"interactive" poems
Smash, slash, and if you're a noob you spam. Video Games the most interactive experience ever, it brings out the best and worst out of all of us. Combos and controls to study, instead of trying to study for an upcoming test. Some people say video games turns your brain into mush, but studies show that video games actually help people in the real world. Oh how I love video games they let me experience things outside can't, and even though movie versions of games aren't that good, I never usually get disappointed with sequels. Video games create more than fun times, they have also helped create my identity. So thank you video games for making me who I am.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
I live in the birth of Nintendo vs Sony vs Sega
Trying to beat that high score in the Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat
Combat with a K
That innovative ****
I survived the destruction of Sega Dreamcast
As they became third party
And Microsoft took their place with Xbox and Ninja Gaiden
Alive from that old arcade
I live in the awing of the interactive Wii
And internet friendly Playstation 3
I also live in the original Mario Bros and Pac Man and...
Terminator vs. Robo-Cop
Yea
I bet you don't remember that one
Or Galaga or Excitebike
Or even that good old
Asteroid, space dodging, alien blasting
Spacce Invaders!
Yea, I'm from Nintendoland
No... Segaworld
Nah... Sony City
Nu uhn... Microsoft...
Can't even think of a place for that
I am from that video gamer nation
That fight, hack, slash, race, create, explore, role-play
Even play those insane sports
See I'm from that...
See, I am from that...
I am from that
Video gamer heaven descended
That has that powerful curiosity and love for that
Space Invaders!
No
That love for all video games
And that memory of the ****** game graveyard
Where E.T. now resides...
See, I'm part of the new gen
Trying to play Street Fighter 4, Final Fantasy XIII, Star Ocean
Saying "I go harder than you young bloods cause I played
Space Invaders!"
So, what era am I from?
I'm from the era of all gamers
Playing Space Invaders
Space Invaders!
I'm from the
"Game of the Year goes to..."
Mario, Tekken, Metal Slug
Namco, Sega, Bandai, Konami
All those companies that started as something else
But realized their calling was for our nation
Cause you see
I'm from that
Old school Nintendo
New School Wii
Old school Playstation
New school PS3
Old school Sega
New school Microsoft 360
I'm from a legacy that always succeeds in giving us dreams
That always seem to revert back to that
Old school
Asteroid, space dodging, alien blasting
Space Invaders!!!!!
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
"From a very young age, I've thought
some videogames can be a little too reminiscent of 'Enders Game.'"
"Yeah, it could easily be a real war and you'd possibly never even know it."
"Especially when the games are basically an interactive recruitment tool. Call of Duty and the later Halo games leap to mind."
"Actually, my cousin-in-law just signed up for the army."
"Hah, did he cite Call of Duty as his reasoning?"
"Pretty much."
"Hah. I ******* knew it.
It's lamentable that it works.
The sad fact that it isn't a joke
make the jokes that much worse,
but, yet, the jokes aren't as bad
as the atrocity, itself,
yet it's the jokes that incur social wrath!
This adequately exemplifies Society's priorities, methinks."
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)" (1)
writ many years later...
~For MWK~
<>
A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny:
A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us.
*This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis,
my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary
each one, each is, deserves, all, one such,
a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life,
strained and trained for emission and transmission
of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of
our individualized most excellent fresh best
where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream
melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive
contrasts combative,
a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words,
yet unheard and before this very never,
went unspoken and now goes forth
svelte and unbroken
*rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls
of the here and now,
a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance,
of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed,
lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from
the stilling quiet solitude.
to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief,
how to expel and spell the words
that grant
relief
visit my sunroom, though no fiction.
the sun rays *********** create the friction
of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained,
and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered,
pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction,
with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary,
you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns,
and the process of sunrise exposition recommences,
and one revisits the elemental sequencing of
all the predecessor pain, but this time,
for gain, for gain,
<>
written this sabbath Saturday
12:38am EST
Sat Aug 2
2025
in the sunroom,
on Shelter Island
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
. what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis*...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis* is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
cow later chow,
enter mein...
choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
when i take a ****
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
war robots....
you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
team-work...
mesmerizing...
the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****
love it... 5 stars review...
but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
oh right...
i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
dented but not broken
in the demon dark
the deep chasms
of the wilderness
and the forgotten recess
silence from tender slumber
has awoken
the synergy of temptations
on their merry dance
sip divines peach nectar
the naked flesh and heaving chest
unleash thy sporadic vital spark
the impressed intent
of thy chosen scent
fuels the interactive nodes
neon infused electronic spasms
that echo in the dark
a subtle jowl in latent jest
as twilights nimble fingers
unbutton what remains of carefree days
and the fallen angels
with such sweet caress
to touch the mystic
unfurl the arc of your rainbow
and shine your rays
on cobbled memories
of Paris in the rain
and Tokyo Blue
hustles in the backstreets aroma
blow the cobwebs a gentle kiss
on days like this
left unchecked and laid to rest
gathered in momentums voice
and uttered as a sensual breath
the nakedness of emotion
the arcane interventions
should not be left to fade
to fill the empty space
they call the void
these technicolour moments
we've made
stumble on the waves
the fragrances of youth etched
in unedited stop motion
the contours of discovery
sparkle in the ether
the azure eyes
and the open arms
of the ocean
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
•Don't you think you're standing too close
#But you did not oppose
•Cause your touch is so overwhelming
It numbs my brain
#So does your breath
Falling on my chest
•Maybe it's the lack of air inbetween
That's building this tension
#But this tension of our bond
Won't even let distance do us apart
•Who talks like that these days
#I'm witnessing one,
Between a boy and a girl of Laws
Stuck in the wonderland of Words
•That sounds more like the Never Never Land
#Don't let your sceptic shield come inbetween
Not tonight
•So that you can make me fall hard and deep
#So that I can kiss your wounds to heal
•But the soar soul will bring it back
How will you touch that
#Through that Venus trap you have for lips
•Your beard is no less of spikes
Growing goosebumps all over my skin
Running that chill across my spine
#It's good our interactive field **** our brains
At least for once our hearts can overtake
•I'm such a submissive to your strong gentle hold
#I'm so weakened at the sight of your rising-falling stole
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 5:36 PM UTC
As culled from an arts magazine, 13 March 2019
Socialist Realism - The official doctrine in Soviet art and literature after 1932 that evolved from the traditional commitment to social and civic concerns into an all-pervasive general ideological mandate.
-Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 20th Century Russian Poetry
collective exhibition space vibe community
interactive narrative brown neighborhood
defined commodified Indigenous
identity tone-deaf decolonial
narratives populist intertwined
exhibition curatorial vision
culture local artists arts district small galleries
DIY spaces speaking out against
gentrification displacing shelter
studio space elsewhere late stage capitalism
collective mantra underdog art savior
corporate entity partnering insensitive
ignorant collective brown people art
contemporary work that may not fit
into establishment art galleries
media advisory venture collaborate
creative community authentic
local statement of expression excitement
creative energy arts district project
many levels collaborate local
creative important creative
community what that collaboration
looks like ongoing local artists going
to be engaged in planning commissioned
project community buy-in consulted members of the creative community Indigenous artists curators museum
directors professors burgeoning landscape
cultural framework critique talk individuals
entities inclusivity open
dialogue opportunities project
conversations collaboration discuss
your projects share our work with you
common ground work together healthy sustainable
accountable decolonization
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC
She was an exotic creature
A true one of a kind
Pure pleasure for the wondering eyes
And the hopeful spirits
And the truthful souls
A goddess is an understatement
For the mighty Zeus cannot obtain such beauty
And with her it is truth when they say beauty is beneath skin
For her Soul and Mind were radiant with life
Vivid such as the orchards in fall
And a body awaken from the spring’s slumber
An alien girl from the third rock
Understand the metaphor as her presence has no ID
A mystery only to me
For previously I was too blind to see her inner truth
Brace your minds for this story has just been intertwined
With my sorrow for losing such a being
A fool finally awaken after the departure was too late
Puzzled, Dazed and Confused was of my own construction
As I slowly rebuild the soon to be my own destruction
Shattered heart
Shattered soul
A broken will for such a Fool's rush of gold
The treasure of seeking independency
No longer being held down by a man's woman pulling the string
Stopping me from hanging with the homies...
But the joke was on you
So you were too caught up with your own self pity
Drinking the fluids from Mount Look at Me I'm Boring
Gaining kilo after kilo in front of the interactive TV screen
Until you became repulsive to be attracting
But through her Moon struck eyes, you were beautiful
Yet distracted by the less important you detached
In hopes you can distract her Love for you
But look at her fool
Her love ran deep within your veins
Your Heart succumbed by her lengthy hands
She was not going anywhere
So drastically and bold was your next move
That at the end
It became your own demise
Your own heartbreak
Your own anger
You no longer trusted her and as such abandoned her
Forcing her to go back home to start a new
Not giving her the chance to show just how much she loved you
You made her bare pain
You made her lonely
It was only a matter of time before her heart went down the drain
And by the time you wanted her back in your life
She already moved on
And found another man to make her gain
The life you chose to run away from
Happiness, Joy, Humor, Prosperity
And most important
Eternal Love…
You fool
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of pubis-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dogtag,
Or a dog, a colossal beast of a pet,
A humongus Harlequin Dane dog to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes.
Our boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.
We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo,” they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?
You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
In the age of prophylactics,
we build skyscrapers out of plastic
Agents of terror trade their bombs in for germs
So we make ourselves prisoners to serve out life terms
Unscalable walls that circle each axis
Hemispherical gates in which they have stored us
Intersecting steel Orobouros
With plenty the yeast farm to serve as our food,
and trend setting deities that change with our mood
A quarter united, we sing out a chorus
Hyper-interactive nonsense to entertain
Connected by a network direct to the brain
With war buried deep, next to monarchs and castles
Their drones target individuals to save them the hassle
While we sleep in our bubbles, ignorant of pain
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
12:53am, January 3,2025
New York City
<>
*A Traveler notates these words to my attention, but only because I make myself
a convenient target, for truthfully,
it is addressed to one and all,
to the royalty of:*
We,
*who speake out loud, to all those who ***** these damp woods full of wet words, that spring up overnight, ripe for the plucking, there for the taking, an exacting where & when they did not even exist
the twenty four prior*
These purloined overnight creatures are
white and black
*lettered truffles, like the pages on which we inscribe, the letters raw, exquisitely tasty, shaved, measured in grams, but only when shared with others, in the privacy of our open minds, after being spooned from within us with exquisite care upon the pages that decorate our lives, sprinkled
with great care and cunning*…
*but when consumed, our five senses rage with aromatic pleasured pain, for these letters, so tiny, so powerful, grow only when
combinatory, individual bitty granules,
but when leavened, they enhance, provoke!,
they sauce, the*
flavors of the ordinary
*of our experiences,
creating the extraordinary
when interacting upon
our five robust senses*
*for without the spaces of delineation,
our jumbled words are but the
random jingle jangle of the sounds
of night winds, rustling a tune
pleasant but incomprehensible*
*Here I take your leave,
with the liberty taken
for speaking in all our names
to a Traveler
who so succinctly captures our work,
the glue of our interactive Us,
Our,*
Collective of Individuality
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
pen to paper
tears to soil
the interactive process makes me
what am i without the mercy of paper?
what am i without the abundance of ink?
what am i without?
footprints in fresh snow
bloodstains on a sheep’s wool
what am i when i am no longer broke?
what am i when i unfold?
May 24, 2023
May 24, 2023 at 1:35 PM UTC
I will not plug in, you fools -
you may dazzle, tempt and cajole
with high tech-cessories,
interactive goggles, voice activated,
touchscreen detachment-inducers
But I will smugly refuse.
Because the information you impart,
while instantly comprehensive,
is flawed.
I will hear-see-smell my way
through this beautiful life,
truly connected
and weaving through the cloud-heads
with impunity.
Until -
composing a poem
to explain my superiority
I stumble
and break my ankle
on a jaggy branch
which moments before
a rabbit
unfettered by language
noted
and bounced effortlessly over
before merging
with the quick green undergrowth.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 5:29 AM UTC
Hey Yalie, Diurnal Rituals Yield the Best Poetry
A Yalie jogs before dawn, her senses being exercised,
semi-aware there’s layered poetry out there and it must
be retrieved, for the eyes observe the diurnal arousing of the day,
and this too, must be recorded, part of the ordered duties of living, as the skin cells shed sweat droplets and
words of living, parcels of breathing, a diary of notations,
to educate the brain in ways and things that
professors cannot teach…
every sense operative, interactive, sound off neurotic synapses,
are acrackling, as you lay out the day ahead, calendar and
assignment checks, but the senses don’t care
about that
trivial minutiae of living
nope
the words are now coming fast and you hope your best that
you will retain, retrain the memory to savor save, those
combos of images encapsulated in new word combinations,
that are yours alone, unique, proving to no one but
yourself, that education, science et. al. is a seeded embryo &
you the valedictorian of birth commencement ceremony
so put them trainers on,
and by dawning daylight you are awondering,
now becoming a pondering, and the
question never spoke aloud but oft posed,
is this, this is,
this is why I exist,
and
my identity?
***I am an institution in my own right,
in my own write.***
Saturday Nov 4
8:01am
nyc
Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
Interactive poetry: This poem to be read in a stereo-typical Tennessean female drawl
Why Elvis, let me tell you Elvis just loves Cadillac automobiles
And Elvis he is passionate for his sixguns
Why Elvis is simply devoted to his Mama
And don't you know Elvis he idolizes The Colonel
Now Elvis is wild about Harley- Davidson motorcycles
Truth is Elvis worships his fans
Oh Elvis he's quite mad for The Beatles, all four of them!
And naturally Elvis adores animals
I can't begin to tell you how much Elvis dotes over Lisa-Marie
and Elvis just adores animals...Oh heavens to Betsy didn't I just say that already
Oh my oh my Elvis is a peacock for fancy stage wear
Elvis Aaron Presley praises The good Lord Jesus
Oh The President, Elvis truly admires The President
And Elvis reveres The Stars and Stripes
Oh did I mention Elvis is crazy for cheeseburgers
Why Elvis he just loves drugs
Why Elvis just...
Why... Oh Elvis why?
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
.
Do you feel the right connection?
Pulling at the space between us.
Evaporating our barricades
and redefining those hazy borders.
My hand on your *** brings shivers,
your hand on mine evokes promises,
a kiss as the connection is made
and time stands still in awe.
Two connect with a static charge,
exploding in a chaos of lightning,
sensitive tongues of mute pleasure
dance lightly across tenderised skins.
Synapses skip with happy wonder,
as sparks fly with interactive touch,
teasing memories of the future.
We disrobe. Waiting. Coiled springs.
Ready to ****
© Pagan Paul (12/01/17)
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
~for she who will know~
the Mother of Muses came to me
on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart
*we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse
to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.
all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing
see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime
We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End*
11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
am I clinically depressed
or am I just crazy
chemically imbalanced
motivationally challenged
or am I just lazy
attention deficit disorder
hyperactive distracted
interactive media addiction
progressive techno optimist
idealistic unrealistic
future obsessive affliction
am I terminally indecisive
or am I just manic
in need of professional help
to just get over myself
or should I just panic
am I clinically depressed
or am I just crazy
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
Please re-read as I will be making changes to this poem over and over
I want to tell you something
I am a man who loves changes
Changes of everything
You will see me suggest
A change in every retrospect
This morning I was re-reading
my own HP site and I was impressed
by my choices and how I ended up
With 3 different reposts of "My Fears"
from 3 different poets
that I reposted without me knowing
It's amazing how I am amazed
of my choices and have read them
like as if I am choosing them again
Now hear out my new suggestion
To HP and if you do like
Please make your voice be heard
It goes as follows:
If you like to relive the poetry
and you like to re-read your choices
and you like to reread the poems
you chose before once more
and get surprised while reading them
as if you did not choose them before
Then, we either need a second love button! Or
we need to automate the love button
and every time we reread it knows
and the love gets even stronger
and somehow it grows
Another suggestion that hit me in the head while I was re-writing my poem
*"The new suggestion is to give a comeback wink
to the previous folks who just read my poem
and ping them of my new important fix
To invite them to re-taste the cake that I just re-cooked
Or the cooking does not get posted
Until I feel its real good
and I press the release button
Before I let it go like I should
And may be we need to check our poem button with people that we trust
Before we embarrass ourselves badly
with a poem that may bust"*
The problem with this is honesty
That we don't do it for just the fame
So for this I need your opinion to fix
my suggestion in playing the game
and make HP an even a better place
and enjoy it again and again!
Additional suggestions to HP:
* please fix the current suggestions which is still lit even when I fixed my suggested misspellings. .. Call it repair
* a suggestion button to HP in the menu
* a share with others button that can grow .. You can click and see who I shared it with ... it can also be private
* a playback button ... Reads out loud
* a favorite button .. Quickly adds it to your favorites
* a read later button
* by double clicking a word you can ping the poet for a misspelling or a suggestion of a new word or love that word
* a unite with another poet button
* Go Interactive button .. Others can re-write your poetry!
* a challenge button .. Encourage challenge with another poet
* a marry me button .. which starts with an enragement ring ..
*friends .. siblings and brothers and family button ... they have to accept you as a family member!
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
This bed is a comfort,
Much like the sounds of used water
flowing through ninety-year-old pipess,
Soothing me,
while the sounds of the city
are brooding inside of me,
and it’s the same.
It may be the pinnacle
of 1922, pre-collapse Providence,
but it’s the same.
It may be different,
but it’s just the same,
And that's just the way it is
So I cool this brain that's on the fritz
And do my best to keep sane.
The wallpaper is interactive
and there's an infinitude
of pigeons on a television screen
that is worth more than my apartment,
and it’s still the same.
The rug is soaked just the same,
the lingering odor of feet is the same,
and I can feel all the ghosts of guests
from the last century trying to,
dying to speak to me
and through me,
and it’s the same.
The way the sun rises makes me feel like
I have no cause to be awake or asleep,
but I’m awake,
and it’s the same.
The stress of lost cigarettes,
and the blame of untapped digresses into unnecessary depths
is the same.
The way I’m viewing the start
of this day that hasn't yet
is the same,
and it’s a shame.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
The process is to accept
The progressive retardation
Wrought by chemicals
A necessary adjustment
Reevaluating meaning
Value and worth
There comes a point when realization dawns
The point where intellects breaks down to the base line of ignorance
Where attachment is severed
The process takes everything away from you
But not before draining it dry of anything worth having
And so the grandest theft
Becomes
The most glorious gift
Of nothing
(This is not easy to understand or comprehend,
It is the chemicals patient handiwork that allows eyes to see
To see and ears to hear
To hear
Without their scientifically regulated tutelage there are very very few methods that work in the 21st century that give them that side car joy ride straight the ribbon of BEING into to prayer closet of Nievana
Those of us who aren't willing to give up the things we attach to
The very things through which we define our selves, our souls, our minds, our hearts and our spirits
Drop them, move on a live without
When you realize you are living without, drip dmsomething else
It is the most difficult thing in the world
Yet by the end of the pilgrimage it has become too easy
Happiness is with nothing
Nothing is a clean slate for your imagination to create upon
This is heaven - wants nothing to do with the world
Process of chemicals and lack of sleep
It's a good thing
Though they who follow the path will be laughed at and scorned
By people who will never understand them
White trash bad *** and Rhoads scholar on the same page
"How can they live if not like us?"
You keep living, it's your calling
We are called to the realm of the supernatural
Where we will create our own heavens
Songs, stories,books , interactive movies we may never die
But if we do we know what we left behind
I wii not find I difficult to close my eyes
Having created in such a grand scale
Albeit with chemicals and ignorance guiding my way
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, November writes:}
felt my own selfishness
felt my own blindness
my underestimate
that fatal weight
of my own expressions carried
on upon other people's sights become buried
interactive confusion
paid the price to concealing them delusions
but when I look at her
I see me in skin bare
the old one who never tried
never been one to cry
that lost featured
that defeat creatured
in each eye across me that mockery
embraced for that heredity
not the only one I felt
blamed and met
ached a hurdle
to trace the burden
all nothing new
to an age which I won't be able to view
won't be able to perceive
under eyes won't be able to deceive
how is fairness unfair?
how is change a pit of despair?
shame
claimed
eight and hours faint
to not be on paint
where is my heart now to be fooled?
where is my mind now to scream its soul?
where is my body now to regret those striped drools?
we swim in pools
our skies failed us with lies
don't convince me otherwise
maybe is not a maybe anymore just
for it to be a must
watching now I freeze
try to refuse try to not feel
betray myself
is a betray of herself
can't look in the eye all now
a scar would dig behind that frown
because memories from the inside
**** my pride
like some clown
hunt and drown
-------ravenfeels
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 5:40 PM UTC