues established in the moral philosophy of our master thinker will be described. Especially with your Eurídice delicacies, thank you for putting them in our hands in this kitchen here in Archangelos "


Euridice continues: “Hesperisma, slipped through our hands when my father Pelias, at night, brought us closer to his dialogue with the myth of Jason.  In metal or terracotta containers that entertained us. We could use bread cakes as plates, but earthenware or metal bowls were more common. The cutlery we use at the table: the use of the fork as an unknown, it was eaten with the fingers. They helped each other with a meat knife and a simile spoon. Pieces of apomagdalia bread we could use to take food as napkins, to clean our fingers. We felt grace in our ears from Aulos, like bells calling us from Panigia Tsambika. We stretched our fingers towards some chestnuts, beans, toasted wheat grains or honey cakes, responsible for absorbing alcohol and prolonging the drink ingested. Some locals, who accompanied us from Archangelos, inaugurated one or more libations towards a pean as a simple prayer to Apollo, generally in honor of worshiping Dionysus as well. The libations obeyed certain rules: the number of libations per person was not limited, but the invocation was not done without libation, after the meal and before drinking, the participants' heads were covered with ribbons or garlands of ribbons. A Greedy inhabitant saying: “In Archangelos he mentioned in his ancestors; where they had poured egg yolks, oysters and scallops, as soon as we were rid of this world, we sat down to drink, dancing by the powers of the ferments of the distilled ingested with some bakery delicacies: Like the Daraton, without yeast, which was flat as a cake.   The almogee, coarse country bread, which was made on the farms.  The phaios brown and unrefined bread. Syncomiste, black bread for being made with non-sifted rye flour, was known for facilitating intestinal transit and dietary wheat bran bread. Thus ends the address the greedy Archangelos "

Saint John the Apostle adds: “It reminds me of how Yeshua healed the woman who suffered from Hemorrhoid. Thinking just like Jairo; prominent as one of the chiefs of the synagogue of Gerasa, in the ancient Decapolis, at the beginning of the first century of our era. He met Jesus of Nazareth when he was speaking in what is now Gilead, northeast Jordan. Jairo thought it would help him to heal his daughter, still believing she was dead. While Jesus is still in dialogue with the woman he has cured from Hemorroisa, some men from Jairo's house arrive and say to Jairo: “Your daughter has already died. Why bother the Master more? “Having told him, Jesus, who has heard what he has been told, looks at him and encourages him with these words: "Do not fear, only manifest your faith." He asks him to show him where his house was. While there everything was with great regret and consternation, Yeshua tells them that the girl has not died, that she is only asleep, the incredulous people scoffed knowing that she was dead. My teacher Yeshua, makes everyone leave Jairo's house, except Pedro, Santiago, the girl's parents and me, also allowing me to stay here. In this place we hear from the Aramaic-Syrian expression "" Talithakumi ". Where we could observe how the girl began to walk, seeing the extravagant joy in the girl's parents and other people. This episode makes me warn that we walk between situations of sociability that only admit to committing ourselves with equanimity that the facts of a plausible authenticity strike attesting to those who meet those who love in an unquantifiable way for the religious social feeling. We committed ourselves to being born to see the logic of being witnesses to oneself, but not to what we do not witness more distant from those who do not see them after their death, not being ourselves. Creation today here in Archangelos makes us witness to being in the midst of families that sigh for a Talithakumi for all those that one day the prodigy of existing will carry them beyond a resurrection, are pre-classified for a biological phylogeny, being externalized and extended further afield. Of our own taxatives, In this way they will have tiny beings and courage that speak for them, because when a person is resurrected with this energy, Creation is resurrected with all the creatures that are inborn " The Hexagonal Primogeniture rushing down a beehive, after having dined with the Tragones of Archangelos, they go back to the voids of history that appear before them on some cliffs, saying:

“At the beginning of the 4th century BC, all the Greek poleis, regardless of whether they were bigger or smaller, began to mint their own coins, sometimes pictorially represented by the name of their communities: Ástaco for a lobster, Melitea for a bee, Selinunte, for a celery leaf. It is from this same conception of Aristotelian Virtue, that this regression has the motive to humanize and integrate Creation and its little creatures, from a chaos of death like the daughter of Jairus, being able to reborn a new cosmogony with a sub-cosmogony between myth and myth. Relative concept of reality, resurrection occurs and does not occur, because the divine primordiality of being resurrected will also exist delegatedly, as a being again reborn, perhaps with the same essence component re-obtained,but within an order that admits creation of Creation in a world that does not recognize Chaos as deep and empty, rather generous to grant the magic of the irrigation of the energies of Yeshua, already constituted as an ambivalent chaos computer. Titanic continues phenomenology, taking us to dimensions that share recapitulations of their nature among themselves, to once again contain compendiated and resurrected beings, who socially walk the face of the earth resurrected and fragile subtle in an ordered but sensitive land, and with voids of integrity and chaos that could restrain it. Zeus and Tartarus, almost like poetic prototypes, would appear in storms of evasion of credibility towards creation and its genesis, subtracting the secondary intention that consolidates the grateful world of restructuring, saved by an unknown superior deity, to whom the springs are prominently unleashed. And the blades of the Hellenic time mill”
Chapter *** II
Vas Auric / Rhodes
Hex Birthright in Hallenika
L Seagull Jun 2016
Forgiveness unfelt
Like a snake stuck in your throat
Forever to squirm where you feel it
Looking into the eyes of an iceberg
Desperate to humanize her but
Deep down I find no faith
I cannot feel that golden grain
In the pit of her stomach
I do not sense the gentle pull of
Fragile humanity solty sweat
Too cold
To get naked soled in front of this
Shell limited by self-protection
Yet I feel her deeply so I can't even hate
Had to reconcile today with someone deeply hurtful and desperate for a victim role.  Only to make everyone else feel more comfortable. This might be the first time I am so willing to scratch someone out of my life.  Yet there is more even to her than a one sided disdain I feel. Raised in neglect and abuse, a verty busy lady lawyer now, very proper, yet so joyless and blind
SoRin Aug 2018
You were once my dear friend
But never again
I feel so used
Violated
The victim of your lies
Your rumors

I am no fool
And I refuse to be walked on
You say I have medical problems
Just to get attention
Because I'm just jealous
That you have similar issues
But people actually show up at your hospital bed
While I lie there alone
I've NEVER been the jealous type
Nor am I a fake

You've known me sense we were children
I thought you'd understand me better by now
I wouldn't lose my job over illness
If I had a choice
Because no one will pay my bills for me the way they do for you
I've been on my own sense I was 17
And your mom still does everything for you
I wish a single person would even look in my direction, let alone show they care

I never asked for this
And I dont get attention and it's fine with me
I'm just tired of how you mock and de-humanize me
I'd much rather fight instead of roll over and die
That seems to be the difference between you and I
35
u trapped ur ***** rags inside the windows
of a *******
windows that you won’t open
so u can decently humanize
so the breeze can oxidize your ****
the breathless words of a woman
are the chalk outlines of death
Lydia Mar 2017
She
She's holding the universe in two hands as if it were cotton or maybe clouds
It just doesn't make sense to humanize her
And all of these people, they're just white noise
Little bits of static she can't hear, not really
She's sunken deep into everything,
Falling in slow motion
She's hypnotic
Oblivion is like a computer screen that she can manipulate
She seems dazed, like the entire universe is dancing with me right now
All the collapsing stars are fairy lights for the prom she's just created
And suddenly, I learned what she meant by infinity
In that one second that lasted forever-
I saw every time she's ever smiled
It made every kind of sense to hold her forever
But I lost her finger tips
She slipped away under the riptides and I can't swim out that far
But I watched her smile as she sank
I could still hear her humming.
Please comment :)
Pandering thought, meander through my essence.
Set my skin on fire, flush me in both flesh,
and genitalia; but redeeming release remains
improbable if not teetering on impossible.
Soundlessly, or so I would like to believe. I
push back the carnal, making desire much more
rabid, and I repeat idioms simply to distract.
"Victimless!" I'm reminded by the operatic
symphony of memories playing in perfect pitch,
on time each grouping strokes my psyche
with feathery simplicity.
Aching, throbbing words so frenetic, to
annunciate them would make this fantastic
pain I seethe for incredibly real.
Maybe I'd rather save the pent up ferocity
for divine intent, but the beast is hungry, and
my resolve grows weary.

Weathering impulse for me, is torture beyond
obscene. Heated breath would be fingertips
upon this urge filled flesh, would be pursed lips
against the nape of my neck, would be fingernails
digging in with malicious intent.
Fervent this pen isn't enough fluid, but watching
it move across these blue lines allows me to
imagine tracing the elegant hairs along her stomach.
All of which without a word muttered.
"The silence is perfect."
How do you not hear the cacophony, the almost
fiendish delicate devil begging for freedom, if not
a chance to lick her leg.
Would it make her toes curl?
Would it make my back ache in effort?
Only thoughts now, my God where is the
silence!?
"The silence you ask? Sweet release."
When it abates I sorrowfully await it again.
Held within its grasp the moments seem cruel.
Once gone, like an addict, I want it more
and more.
Is this a mind-gasm? A well orchestrated plot
to humanize my animalistic thoughts?
I wish for the perfect ending, but happiness
is just as brutal.
Now I reside in my weakening resolve,
coaching it up, if not myself.
I've never stood this close before, I can almost
hear her thinking,
of me, maybe?
Sevki Feb 2020
The notions of normal and weird in relation to human interaction are lies we do not realise, even though they are obvious real lies.

Without action, we are all bystanders who dream to humanize society, yet our human eyes conform to a society set upon a foundation of human lies.
Rollie Rathburn Jul 2022
Statistically speaking,
most of us don’t get to say goodbye.
In either direction.
So as a mitigating factor we sacrifice
experience, push away
maintain
an odd pathology
of loneliness.

Or we humanize things
as a coping mechanism for The End.
You’ll tell yourself with full certainty
how much your cat must miss you,
in order to avoid
the primal,
animalistic understanding
that we will all one day
go suddenly
and without warning.

Along the way
a few things
will slip into your consciousness.
Much like how your uncle brought back
shivers from the war,
but left the rest
at the Front.

You'll visit the same smoke shop
every other day.
greet the same counter girl,
joke how the energy drinks you buy
will do more damage to your body
than anything else in the store.
Notice her new piercings
and tattooed freckles,
walk out promising you’ll see them tomorrow with smirk.
Then one day you'll move away
and never think to say farewell.

Or find the shop closed up
after spending a week out of town.
Nothing left save for a few garbage cans
and empty boxes
on the other side of the open sign.

The more you look at them,
the more they start taking on
a human form, an identity
like they’d been
kicked shoved punched
in the gut
cast aside until a city worker calls to have them disposed of
by the department
who handles such things.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
if i'm ever going to be a beta
male feminist, i'd start from here:

transgenderism
is demeaning towards
women...

humanize what?

     my godmother
has a... "slightly" masculine
voice...

what about Rod Steward
or Ecclestone?
those munchkins
who are into
Amazonian women,
with fingers
longer than their erections?

you seriously can't
pander to all the nuts and
expect peanut butter
at the end of it...

****'s all jammy by
the end of your
little tirade over
  the Chamberlain-Heimlich
cracking an egg...

transgenderism
demeans women...
   homosexuality was one thing...
but this... this ****
is quiet another.

look: i don't know what
the solution is...
pandering these *******
isn't exactly on my
list... whatever the English
are into...
with their fetish for
the Thai surprise...
      
       i just thought that...
if you're going to go transgender,
like i have done so momentarily,
this normalization...
   demeans women.

now you can say it:
gosh! i'm so off off offended!
Justin Oct 2019
Juggling molecules like my name is God
While science explains only what is not
I see the world within my eyes
Within the lines of modern minds
Strip us of pure intension
Basic freedoms are now expensive
Bound us by the sound of war
Comprehension is but a bore
Question everything nevermore
De-humanize is the prize
Mysteries are left unsolved
If the price is right
We learn to crawl
And then to walk
Like a flower
That blooms and falls
We strive to grow in love
While the machine screams
To stay above
I wish us all good luck
As we fight our devils
Up and down transcending levels
My words are bullets of truth
The harder they come
The harder we lose
Getting into heaven
Is harder than watching the news
It’s easy to ***** up
We all grew up
Shaking the beasts’ tail
Demonic ideas devised
To enterprise the system to fail
In cahoots with puppet politicians
To no avail
Do we live a lie?
Or die and try?
Diana Oct 2018
When I was young
I used to like to think
That things were either
Black
Or
White
And that there was only a few instances
Where the colors would bleed
Into one another
And become grey

But now
I'd like to believe
That things are only
Black and white
When you don't humanize the issue
Because when you do
It's impossible for it to not be grey
It's impossible to make a
Black or white opinion
Because there are basic
Human emotions
Tangling their way
Through that opinion
And the more emotions
The more tangled
And harder it is
To find the answer
Hidden inside that web

— The End —