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Dead Rose One Aug 2017
consciously, willfully, I wish it

quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment

the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity

consciously, willfully, I wish it

once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?

consciously, willfully, I wish it

the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place,  be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically

consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*

ryn Sep 2014
Poetry moves from within our souls,
It's emotions pouring out
Covering us in rhymes and flow,
Like rain from the clouds

Infinite letters, words and phrases
In various permutations we play
Collaboration between heart and mind
Breathed into these pieces that we lay

Touching lives with our written form
Healing with words, what's poetically true
Freedom of expression, thoughts and ideals
Crying out in ink, until our sadness is through

Similar in thoughts but meander through individual routes
We all sing the same but to different rhythm and tunes
Inscribe our innermost but to varying worthy causes
We all draw inspiration but from the same loyal moon

A different form of art, yet art none the same
It's in the eye of the beholder, so they say
Poetry is life drawn in pen, it's not an erasable game
It truly breathes life, looking forward to each new day

**We proudly fly our diverse flags
United under one banner
We revel in words of poetry
In the hopes they'd last forever
Deeply honoured by the fact that the amazing "The Girl Who Loved You" would even consider a collaboration with me! Such an experience! Thank you TGWLY for this opportunity! Awestruck!
B L Mar 2013
Mother Mary, Mother Mary, whisper in my ear.
Give me something tangible to touch –
Something audible to hear.
Send me a sign, so I know I am alive
I want to know it is not in vain that I let this world inscribe
This mark upon my soul. Give me a sign to make me whole.
Help me find peace through the chaos.
Just let me know you’re in control.

Mother Mary, Mother Mary, whisper in my ear.
I know each breath could be my last –
Yet, my death I do not fear.
I’ve been shackled by my questions
And I’ve watched them as they’ve grown.
I searched endlessly for answers –
When all along I should have known
That the answers I seek are not ones that can be found.
So I pray that you’ll whisper. I pray I’ll hear the sound.
I pray that death holds more than what we bury in the ground.

It’s been nearly twenty years, and somehow I still have faith.
But I fear the truths I know are lies; I fear that virtue is a waste.
Still, I wait for your whisper, Mother Mary, Mother Mary.
Despite how much I’ve suffered; this burden I still carry.
Because I trust this world holds reason.
I trust my struggle wasn’t worthless.
Mother Mary, Mother Mary, I pray I suffer for a purpose.
Luz Hanaii Aug 2016
This is just the translation of this song

Our Father our King
Our king inscribe us
In The Book of Life
Our father our King
Our King inscribe us
In The Book of Redemption and Salvation

Our Father our King
Inscribe us, seal us
In The Book of Life...
Q Jan 2017
I don't know how to talk.
I don't know how to express.
I don't know how to understand.
I don't know how to undress.

I know how to feel.
I know how to see.
I know how to write.
I know how to sing.

So don't make me speak
let me endure until all is done.
Don't make me divulge
let me behold what can be won.
Don't make me learn
I beg you, let me inscribe.
Don't make me unravel
let me croon
don't let me die.
Zoe Sue May 2014
If my words could bring you back
I'd tell the mirror that you've gone away to battle
My noble prince will return
(Though your best weapons were always cold words and cold shoulders)

I'd inscribe my name into the bindings of all your favorite books
As though some part me could find some part of you in them

I'd yell at every pillow
That couldn't manage to muffle my cries

Every song that sounded just too much like us

Every fairy tale that seemed mocked us in it's polarity
(Dear, I wish I could've spun us in gold)

Every picture we took
That now look too much like broken promises

I'd sweet talk the fridge
Into making me feel worthy of more comfort food
I guess
you always said you like them "thick"
After you told me I'd gotten rounder

I'd scribble ***** sick sorrys into the floorboards
Serenading the floors you walked
(I think they turned to water on your final gracing of them
Because now I'm falling through)

I'd tell the fractures in these walls that you were the best filler
The fractures in my chest the same

I'd speak of you in the highest regard
My bourgeoisie balance act
Always calling for a coup d'état

And maybe that's why when I see you
I'm so choked up
I gargle these words in my mouth
But they fall into a silent drone
And If my words could bring you back
I still don't know that I could say a thing
esridersi Dec 2018
so much to inscribe
it takes time to write haiku
and oh... never-mind.
Shadow Reaper Mar 22
She might think she's lackluster
But he absolutely beg to differ
He thought "how would she know?"
When there's more than what a mirror can show
He can stare at her any given moment
Hoping she doesn't stare back or he'll die of embarrassment
Oh how his heart flutters when her hair flips
Bewildered! Like he's going to exciting trips
A glimpse of her is all he needs to light up the day
And her smiles drive all his worries away

All these lines, cliche as they may seem
Is a mere fragment of his wonderful daydream
For no amount of words can simply describe
The value she holds that in his heart she'll inscribe
And like sparkling stars in a cold, lonely night
Amidst total darkness she'll give off her light
She's may not be the most beautiful woman in the world
But she's the perfect masterpiece in his life that will manifold
She do not inscribe unrivalled
But she do speak
to elucidation
People should be candid
When they speak
Star BG Oct 2018
On canvas of my life,
with its winding road,
I have often carried a backpack.

A rucksack gathered from bruises
other people inflicted
making me feel insecure,
worthless, and ****.

I carried it for years,
where crying self to sleep was norm.
Where blinders were on
causing my canvas brush of life
to be painted with grays,
blacks and bleeding red.

But now, I wipe canvas clean
with eraser of love.
Beginning to paint in breath.
To dip my feet like brush in dance
swirling with grand energies of love.

Dance painting rainbow colors
to inscribe life as I move
knowing who I am
divine and sacred.
Thusly I paint grandly,
into the forest of my dreams.
Inspired by a communication with Anastasia  THANKS

We all need to feel what we need to feel till we consciously awaken to who we are  DIVINE SACRED AND ETERNAL To remember and start to harbor the love within to live peacefully.
CL Fjell Mar 26
My mind is a dismal plane
Of which no thoughts can escape;
Alas I lie here dreaming whilst awake
But can't illustrate the words I see
Or inscribe the sounds I hear.
Trapped here for eternity
In the hell I call my home,
My home I call my mind,
And my mind that calls me
I've no idea how to keep things made
of souls, like me
from eternity
The dead leave bones ****** from the dirt,
Honing the wind;  we
Inscribe them with etruscan words, numbers that
Mattered to forebears trying to
Organize a Universe
But Time does not recognize chart or
Preferring the fall back to Earth
Pallavi Feb 8
There is a girl
who dreams a lot .
Family and
simple yet critical
modern still typical
Rough and rage
Colourful than her age
But nobody can gauge
the darkness she beholds
she was just thirteen
her Innocence unmould.
My pen refuses to inscribe the cruelity.
I wish this could be my imagination not reality.

— The End —