All that I need, all I've wanted for years, and even during the lost times, you were pressed under my skin like pure, warm aching. Had to go through it, we say now, had to lose each other entirely then to be heavenly entangled now.
Such great heights only after sunken deep lows.
Let me tell you, angel, I am certain you were made for me, and goodness, believe me, I could never leave.
We stood the test of time.
We endured the distance.
We have conquered demons.
You and I fought a ****** war, and hell if we didn't win it.

Her syllogisms repose trust in her adept beleaguering of unworthy opponents.
Constantly in a state of lassitude for this desultory, inure world of the insouciant youth which dwells upon it's cathartic terrain, she engages not in lachrymose nor is she crestfallen for the hope of romance and it's everlasting ineffability.
She is a fugacious moment of frisson embodied in a human form; a juxtaposition of the serendipitous moments that ever constantly come one after the other in a fickle wheel of steep highs and deep lows. All her life, this girl will lilt through the crossroads of her obstacles and show the world the efflorescence of her beauty. Hush don't speak lest you miss hearing the mellifluous music of her voice of fail to hear the lagniappe that is her name.
She is the cynosure of human attention, the goddess and we are but her humble servants. She is innocence most rare, love most coveted. She is infinite. She is peace.

******* like Purity
Puckered lips
Whispered Ineffability
Capacity, Potential--
but never speak above a whisper.
NEVER DISCUSS BEYOND THE FUTURE.
Just hope empty hopes
you use to fill your dreams.



-LP

I'm seeking to amass a Collection
of the World's spiritual, mythic and philosophical codices.
I want to collect them out of veneration
for those who came before who have tried to illuminate the Paths:

The following is my library of such books of yet.
Entries in bold are my recommendations;
entries italicized are strongly recommended.

-Old Works:

Egyptian Book of the Dead
Tibetan Book of the Dead
The Bhagavad Gita
Euclid's Elements
Tao te Ching (I have 3 translations)
I Ching (2 translations and a workbook)
The Qur'an
The Bible

-Newer Works:

Plato and a Platypus walk into a Bar: Philosophy explained through Jokes
Quadrivium: Number, Geometry, Music, & Cosmology
The Pulse of Wisdom - College Eastern Philosophy Book
Food of the Gods by Terence McKenna
The Elements of Reason - College Logic Book
1001 Perls of Buddhist Wisdom
Net of Being by Alex Grey
Art Psalms by Alex Grey
The Portable Nietzsche
The Red Book of Jung
The Portable Jung
The Subtle Body - Encyclopedia of chakras, auras and other personal energy systems.
Who are you? - 101 Ways of Seeing Yourself
--

I seek to compile this Collection
not to have a nice looking bookshelf;
nor do I seek to find which one is right.

I seek to learn from each of these
the lessons that are intrinsic in our Lives;
they're all matters of perspectives.

I want to compile the aspects of each philosophy with which I resonate
and integrate them into my own,
forging a dynamic and holistic individual philosophy.

All of these books are Mystical masterpieces.
All of these books provide insights to the nature of our Holy Reality.
All of these books ultimately attempt to express the same ineffability.
All of these books are interpreted then translated and interpreted again.
The way I see it,
I may as well do it for myself; draw my own conclusions:
Think for myself.

I broke again today-
my feet fell from under me
and I wept until I bled.
Nothing has ever hurt this bad
I thought I could make things right
with my hands grasped around my own throat
I choked any words of distain out of my mouth.
But still you stood upon my chest
like you were the elephant in the room
and my heart was just as heavy.

I broke again a minute ago
the things I thought had worked themselves out
came festering up and I felt like I was drowning again
Currently I feel two hands all over me
one of them born from my childhood
the other one showing me all of my addictions.
I try not give in again.
Try to wrap my hands around my throat
even tighter so they do not swallow too many pills
so they are too preoccupied they can't take to my thighs.
I write through the tears.
It seems I can no longer use a notebook
because my tears eat through the paper
and make a mockery of my coping mechanism.
It's funny how pain can make and break you
all in the same second.

I broke again and I continue to break
because every decision feels like a bad one
and I'm tired of being this person I've become
though it is who I have always wanted.
It's not as a great as I had once hoped it would be.
I try to breath away my pain
but my hands are wrapped around my neck still
and I'm afraid of what will happen if I let go
but my lungs are empty and so is my heart now
so I have to let go-
the ring around my neck reminds me I'm still alive
and I run my fingers through my hair,
I caress my thigh where the scars are traced in white.
White lines can be two types of addictions-
I would like to think mine is the safest
but some days I'm not so sure.

I'm breaking once again-
and everything I've held down inside me
since 2007 has resurfaced
and it feels as if I have to deal with it all again.
There's different hands around my neck now
but the face doesn't look too familiar-
I don't think I have ever recognized it
somehow it still causes me pain.

I'm broken.
I can't seem to find a way
to put myself back together again
because even when I do
someone likes to make a mess
out of what remains of me
until I am just ruins.
The sun hasn't been out in days
so I forget what it even looks like
it's hard to grow when you can't feel warmth anymore.
All I am is cold
a ring reformed in the chill of the air
I don't fit like I used to.
Neither do you-
the puzzle pieces of our heart
have been trying to connect by a small thread
but you took the needle and stabbed it inside my heart instead.
You looked at it and said you needed time to practice your aim.
So I continue to be broken and ruins and remains
and try to forget everything that has a name a face
because I don't want to feel things anymore.
Separating myself from my empathy
unless emotionless I become.
It's hard to write poetry when you have nothing left.
It's hard to write poetry when you are nothing.
It's hard to keep living with a needle inside your heart
but you will die if you try to remove it-
so here's to hoping it falls out.
Here's to hoping I can breathe again.

A Pond makes waves, and then, where does the light go?

          Retort: Where are the waves of your pond in your childhood?

          A monk says, “What are your own waves in the pond?”
  
          I say, “How can you see the pond ponderable in your waves?”

The candle at the corner of the room
Dissolves and waxed away in tears.

Its light exhaled a mystic Moon
That flung a shadow o'er my fears.

No light that light to me returned,
But flickered privately on the vane.

And all the air around me burned
With a sense I could not name.


by Gilbert NMO Morris

~I was an accomplice
to the crime of wasted
Beauty...upon noticing
her...she acquitted me...
laughing free...dom.
She saying: "What do
you mean accomplice,
you were the sole perpetrator
until you noticed me...never
forget the Beauty in Ugly!!!"
I took on the ineffability
of you...my prized buffoonery.
You are massively disruptive...
my only mourning commute...
peace be on you ...as the rain
you love to hear at night.
I can't help but now understand
what can't break its fall...and how
deeply the earth drinks of it.

The wicker chair on the porch
it’s bent
the leg that is
bent sort of brokenly in
which reminds her of
inversions,
how they turned in
and found darkness,
ineffability,
space.

Here I stand a liar
in a world where the truth is said to be absolute
and a God may or may not exist to punish the wicked and unjust
(hint: God is only what you think of yourself in your head)

and I ask if anyone of us is even worth saving.
But then I remember the nights when group sing-a-longs and metaphysical I-spy were the noises that made my heart hum, too
(hint: treasure the time spent laughing with friends before they die. Really, truly).

I remember the way my little sister used to hold my hand as we crossed the street until my reach embarrassed her,
and I bring to mind the nights my baby brother fell asleep on my chest, which was a perfect fit for his head
(hint: no one can stay young forever).

And so tell me why I keep on living
even after all the reasons I've been given to stop.
I walk around streets just watching people move and I know
the ineffability of humankind is found with the word humanity
(hint: it's when a person can still be kind when they have lost all they had).

In through the stained glass windows the days pass silent, the order's obeyed as laid down in the law.

Behind these stone walls I see kingdoms rise and together they fall, I watch and it becomes all.

There's a difference,
this monastery,
full I'd say of not so merry men,
a thieves den of ineffability fools me.

I look again through the codpiece of Christopher Wren etched in the stain glass,
I pass on looking more maybe the monks who drier than sin would welcome me in, but the order is sealed,
a healing may be for some, not for me, the order is clear, all are welcomed but not in here.

The bells ring
the monks sing
The day brings
no new
beginning.

This can't be right to work all the day just to sleep half a night then to work all the next day for so little pay that pays scant regard to my well-being, there's no free time, no half time, my life is like part time which is hard work for full time for most of the time, the rent's falling due but I work six 'til two and I don't think that this can be right and at three until ten I am at work again in order to buy me some food I could cry, the boss doesn't care if he wears this man down and this country I live in cares less.

The doctor says stress in the number one cause and my death will be caused by more stress, but I'd stress a bit less if I worked a bit less and slept a bit more and the night lasted longer than from two until four.

Back to the grindstone, back to the mill, back from the dead when work's had its fill and a blue pill to sleep, a red one to wake, a pink one to break the monotony of working to keep from insanity and God in his own ineffability seems to have buggered off and forgotten to mention me, can this be the blinding of light, is life a permafrost coating over the long coat of night, do I have a right for a say in the way of it or is this just the grey in the hair of the day that feels a bit longer than most?

It was clear he didn’t belong.
His hair was shabby
and his clothes revealed him.

He smoked a cigarette, and then two.
A couple walked past
while he laughed.

I was staring his ineffability
Specifically,
at the secret of people
so often ignored.

I left to get a pen,
the sun shined his face
he stared back at me
and calmly said:
“You take what you get”

After a long pause,
Wearing a truth-holder smile, he repeated:
“You take… If you get”
He picked up his bags
And faded away