for every fragile memory
time is wasted
and i am foolish enough
to let it happen
because i am convinced
that we had a moment
in between sarcasm
you let me see through
though you did not
and then you left me
craving for more
ache for attention
i was not entitled to
I closed my eyes
And tried to wake up
In a world that’s too far away
That struck from above.
Taunting me with honed voices,
Not a single was distinct.
How cruel were those noises!
With every possible hint
In an alienating stint
followed by the clue
It came as on cue
And I heard that song
Of stories not heard for long.
Then I stumbled upon the truth,
‘We all go places that we may never belong.’
It is quite possible
to learn much about the outside World
by not interfering;
though it can be by action
that much becomes clear
about one's Self:
be able to learn from the negative space:
it is most of what there is to experience.
Repeal and replace
Realign and rotate
Upon the states
Is sometimes fake
Even if it were true
And the other sides
Were winning too
It could never cure
Of the human zoo
I feel the use of words are important, for they are powerful enough to wound or heal.
They can change the way you think, or simply how you feel.
For every word that is spoken, weather it be in depth or incredibly vague.
Resembles some importance, in the intent for the message they've relayed.
But for the words that go unspoken, the message may still be clear.
For even in the sounds of silence, is still a message you can hear.
Beaten bruises bloody black, broken banished by bootless act.
Raged rangers ripped respect, rude ranked range intellect.
Unfortunate undertake unlawfully used, unravels uniting the abused.
Trembling truth to take, takes task towards the heartache.
All Animalia accounts acknowledgment, added anxieties ails improvement.
Later left living life, losing loved lost lacerates like a knife.
Intense impulsive ignorance, is of immense implicit importance.
T'is twisted to take time, to target those teased through crime.
Your young yell, yearning.
Yeah, not prolific producing babies
or sowing wild oats
Just this unimaginative, pedestrian activity:
Still prolific at my age….
No, no, no - me no explicit…
don’t have the balls to be that
but everything is implicit
like if I write about some aspect of life
it’s all there:
the routine, sex, violence, and so on
isn’t everything implicit?
New and popular
how about the
New and Unpopular?
OK, I like this guy or gal,
and so I click on LIKE
and the next time I look at it
it says: LIKED
Hey, I still LIKE her!
Look, I still LIKE him!
And why can’t I click on LIKE on my own page?
What’s the matter, can’t I like myself?
Is that a strange notion –
Don’t you guys and gals like yourselves?
i wake up with the cloying taste of a nightmare in my mouth
not for the first time this week
and i imagine not for the last
i made you a chart
concerning all the ways we fucked up
and sent it to you last night
haven't heard a word
i had the implicit feeling that what i was saying was dangerous.
that it could take this little thing we have going on
and expose all the little tangled wires
that i could make you feel bad enough
that you wouldn't want to talk to me
and i was right.
as life will have it
some are explicit poems
while others are implicit ones
When you sigh and shake your head
and when you pace the tired floor
and steadily approach that door
to the hatch that ushers you into a tango
you're quite obviously a vivid poem
with a rhythm and a diction all your own
there is always someone dying to know you
when you brood like an intellectual
and when everything is reality virtual
you're an implicit poem, morose and taciturn
when you paint pictures in weeping colours
and from ubiquitous critics seek no favours
you're a dirge in e-minor - a veritable lament
that will only go walking when the day may
"It is a postulate implicit in all metaphysical poetry that nothing is ineffable, that the most rarefied feeling can be exact and exactly expressed. If you cease to be able to express feelings, you cease to be able to have them, and sensibility is replaced by sentiment, in the end by the vague expression of the vague, and poetry degenerates into a diversity of noises."