"invalidity" poems - Hello Poetry

*Is there ever A beginning To anything Without its end? Or is there ever An end Without its beginning? Or is it that “if” there Is a beginning - Then there must Be an end? The invalidity of These questions Bear witness to The feebleness of My human existence. But grieve not for me Ye simple travelers And fair Mystic Nymphs. Instead – go pluck The roses And scatter their petals In thy path. For God himself Has done no more And ye cannot Be better served At his fountain Of riches or Show a better decorum Than to bring ye Rosy smelling feet To him. Only when one’s face is Dressed out in the Pearls of our tears Are we sure that We too are infected. Tis’ a pity when love Is stolen for it is Always good though Not of much use to Anyone else. But the heart is for beating, Is it not? There is very little Else in it. The scriptures say that If we are as good as We are handsome That heaven shall fill it. But reading that Says nothing of its pleasure. Or is the love one’s Heart finds Like the rose? Once plucked Its petals thrown On the ground Reminding us of The love that Was once whole? If so, those petals Must somehow Remember us. Of course - That must be it. They remember us By the smell Of our feet.*

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Jun 7, 2017

Jun 7, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC

willy-shakysphere

The End of The Beginning

*Is there ever A beginning To anything Without its end? Or is there ever An end Without its beginning? Or is it that “if” there Is a beginning - Then there must Be an end? The invalidity of These questions Bear witness to The feebleness of My human existence. But grieve not for me Ye simple travelers And fair Mystic Nymphs. Instead – go pluck The roses And scatter their petals In thy path. For God himself Has done no more And ye cannot Be better served At his fountain Of riches or Show a better decorum Than to bring ye Rosy smelling feet To him. Only when one’s face is Dressed out in the Pearls of our tears Are we sure that We too are infected. Tis’ a pity when love Is stolen for it is Always good though Not of much use to Anyone else. But the heart is for beating, Is it not? There is very little Else in it. The scriptures say that If we are as good as We are handsome That heaven shall fill it. But reading that Says nothing of its pleasure. Or is the love one’s Heart finds Like the rose? Once plucked Its petals thrown On the ground Reminding us of The love that Was once whole? If so, those petals Must somehow Remember us. Of course - That must be it. They remember us By the smell Of our feet.*

71

It turns out that loving someone in spite of their appearance has nothing to do with emotions or that eradicating wounds and trauma has no magic formula. Accepting one's imperfections grant new joy and, because you left a part of it behind, you won't grudge your way out holding pieces of broken smiles. Our hearts, lighter than they used to, carry suffering as we watch the world suffer from everyone's flaw-- but we can't forget how portraits hung themselves in galleries for our eyes to feast on, only to be forgotten once we step out the door. Admittedly, the millions before and after me and, you-- are as fragile as we all will be. Yes, it's perfectly fine to choose to live with other matters than force yourself to live with your imperfections. We are all ugly. And it is uglier to think that ugliness is a life sentence— a stigma, a scarlet letter, a red card, a dunce cap, a billboard of shame, a birthmark on your face. But, what makes us ugly? It's your inability to manifest your devastation from hatred or being at stake upon the brightness of scars— or just simply, if we romanticized modesty. "You are worth it." Imperfections are a long time discernment— and not because we allow them to doesn't confirm their rights to judge. Scars are beautiful, so are you. We already paid prices for our invalidity as a living flaw. What bothers you is what you think you are, so stand firm. You are on your greatest form. You are the perfect formula of beauty. You are imperfectly beautiful. You are the treasure of the seven seas. You are made of stars. You are **** brighter than a rainbow. You are the reason tapes continue to play. And now, as we watch the fountain of misery continuously scrambling our serenity, we are all imperfectly beautiful with a heart of congruity— we have to accept everyone's offer, give them a chance to love us, at least, in a creative way. —kvg, the ugly romantic you

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Mar 16, 2018

Mar 16, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC

kelvingmb

to: everyone

It turns out that loving someone in spite of their appearance has nothing to do with emotions or that eradicating wounds and trauma has no magic formula. Accepting one's imperfections grant new joy and, because you left a part of it behind, you won't grudge your way out holding pieces of broken smiles. Our hearts, lighter than they used to, carry suffering as we watch the world suffer from everyone's flaw-- but we can't forget how portraits hung themselves in galleries for our eyes to feast on, only to be forgotten once we step out the door. Admittedly, the millions before and after me and, you-- are as fragile as we all will be. Yes, it's perfectly fine to choose to live with other matters than force yourself to live with your imperfections. We are all ugly. And it is uglier to think that ugliness is a life sentence— a stigma, a scarlet letter, a red card, a dunce cap, a billboard of shame, a birthmark on your face. But, what makes us ugly? It's your inability to manifest your devastation from hatred or being at stake upon the brightness of scars— or just simply, if we romanticized modesty. "You are worth it." Imperfections are a long time discernment— and not because we allow them to doesn't confirm their rights to judge. Scars are beautiful, so are you. We already paid prices for our invalidity as a living flaw. What bothers you is what you think you are, so stand firm. You are on your greatest form. You are the perfect formula of beauty. You are imperfectly beautiful. You are the treasure of the seven seas. You are made of stars. You are **** brighter than a rainbow. You are the reason tapes continue to play. And now, as we watch the fountain of misery continuously scrambling our serenity, we are all imperfectly beautiful with a heart of congruity— we have to accept everyone's offer, give them a chance to love us, at least, in a creative way. —kvg, the ugly romantic you

12

Stage 1 Grinning elder disappearing disappearing Loving the time gone by gone by Slow foxtrot (I'm laying down) down) Piece by peace tranquillize tranquillize Reminisce in the absence of hostility hostility Complete deaf definity definity Stage 2 Foxtrot is not slow anymore rather it is phlegmatic Prolonged Broken I am still thinking i am No day is Sunday No thought is clear Static Beautiful Stage 3 Try Not playing for record Jump (bleep) Remember that they are the ones dead You can take a break or stop Jump Look at yourself you can stop at any second you are here The atrophied record jumps Stage 4 Suffocating No second left no second given to breathe We're on the other side This is where the mind meets the instinct and the brain becomes a fluid free of flow I feel free Free from thought Free from thought The best from invalidity Stage 5 I care what he's saying Am I supposed to feel anything Recycled Right there is he sitting again just this time behIND A CLOSED DOOR RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT Where am I Give away We cry Stage 6 Alone Single The empty *****

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Jun 29, 2021

Jun 29, 2021 at 5:57 PM UTC

PaKa

The Caretaker's symphony No.11

Stage 1 Grinning elder disappearing disappearing Loving the time gone by gone by Slow foxtrot (I'm laying down) down) Piece by peace tranquillize tranquillize Reminisce in the absence of hostility hostility Complete deaf definity definity Stage 2 Foxtrot is not slow anymore rather it is phlegmatic Prolonged Broken I am still thinking i am No day is Sunday No thought is clear Static Beautiful Stage 3 Try Not playing for record Jump (bleep) Remember that they are the ones dead You can take a break or stop Jump Look at yourself you can stop at any second you are here The atrophied record jumps Stage 4 Suffocating No second left no second given to breathe We're on the other side This is where the mind meets the instinct and the brain becomes a fluid free of flow I feel free Free from thought Free from thought The best from invalidity Stage 5 I care what he's saying Am I supposed to feel anything Recycled Right there is he sitting again just this time behIND A CLOSED DOOR RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT RECYCLED REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT Where am I Give away We cry Stage 6 Alone Single The empty *****

48

We reinvent ourselves, until we are too invented to be ourselves. We want what we can’t have, we have what we don’t want. We allow the world to tell us who we need to be in order to succeed. Under false pretences we are deceived, Into not being who we want to be, not seeing the things we need to see. We prevent our dreams from running free, Instead we nod and agree. We all want to be, in fact we are all wannabes We blindly follow the status quo. We blindly let our thoughts lie now. There’s ignorance in all we know. They say we have freedom of speech until we actually speak. Next up? We are forcefully impeached. Not to mention, we claim to see life as this ongoing lesson. Okay que the tension, How do we fix this giant mess we’re in? We pride ourselves on harmonic progression. I have a better suggestion. We are in our own regression of comprehension, our brains filled with congestion. Our obsession with possessions is causing a rise in severe clinical depression. We are compressing our self-expression at our own discretion because we fear leaving a bad impression. We are afraid to leave our mark on the world. We are afraid to leave footprints behind; Footprints beyond the carbon kind. Everyone is constantly offended. As if being offended is going to mend all of the real issues we have left unattended, undefended, Completely open ended- But please, tell me why you didn’t like that song. Or why everything is suspect of being so wrong. Oh. You are offended? Sorry, I’m just not ******* interested. You sit and argue all day long, taking pride in games of mindless ping-pong. Back and forth, spewing words of hate. Your guns are drawn. Truthfully, we all play along. We play into the stupidity, into the invalidity of what we see. Aren’t we supposed to be strong? You know what is stronger, our need to belong. The structure of our world slowly crumbles and all I hear is faint mumbles.  But is freedom a possible reality for our society or, Am I overlooking the gravity of our incapacity. Is our freedom a complete fallacy?

0

Sep 4, 2020

Sep 4, 2020 at 12:45 PM UTC

ellen-3

FALLACY

We reinvent ourselves, until we are too invented to be ourselves. We want what we can’t have, we have what we don’t want. We allow the world to tell us who we need to be in order to succeed. Under false pretences we are deceived, Into not being who we want to be, not seeing the things we need to see. We prevent our dreams from running free, Instead we nod and agree. We all want to be, in fact we are all wannabes We blindly follow the status quo. We blindly let our thoughts lie now. There’s ignorance in all we know. They say we have freedom of speech until we actually speak. Next up? We are forcefully impeached. Not to mention, we claim to see life as this ongoing lesson. Okay que the tension, How do we fix this giant mess we’re in? We pride ourselves on harmonic progression. I have a better suggestion. We are in our own regression of comprehension, our brains filled with congestion. Our obsession with possessions is causing a rise in severe clinical depression. We are compressing our self-expression at our own discretion because we fear leaving a bad impression. We are afraid to leave our mark on the world. We are afraid to leave footprints behind; Footprints beyond the carbon kind. Everyone is constantly offended. As if being offended is going to mend all of the real issues we have left unattended, undefended, Completely open ended- But please, tell me why you didn’t like that song. Or why everything is suspect of being so wrong. Oh. You are offended? Sorry, I’m just not ******* interested. You sit and argue all day long, taking pride in games of mindless ping-pong. Back and forth, spewing words of hate. Your guns are drawn. Truthfully, we all play along. We play into the stupidity, into the invalidity of what we see. Aren’t we supposed to be strong? You know what is stronger, our need to belong. The structure of our world slowly crumbles and all I hear is faint mumbles.  But is freedom a possible reality for our society or, Am I overlooking the gravity of our incapacity. Is our freedom a complete fallacy?

38

On summer days When the sun bore no fruit For the over heated construction crew, My father would remind me Sitting in his 1995 Ford 350 How inadequate we all were Compared to the golden days of framing. Or he would praise the highest paid On a Friday, payday whose checks We're always there, To build them up for a weekend And let them rest from their Toilings under his sun. From 15 years ago I can hear his voice, "Your never going to learn are you?" In his solitary voice That confined a tone just for me, A destination unknowing For what a father teaches can sometimes Elude the son with sarcasm And verbal seeds of invalidity. Honorable carpenter, I remember him never missing a day, His name should be on a wall Somewhere, I ask that I inside of myself Remember the very best of The very worst of him, Which was the side I think Was also the guiding parent. May he always be , That I rise in the mornings And still hear his voice, I pour coffee into a mug And remember. May my insufficient ways Honor him with the haze He draped over my confidence, I see my father in a certain way, The eery silence filled With his voices. On summer days When the heat is too much, My father still pushes me, I swear the humidity is Him breathing down my neck.

0

Oct 1, 2016

Oct 1, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC

dedpoet

Portrait of My Father, Verbal Abusing Genius

On summer days When the sun bore no fruit For the over heated construction crew, My father would remind me Sitting in his 1995 Ford 350 How inadequate we all were Compared to the golden days of framing. Or he would praise the highest paid On a Friday, payday whose checks We're always there, To build them up for a weekend And let them rest from their Toilings under his sun. From 15 years ago I can hear his voice, "Your never going to learn are you?" In his solitary voice That confined a tone just for me, A destination unknowing For what a father teaches can sometimes Elude the son with sarcasm And verbal seeds of invalidity. Honorable carpenter, I remember him never missing a day, His name should be on a wall Somewhere, I ask that I inside of myself Remember the very best of The very worst of him, Which was the side I think Was also the guiding parent. May he always be , That I rise in the mornings And still hear his voice, I pour coffee into a mug And remember. May my insufficient ways Honor him with the haze He draped over my confidence, I see my father in a certain way, The eery silence filled With his voices. On summer days When the heat is too much, My father still pushes me, I swear the humidity is Him breathing down my neck.

47