"intents" poems
Can you feel all the suffering, can you see it?
Stop embracing the hate of your own humanity, just quit it
Why all the hypocrisy?
Challenge your democracy
Aim for enlightenment
Fight against all ill torment
Oppression, alienation, inequality
The government's manipulative utilities
Explore your human aptitude
Your mind and your magnitude
Because passion is power and
You can make all evil cower
Work to open your third eye
Don't cry or comply, but rather ask "why?"
Empathy and compassion are most important
Without them, moral principles remain impotent
Our world is nothing compared to the entire universe
We are so small, egoistic, and it's getting worse
Focused on all of the wrongs ideals
Creating terrible and false ordeals
Our world is cruel and mean
Too many people die hungry
There's no such thing as equality or true justice
It does not exist in this realm of consciousness
If only we could shift the system and our ways
Then things would continue to fall into place
But change is virtually unachievable
Especially when entities with just intents are inconceivable
Human beings are clueless, trapped in a trance
Don't let yourself fall victim to your ignorance
You need to expand your knowledge and your perspective
Aim to be more pensive and introspective
Challenge absolutely everything you are told
Form your own beliefs, don't let your mind be controlled
Remove yourself from conformity and complacency
And you'll realize a multitude of problems, that I guarantee
*You can't trust anything
Hear what I'm saying
No you cant trust anything
Believing is damaging
Creating is everything, it's promising
Stop adhering to societal norms
Why do you conform
To all that
The government tells us
All that society spells for us
Why don't you realize
Wake up from all the lies
The world is an intricate place, that you can't replace
But you can change your ways and your pace
Create some displacement in the system
Stand up your rights
And what you believe in
Be genuine
Imagine
Not one person, thing, or system
Can tell us, control us, conform us*
With enough minds open and motivated
We can help those oppressed and alienated
We can change this race for the better
Let's all work to be that kind of trendsetter
Come on, let's start a movement
So we can see some real improvement
In our world, our ways, and our wisdom
But most importantly in the system
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
From the warmth of her womb
to a wooden coffin
the cloth of her **** laid lifeless
Gone to soon, gone too soon
The pain was more than she could bare
after losing her only son
to the rough street of Chicago
where the kingpin rules
and the prosecutes parade
the dark corridors in dark suits
It's a mother worse nightmare,
when the law enforcements,
is train to **** and asked question after.
In fear of their lives,
however, two wrongs,
cannot equal to right.
Our judicial system defenses team toss
them back to the mean street
with only criminals intents on their minds
another careless proceeding gone wrong.
so, here I am
back to the crime scene
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
I am softly treading...
on newly sown soil
where the seeds I've planted
are just starting to grow
I'm quietly listening...
to dreams that are awakening
letting me know
I have so much to do...
I'm carefully watching...
my intentions unfold
yesterday's hopes, desire, beliefs
are now
tomorrows realities...
I'm gleefully gathering...
all the tools That I will use
to build my life anew
and finally discover
my true self...
I'm whispering to myself...
affirmations and intents
re-taping my inner voice
finally becoming
my own best friend...
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
Time is of the sentence, while
verbs reveal their intents
for adjective nouns (pro or no
comment) quickly in vents
meant for air, but coarseness
courses through upturned grates
shredding of courses into no ways
to go from here to home,
awaiting infinitely fine moments
caressed along necks of silken
skin within the wear of stretched out
glances left lingering still
in compassionate ponds rippling
soft warm smiles lazily by
the melting cares of the world
golden in luxuriously wrapped light
playing across the surface & through-
out into emerald encrusted irises
to cast love's shadow over
swamps of fear gurgling neuro-
toxic diatribes against plu-
perfect pasts & future
imprefects presented in a case to
Your Honor's (the jury) out of bounds
dissolved with ear ration-
al solutions mixed & stirred
thoroughly throughout,
without spilling too
much.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
The teacher stands before her detained class
And from behind her authoritative podium
She equates abortion to the holocaust
A dangerous comparison in an educational garrison
But the other children nodded their heads in agreement
A benefit of having the ear of youth
Is being able to infect it with your own toxic ideology
What bacteria did this ear infection consist of?
Conservatism? Religiosity? Chastity?
The answer was depressingly simple
I was the only one there unaware of Fox News
I was a casualty of the confusion
The confusion engendered
By venom thoughts placing politic-colored glasses
on the entrenched masses
Entertainment
Used to convey anger and hate
Emotions worth conveying
But not living in
The intents and desires of their vulnerable receivers
become an incongruous disaster
What could I have done?
Minds as still as the pharaohs heart
We live in a society where we're all infantilized by one myth
Good and evil
Looking back on what I did do
I didn't do much
But I did do something
I didn't nod my head like a ******** sycophant
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
i know i put too much meaning into things but--
you texted me first
asking how my day was
who does that without ulterior motives?
hidden intents?
unless you're a saint, you want something to do with me.
i know i give too much meaning into things
but you texted me first
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
There's a certain condition known as losing connection
involving people, places and things of strong affection.
The phenomenon is marked by one or two parting to separate ways
and a feeling of disconnection is experienced highlighting the days.
Where the people concerned, in the past, were once close together,
are all now, due to a lack of communication, more apart than ever.
Once good friends, close relatives, associates and even lovers
have all fallen victim to the malady of estrangement as others.
We should never underestimate the effect of the passage of time
especially when augmented with distance that determines clime.
In this case the distance between the minds and hearts of all those who
have so drifted apart from each other no longer holding the same view.
It may also be a case where people have outgrown or transcended themselves
and do not identify any more with what was once regarded as familiar delves.
The vicissitudes of life can also be a major cause and often very decisive factor
where on the stage of this world one assumes or takes the role of a different actor.
Who knows to what degree a situation can change or influence the course of events
and leaves those alienated, that were once close together, now with different intents.
Another very obvious aspect is the physical departure because of death
of all those who, in this life, virtually shared the same space and breath.
It has also been written that, the soul of a person gone, sometimes tries to revive
or contact those whom it had most connection with while it was physically alive.
The same can be said of some of those who are still in their earthly ****** form
and cannot cope without the assurance or connection that before was the norm.
__________________________________
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
"Has it not never occurred to you," he said, eyes rolling like dice,
"The grab to bake cannot be left undone?
The neck to slip will save the top of leg?
When they lift we ****** the rotten *****
Six trots can win the flat softball netting?
Lost rocks find tabs undone by the grandpas?
It's like unbecomingphilomancy!"
You know what I mean?
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
O Golden Hair, My Friend
Kitty kitty
So fluffy
So witty
So unbearably pretty.
Stay away from
The city,
My kitty kitty
It'd be such a pity.
Hussanara
This is my mango.
There are many like it,
But this one is
Mine.
Without me,
My mango is useless.
Without my Mango,
I am useless...
My Sweet Wonderful Mary
Dark dim witty kitty
Trailed into New York City
With bad intents inevitably
Bad.
Through Earth and lake committing
All its great natural giving
Forced utter pain incoming,
Dad.
Lord (Religious readers please take no offense again the writer was not quite there)
God is a champ.
The bearded light upstairs.
He's cold and he's damp
Like fresh lumpy pears.
Won't one, if you dare,
Stick your hand in the air
To clamp
Like bears?
He's a scare of
Puny people
With long ginger hair.
Whose souls the cannot
Go in there,
The holiest of despair.
They all run through his stare
Of bulging eyes he got!
Anyone want to translate that one? I sure couldn't.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
You won't recognize them I bet,
your secrets, even in broad day light,
if they walk towards you smiling,
wearing dark glasses to hide their eyes
in a humid day.They now wear clothes
of different styles to take you for a ride,
even cross dress and change the accents,
they play games with your hazy mind
--the secrets you once buried deep under.
They stand peeping behind blinded windows
prowl as shadows soliciting behind half open doors,.
Time flies in a hurry like migratory birds left behind,
you have to strain your ears too much
to hear even the faint foot falls of the past!
Old memories have changed their manners
they try to distract one with invented details
Like the muffled voices in an attic dark,
on a fateful day so long, your old secrets
speak an archaic tongue, that needs to be interpreted.
One has to be artful as the turbaned village elders
who would for your astonishment interpret
the vocabulary of lizard calls, key to nature's intents.
Or the trained eye of an elder who in flashes
of meteor falls, reads the secret messages of universe.
To get a true sense of your own secret
you have to tread the places they hide.
Make them shed their crusted hides
by which they conceal their true color,
which one has been waiting to see,
with a palpitating heart, walking back
to where one walked once, long forgotten.
That is why elders on days of yore
would exhort, embarrassingly repeat too,
not to have any hidden secrets that hurt
even if breathtakingly beautiful like a courtesan.
In some moment one won't expect
dreadful they could turn and become witches,
with fiery eyes, dreadlocks, and long nails.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC
I want a girl who drinks whiskey
Not a sophisticated white wine woman.
I don't need more than one fork and I
don't know what to do with more.
I want a girl who drinks whiskey
who will watch the stars from atop a desert bluff,
naked, beside me, as cars scurry like ants far below us.
I want a girl who drinks whiskey
not a woman that sips reds and explains
my nihilistic future intents.
Life is to beautiful to plan on a ****** future.
I want a girl that drinks whiskey
and tells me like it is while laughing at
all the incongruities in that truth.
A girl that recites poetry and literature from
a truck bed surrounded by enraptured steers.
I want a girl that drinks whiskey
who pours her shots neat and drains her glass
Who lets each and every glass be
laden with experiences and laced with frivolity,
knowing that the cup itself
is nothing but a vessel for life.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
maybe I am bedeviled by thoughts of you everytime my mind slips into the abyss, maybe that's the reason I don't tap into it the way I used to.
But If I told you how I felt, it'd get swept under the rug.
Suppose my eyes burn behind these creme- thick glasses everytime I see you, suppose I hate the silence and fight the urge to burn my surroundings with the heat behind my eyes.
But if I told anyone what I saw, it'd get swept under the rug.
Imagine I listen to music and hear your voice, so I claw my headphones out like they were ice seeping into my skull and freezing my cranium with words oh so soothing as a double-edged blade sinking both ends into me, Imagine a tear escaping my eyes, voice raising in a blatant attempt to ease the pain.
But If I said a word about what I hear, it'd get...... well, I think you know what'd happen.
Lets dig under that rug, four feet by four feet area of infinite emptiness.
Half of my life has been hidden in there: emotions, mental, thoughts, pains, lusts, curiosities, questions, intents, past, present and future, all have been hidden under that rug.
It's stitches are one with my soul because it has so many of my confessions that it absorbs part of my soul.
I trust that rug more than I trust some of the hoes I claimed to trust from day one.
I trust that rug more than I trust some of the friends I've had since meeting.
That rug has an affinity for gaining people's trusts, like me.
That rug produces more positive vibes than power chords produce energy, and yet we wonder why something being swept under the rug is a bad thing.
I sweep myself under the rug because I know I'll be safe there. I know that with all the thoughts and emotions I share, that with that safe haven, I am assured.
I rest under the rug, I cry under the rug, I sleep under the rug.
As it is my home.
And I love it's sincere serenity.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
A feather floating,
this feather is me and it was a pound heavier.
This once heavy feather merely floated.
I found solace in weighted thoughts,
my heart was born a feather
and it personified me
but it felt too special in all the wrong ways
when this feather aged and changed
many felt pain and this poor feather floated
but it added a few ounces to normalize itself
this heart of mine added weight by the day to
identify myself with other with ease.
I tried to float in this new chapter of my life,
but the feather floated ungracefully,
the feather lost its fluffy bits, bit by bit.
Crunch time and I dropped a pound of weight from my heart,
it was sudden, almost like losing baggage in an air plane terminal.
I use this feather as a saber,
it floats gently around conflicts that are blinded by shallow intents
and cuts the air.
It dances and spins,
this feather truly floats.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:26 PM UTC
They say the more afraid you are to speak something the more power you give it right
Kept asking myself if I was doing the right thing
I always knew it was never something true, still real till this day I’m tearing wondering if this is one of those things that never heal
Will this haunting everlasting death ever pass
How have I not dug myself out of this grave yet
So disturbed burning tears seeing reflections of ghosts near memories seemingly too close
To her soul is the adamant adventure trying to win her back again but devil memories keep me soulless I am a entity of no beginnings no endings just existing in this black hole of nothing
I am still trying
Like right now I’m on meteor showers looking for lost battleships seeing if maybe they could guide me home, dreaming in high clouds looking at the last hour looking back on angelic souls confused with the misfit’s bold while running sin, it swims farther than suns shining rays of golden turning to dust as deathly holes with vampire intents seek to steal all light out of the world but all after explosions and fire and bangs but no one is left to see the void because it is all in the aftermath.
But what’s left to do after that? Always trying to get on with a new thing before processing the last. My brain keeps me busy going and poking fun and finding things I huffle puffs after breaking into strangers dungeons without knowing where this fairytale might take me. Would Alice have jumped down that hole if she knew it was an empty casket? Little bunnies could lead to the devil you really never should judge a book by its cover. You never try to bridge cliffs together when you never learned how to swim in the waters running underneath, you never know how deep those waters may go. You never know how far from home they may take you. You never wanna drown in a fairytale. The amnesia never heals.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:53 PM UTC
Ready your ears,
remove your fears
let your mind hear
the hurtful truths
rather than the comforting lie
mostly heard,
by the youth.
Our mind is polluted
by the false informations
we believed in.
As we turned away from the reality,
where honesty lives in.
We lie in the bed of lies,
where we sleep on the dreams
where sincerity "seems" real.
Society intents a deep-state lies
where unmindful people
accepts what is seen and heard
on the screen.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
and waiting and everything
in everyway, and everyday,
and everynight, waiting
seems
like a movie playing on an IMAX screen
and I'm the character in every scene,
and it all looks so plastic, oddly idyllic,
a situation drastic, I live in,
feeling like a dream,
nothing seems solid, no gravity,
just me
alone but with people doing their rounds,
the only thing missing
are the clowns.
that like to juggle in your dreams,
but the scream,
are not monsters or ghosts,
just real live old people,
dying in streams,
and every minute taking me away,
and leaving no trace
just me erased,
for all intents and
purposes.,
lonely, awaiting and cursed.
_______
can't wait for it to be over soon
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 7:08 PM UTC
Or is it?
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXXXIX)
Yes, anime as from a distance' frail
Note comes to hail me on my own phone hence--
Which brother's taste cavorting gaily thence
Like to a happy air I cherish? pale
As liking by mere halves what plays for bail
Now in the background. Lo, and for intents
Sis can make calls, whilst oh! don't ask me whence,
But add the p'lice erm, scanner too, to scale.
If only oh, the LORD would e'er and fer
All time take care of little me. I do
Not know how to whatever, though tis poor,
Ye say, to fess't? My brother's old phone too,
They set it up for me, and how we tour
Their favrite stuff thereon. Fun like few knew.
02Apr17b
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
so you call yourself pro-life
okay, I guess I can pretend to respect that
which then means that you must also
respect the fact that I am very loudly pro-choice
and thanks to science
I know that a bundle of cells
and a living child are not the same thing
because an actual fetus is not fully formed
until the third trimester
and by fully formed I mean that it is
for all intents and purpose alive
but before that
there is nothing but a group of cells
there is no brain
no heart
not even pearly pink fingernails
so now what, huh?
you’re probably going to keep protesting
Planned Parenthood and harassing the people
that work there, right?
because all that Planned Parenthood does
is condone the vicious and inhumane ******
of defenseless, unborn children, right?
right?
either way, you don’t care about the child
once they’re born
all that you care about is making a woman
and other individuals who have a ******
carry this thing that is literally feeding off of them
and why should a child be brought into this world
if the circumstances through which it was
conceived are non-consensual?
because, if you really did care
if you really were “pro-life”
then you would care about the child
after it is born
or better yet
you could turn your attention and time and money
and anger to all the millions of orphans living
in the US
ya know, the living children?
with no homes?
with no parents?
packed like sardines in orphanages?
what about them?
do they not matter because they are not a group
of cells, and therefore not defenseless?
and therefore they do not matter?
because,
if you only care about that bundle of cells
and because some states actually make women
and those with uteruses
have funerals for the aborted “child”
then by default whenever a man
masturbates and then **********
shouldn’t he be made to have a separate
funeral for each of the thousands of children
that he just killed?
because one of them could have cured cancer, ******
and tell me
when I was still menstruating
should I have said “amen”
over all the potential children that bled out
of my body and into the pad
and the sides of my boxers?
should I have
said “grace” over all the
little pad mummies that I threw away?
should I have cried when I flushed
the ****** toilet paper?
because,
since I have a ******
how dare I want and feel as if I should
be owed control over my own body, right?
how dare I believe that
each and every woman
biological and otherwise
have a say in what they do with their body
how dare I be pro-choice, right?
well, let me knock you down
a few pegs with this closing statement:
if you only care about the “child” when it is
just a group of cells that doesn’t feel a **** thing
and couldn’t care less about it
once it is born
and homeless
or an orphan
or queer
then you are not “pro-life”
what you are
is an *******
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.
(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)
I
Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.
II
Lo, ****** Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.
24Dec15c,d
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
her critical thinking gone astray
her tupperware mind seals in the flavor of her intents
nail polish chipped
no ring to show the lay of the land
bright eyed with hints of joys
sunglasses askew
lipstick on her neck
this casual girl
in one brief moment our worlds collide
parking lot of seven eleven
she is a complex song not to be heard
but to be felt with the heart
this casual girl
she unbuttons her shirt
and shows her new tattoo
woven pattern of snakes and flowers
reflection of the mind perhaps
reflection of the casual girl and her inner tears
my heart grips this as she turns to leave
this casual girl
slave to her moment
she must go with the crowd
she must be a popular girl
in that brief moment our worlds collided
she spun like the summer sun free of her tears
she lived for my presence for the first and last time
she desired to speak to me
i never even knew
this casual girl
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC
*Lightning Enchantress & Her Diamond Absolutes,
Moaning Fluxes Of Her Satellite Pursuits.,
Phantasmal Intents In Her Indigo Silhouettes.
***** Eyes & Animatronic Bliss,
Her Cherry Lips Calling For Her Symphonic Kiss,
Inimitable Raindrops & Iridescent Perpetuity,
Condensed Laments Of Her Kaleidoscopic Sphericity,
Purple Palisades & Platinum Charades,
Pheromone Verses Of Her Propelled Shades,
Shapeshifting Reveries Of Her Hourglass Fictions,
Charming Archangels Concealed In Her Convictions,
Glasshouse Perspectives Emitting Luminescent Predictions,
Magnetic Canvas & Her Stainless Vibrations,
Her Aesthetic Amour Diffusing Amplifications,
Satirical Saga In Her Spiritual ******
Lyrical Charlatans Of Her Velvet Creativity,
Crystal Flowers & Supernatural Dreams,
Befuddled Effigies Of Her Cryptic Realms,
Her Feral Gleams Illustrating A Prophetic Queen.
- 02:32 AM -*
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
Nope.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCVI)
I lick my finger slowly, with a sense
In closing as of stealing frosting, pale
As aught compare, th'espresso's foam detail
Tinged subtly with milk's sweetness for intents,
Like that finale suited for it hence,
The rainy blacktop half dried in betrayl,
While minutes tiptoe by on wings more frail
Than insects' glassy touch we note from thence.
Prepare their lunch with baggies for as twere
Thin cleanliness, cuz honey's sticky to
A fault; cube our potato like in tour
What, eh? I tossed my brother's typed note, knew
Not that twas worth aught, and discuss how poor
Tis that all's typed, not writ by hand. And you?
21Mar19b
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 8:54 PM UTC
Come to me, my dearest one.
Let me get inside you more;
naivety is your nature,
thus eager to please
and to be pleased
—time flies like a fleeting bluebird,
a fairy in its blue bright spirit,
and still you’re nearing my presence.
Almost there, so be afraid of me,
and yet fond of me,
for I'll never let you stray off anymore
—stop your wandering, no more—
and ‘tis the proof that I hold you so dear.
I long to relish that imminent moment
where you’ll give me the enjoyable tickles
while struggling in my arms tightly locked,
kept held in my blooming *****
in ominous anticipation.
Alas, I'm much eager to please you so
—and I do expect, you would feel the same;
that is what I know from your eyes
trying to shun my eagerness,
still neglecting my attentive gesture
beckoning you to join me,
but you will hide it no longer,
for all of your struggles, big or small no matter,
fans my fanatic yearning for your soul.
So accept me, my foolish child
(so carefree, but still shuddering)
as the dim evening clouds
would shroud the skies above,
sealing off the passage of light
that was once so brilliant,
but now without a reason to exist.
And you, the courted,
don't just stand there
when I come to embrace you heartily,
so induce me—do ****** me,
and betray your fear
to be accepted by me, and only.
Do me a favor, and this shall work
as a token of passion for me;
the perfection is all yours:
the purification of our intents,
the petrifaction of our conscience,
the completion of our unison,
ceasing the compliance
with the rigid standards
of the unworthy.
Wings of the butterfly collapse
altogether, and you will be
awaken, knowing that, my love,
you are truly a butterfly.
Like a pair of moths,
we fly into the torchlight burning incandescent.
Sep 4, 2020
Sep 4, 2020 at 5:54 AM UTC
(sonnet #MMMMMCDXXXII)
How rain's nigh ghastly light haunts vague suspense
Ere darkness yield to after. In the pale
Note follwing, whiter morsels chase th'exhale
Which moves atwixt these firs as if pretense
Could not decide oer snowbanks' worn intents
And newer puddles thinking of betrayl,
This fragile romance in surreal tones' bail
Lost in the flurry of just whither hence.
I want to ask you what you're doing fer
All we have overnight made me and you
Erm, us and we. And scared but driving, you're
Not one bit daunted either. What'd we do?
I've heard of whirlwind stories. Aren't such poor?
You'd kiss my tear-washed face, and say we knew?
03Feb16
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 11:13 PM UTC