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Alan McClure Mar 2011
Imagine my disappointment when,
on discovering a tiny door
in a hollow tree,
locating its miniature key
beneath a buttercup,
unlocking and opening it

I found not a world of tiny folk
not Tir-nan-Og nor Avalon,
but a spectacled man in a white labcoat
holding a clipboard
and making notes on my reaction.

"Initial shock", he jotted,
"followed by anger and suspicion.
"Likely to require counselling
"within a year."

I closed the door as politely as I could
and went back to my books.
- From Also Available Free
Lambert Mark Mj Feb 2015
Humble gestures of chasten
Crumbling meek shifts to jotted chivalry
Into wrongly seemed semi-finite basins
Grim faces accused by chromo authority

fault at last by accursed impalement
days into mourn and far bliss
and darkness zeal in snide basements
thawed searing into crest

how is chaos' show Humble gestures of chasten
Crumbling meek shifts to jotted chivalry
Into wrongly seemed semi-finite basins
Grim faces accused by chromo authority

fault at last by accursed impalement
days into mourn and far bliss
and darkness zeal in snide basements
thawed searing into crest

how is chaos' show
deepened to cyro void
gone to confluence row
Yearned by those overjoyed

and quip smith's crooked dagger
lanced from pure ways
pride into back alley's sober
goodbye love of sparked days
deepened to cyro void
gone to confluence row
Yearned by those overjoyed

and quip smith's crooked dagger
lanced from pure ways
pride into back alley's sober
goodbye love of sparked days
Those who have made themselves the villain for a greater cause are not be forgotten.
Emma Amme Oct 2013
Sometimes i wish i could write poems
with all the similes clinging to your thoughts like barnacles.
And describe people with metaphors that wrap around the actual meaning like weeds grow on to other, more pretty plants.  
It would be nice if i could use edgy things like cigarette butts, half filled bottles of beer, and lipstick stained papers with a number jotted down
to describe mundane things like sadness and fear,
although lipstick stains and cigarette butts do leave an awfully mundane stench behind.
Tanvi Bird Dec 2014
Progress

4:26 am. Got out of bed.

Feeling really low again. Envy at my sister's good fortune and new friends. She is getting ahead, she is in a good place- but we are not and I am definitely not. Everything in her life presently makes her happy except me. She never trusted me because I dated G. Now I don't trust her either. I don't want anything from her. I finished the story. She didn't edit. She hasn't offered me anything from her end. "Jotted down some notes" is all she said. She did that in college with all her professors, and got As. It isn't fair. See, she does things whenever she feels like it and IF. And she doesn't trust me? I stopped asking her to do anything. If she wants to she can. I did my part.

I don't know where my life is taking me. I am working ******* little ropes that come at my direction-- but I am not even sure if they are worthwhile endeavors and if they will turn into anything. I just know I have nothing else.

I consider contacting my ex, F. Why him? He's the only one messed up like me. L is married with a beautiful baby and that woman he left me for, G is probably already married by now to that other stunning girl. But F will always be alone.

He doesn't want me. Why should I contact him? I had told myself I won't contact him until I at least got a full time job. He's an Ivy League P.H.D scientist at Penn researching the brain, traveling, making intelligent beautiful friends, and doing triathlons successfully (of course the smart ones are successful at many things). However, he still has trouble finding the "one". He's ******* 37. No one is ever good enough for him. I wasn't good enough for him. *******. He's broken like me. No, he ignored me. I won't contact him. ******* can contact me if he wants to.

I realized I have no friends. None at all. I used to think I had so many friends. Mostly men that just follow me around for a while and then leave me when they realize they aint getting this *****.

There's K, but he's J's ex's friend- so our friendship is limited. There's my sis S, who I meet once every other month, but she doesn't always respond to messages (and I rarely text her anyway). There's Je- she and I meet twice a year and we don't really connect anyway. She has other best friends and I am not really in that circle.

Cas- she is academically successful(valedictorian) and has a job, but frankly she is a bit slow. Can't explain it. Plus she bailed at me about the apartment thing and strangely she doesn't like me to meet her other friends in intimate settings, she just likes meeting people one by one. Like she's met my friends and got some of their numbers, but for some reason has never provided me an opportunity to meet hers. Maybe she feels awkward introducing me since she and I met online? Since she's not philosophical or an intellectual, I don't understand the point of meeting more than once a month if it's just me and her. I like her, but she always seems high without actually being high. I feel like I have to go out of the to meet her, but she doesn't have any energy at all.

Ro- the verbally abusive drunk? Let's face it. It's a mutually beneficial- two lonely people who have no friendship compatibility uplift each other relationship- but he's actually of the the more interesting to talk to people . Then there is Chr who just flirts all the time and fights. I swear his ex wife drilled some holes into his brain. He's just rude. He acts nice, but he's ******* nuts inside. Then there are those occasional people that text you Happy New Year. When I was in a relationship, I was so consumed by it that not having friends didn't matter. I have no friends. I am completely alone. Always have been. In law school, in elementary school, in middle school- I was always the only one who sat alone.

I like sad music. I just listened to the Hollywood version of Les Miserables- one of my favorite all time literary pieces and the beautiful Selena Gomez' new single Heart Wants What it Wants. I love to hear singing melodically, softly, simply of their pain. Every single singer in that musical has a painful story. The innkeepers in their desperation, Javert, of course Fantine, Jean Valjean, and the most relatable Eponine. And the sound of the violin. And the harp.

5:13 am. Let's talk progress.

Today I finally had the trial tutoring session. It was Algebra 2. The girl who is my tutee, she is sweet and extremely hard working. As and Bs in Algebra 2 weren't enough for her. I prepared extensively. My own Algebra 2 teacher was terrible in high school. He flirted with the pretty girls and bragged about himself. I got As for nothing. We spent most of the semesters on the same one or two chapters. I've always wanted to good at everything, to redo and master everything. Maybe this is my chance to become good at everything I **** at.

I am teaching myself before I teach her. I am supposed to be proficient. I had to begin on a surface level pace today. She and her mother both seemed happy. I touched on all her first semester topics. Next week is the second trial session. I will learn more and teach her in depth. If all goes well, she will end up being my client and I will be assigned more tutees. If only I could make a full time job out of this- I totally would. Each session pays well. Of course, the first two sessions I give are complimentary. After that.

This is a gamble. If I don't get enough clients- I will still have to manage the ones I have, invest a lot of time into studying for assignments, and then still make enough money to qualify as full time- then I will be scrambling. I can't imagine possibly getting between 6-8 hours of tutoring every day, since most people get out of work after 5pm and I have to travel around for sessions. I hope it's possible. I would work very hard.

My plan is to ace this Algebra 2 tutee preparation. I have a week to make myself more of an expert.

I have to go to more networking events. Sign up for Asian Film Festival & World Affairs. Meet people. Get connected. Make friends.

Keep reading current events, legal issues, technological advancements, and foreign news.

Re-reading my previously written Step 1- Embodying Positively helped me by reminding me to trudge forward and remain strong and positive, for both my own sake and the sake of the people in the world.

6:02 am.

I am going to do a second 5k this December. My first one ever was last month. Second one in December will be progress. I've got to start practicing again.

I gave up sugar instead of meat for Advent. I felt it was much harder, but more rewarding. Today is my third day of the no sweets diet. I did have sweet iced tea and a pretzel with sweet cream cheese, but I will stop those too. I might allow myself to have just one iced tea a week- moderation is more effective than going cold turkey and messing up. This is a huge accomplishment as I am a sugar addict. I look pretty fit, except a little tummy that goes up and down and only noticed by closest family members and friends.

I need to be fit for my health, to be the best I can be, to be fit, for a future potential job in the FBI or PO.  I only get up once a night to *** now. Some nights I used to *** 6 times a day. Is that an indicator of future diabetes or what? Consuming a lot of sugar can lead to a lot of internal diseases including infertility and cancer. If I can give up sugar for one month, I may try to keep doing it. Wow.

6:27 am. Go to sleep, T. Good night moon. Good night stars. Good night Mercury. Good night everyone.

.........

12/16/2014

Went to an Asian Law Society event last week. Made a couple friends, excited to be a member and get involved. Also met a guy, hope he's Catholic so my parents will accept the relationship if I decide to go out with him. He's emotional, Korean American, and verbal- a Gemini. Interesting but probably just as crazy as me. I am looking forward to getting to know him.

Just finished my weekly career discussion group, this is my second week in attendance. I was about to give up on the group, but John one of the members, who is a runner (and I think out of work firefighter), reached out to help me by emailing my resume around to different people he knows. He's the reason I decided to keep coming until I find a job. We shall see what happens. I have a tendency to jump around to things and not see them to fruition, but I am working on developing strong skills.

Today, I am feeling grateful. I live in a generation in which globalization is both a positive and negative thing. However, today I feel positive despite all the problems. There are so many opportunities, and I just have to figure out to unlock the how.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.h'america.... the last theological playground of... whatever the mind left behind in the decrepit bulwark that's europe... oh... and those mid-western died-hard hitchcock platinum-blondes in a-waiting... my typo pristine dutch-girls-go-to-church mantra... otherwise? no b'ooh'y'ah! chugger-chugger-chugger-chuck-cherry-choppy-chops-you-*******-cuc­­k-chuckie! quasi-whitman wannabe... billy was a butcher... a thematic long lost gun... billy was a butcher... and all the ripe choppers of pork... gave us a belief in snow; and what some heaved with a falling-of-a-star of dis-.belief: i too was bound to glorification of: what was expected to be known! and the subsequent: wow! i have met only the most limited of men... i have therefore met all men... the "all" men of this rubric of a year, a decade... all that's bygone of a yawn; swear it sn't so! a so! that's not be be sown! i am here too: upon the whim of expectation... merely... waiting... a man comes to be born come his 30s... his 40s? his nostalgia "moment"... former known name of: Jack Lil Lick 'Em Boots... and the crescendo of pauper's black lining of the Wall St. "better oiled"... scalp the ******! and send him unto the rabbi's true blessing... in the cusp of the scalp of the kippah!  and now... you take... your anglo-spreschen-tangle... into the salt-wounds of your h'america! first born: young... i don't like your revision... looking toward Europe with a hope for a sensibility... this pseudo deutsche: pseudo dutch, anglo-; this is no loss of the French or the Slav! this is our celebration! does one have an irish phrasing in uns to be at in it or one? beyond this grip boyo bound glue? this clerical spare of the otherwise leftover skivvy? we have made barons of these minutes.... as if we were to be kings of the coming years... and how we didn't become gods of the atoms... and the men of the suns and planets... that is our... most worthwhile conundrum in a da pacem domine bound; you're going to Beirut on me... or something?!

in my haitus away from this canvas:
naive me thought: perhaps a surge...
again proven wrong -
albeit not disappointed -
so i had to look elsewhere -

i had to look for a clarity of diction...
i had to move away from
the western lands and their:
death of god and their death by metaphysics...

even in this barren english...
i could not figure out:
why are these people,
apologetics from the central leftists...
these liberals...
ditto: i will butcher this name...
i will butcher the pronunciation
of this word...

if there are "questions" regarding
what's being phonetically encoded...
so much for me "learning to code"...
i too once wrote a html encoding...
with all the < and < and > toys...
spacing... {[( gradations... etc.,

i had to look east, after a while writing
schlechtdeutschegrammatik...
bad german grammar...
again: it's posthumous "Latin"...
it might be...
bad grammar german...
or german bad grammar...
deutscheschlechtgrammatik...

spelling is the mathematical equivalent
of... arithmetic...
but grammar? you need a ping-pong
table...
you need something cymru-esque...
a scandinavian-esque bilingual cushioning...

english alone will not solve the matter...
it's not french, it's not german,
it's certainly not spanish...
spanish and how post-colonialism was
settled with a post-racial attitudes of
Brazil...
england has taken too much time
looking up and out of the h'american
*******...
no grand satan 'ere...
no silk road bazar of fruits exotica from...
Teheran...
something more... subtle...

i had to go back to the "tsar"...
and the цэркйэв: 'cerkiew'...
and there i was amused how...
well apparently...
there are a lot of words
that do use the sz'cz...
enough... to deviate from
the Latin bollocking represented via
шч = щ....

that's perfectly logical...
i'm done with "perfectly logical"
if it exists outside of the realm of
orthography...

szczypta soli - pinch of salt...
in russian...
щ... that's a bit of a "question"...
yes, yes it is complicated...

szczery / szczera (he's honest /
she's honest)...
szczerość (honesty)...

no it's not... you german fickle-wit!
you forget the ы!

ah! well then... щыптa....
**** me... disorientating...
they could do all that with greek and glagolitic...
but they still had to keep...
latin: roman: holy roman empire: GERMAN...
lowercase lettering...
akin to a... e... c doesn't count...
since that's a greek cedilla "missing"...
ç... or... sigma... ς -
otherwise known in english as that S
after the apostrophe...
when something is called being:
the possessive article...
a (indefinite) the (definite) - some -ism to mind?!
no... but 's is... a bit like the SS...
in greek...
all in lower case: stephen's and...
στεφηνς...
σtephenς: that very much desired: ha!
ridiculous gag... the "much desired"
alternative to an apostrophe S ('s)...

it's Stephen's! it's Stephen's!
it's Sylvester's!
three articles in english:
the indefinite article (a)...
the definite article (the)...
and the possessive article ('s) - apostrophe S...
eS eS!

russian accents...
ъ, ы, ь...

but i only know of one "hard sign" example...
and that disqualifies the J ever needing a lower-case
"dot"... ȷ... namely... зъ: ż... alternatively
also: rz... and ж...
żuk! beetle! somehow the caron makes it...

szczyt! zenith!
щыт!

- and since i'm no longer writing:
i'd be writing if i were monolingual...
or... if i was animated by
the sort of Knausgardian bilingualism
of chop of swede: marker norgie...
but... i'm painting...

i forgot how to write when i could
see "synonyms" of sounds...
entombed in two different phonetic
encodings, namely elevated latin
and "pan-greek": cyrillic...

the variations between:

й and ы...
i.e. via е - "ye"
ё - "yo" (there's an umlaut in russian?!)
"у" - yew and you...
the gamma subscript...
ю - "yu"...
and... я - "ya"...

with regards to this rubric...
i am in the middle...
i can see a distinction between
a "y" (whine why and no I)...
hardly a jotted anecdote...
and yes... the closest the russians
ever come to Cracow is with ы
to a western slavic y...
ask me: toй - ask me: toȷ...
who needs a dot above the J
in the lower-case... if...
if... there's no absolute need for it to
be there: unlike some greenwich mean time
focus?
it ȷust so happens that...
the better clasp of the equator is
married to Greenwich: London...

dr. who time lords:
bellybuttons of the world: the english are...
again: i have to remind myself...
ı am not wrıtıng... ı am... paıntıng...

1(one), l(el)... I and ı(ıota)...
i guess an apostrophe would suffice...
ıf it's not an "ı"...
ı'ota... ı: oath...
sure as fıgurative "****" it's not...

ı must wrıte some more examples
in russıan...
to get me off me mark into
some "wax lyrıcal"...
ıslander mentalıty of the hen'glısch...

see how "the dot" can appear...
and disappear, as one see fıt?
and ıt makes: no little bıt of...
"dıfference"?!

i need to sleep on thıs "exercise"...
dot-pop-up...
dot-fold
dot-pop-up...
dot-fold...

w­­ıll eyes gets it?
hardly...

the rest of these cosmopolitan *******
focused on gwaffiti awt...
which is welsh for: GRA GRA...
when was the last time you heard
an englishman trill an R?
ı can't remember...
give me a night to soak up the pickling
juıces... i can't remember the last time
i heard an homest trIll eıther!
pauper me...

it's probably because of the welsh:
GWA GWA! gwadleıth cowonew...
or coroner row row row a rombat into a rue:
or a woo...
rhyme: contorts...
shapes and disappearing: oopses...
a whole multıtude of 'em...
come like the tıde...
leave... lıke a tilde... quası N:
it's a... H is a zeus...
and J is a Ha Ha Ha wrap-up rap of
laughter: in spanısh: of course...

i don't wrıte... ı paint...

impromptu interludes, quickened:
i'm a marriage of two continents...
and one island...
east of moscow...
asia... west of warsaw and...
these gloomy island pits of
idiosyncracy... never quiet the icelandic
answer to norway...
or greenland's answer to denmark...
but an island... nonetheless...

- to hell witth cascading linear cascades
of narrative: i'm blind to the optics
of "the narrative" in the paragraph
format...

i will look back east...
i will look at the russian script...
i will look at it as a time in ******
history equivalent to:
why didn't you just think of it as Greek?
but "my people" didn't...
and i'm not exactly a "why / didn't"...
i'm part of the excavation machinery...
i come with what was served...
i will leave without
leverage...

and here is the russian icon translated
from the Babel...
the following are orthodox letters
shared by one and all
to the western lands...

а б в г д e з и й
к л м н o п р c т
у ф

a b v g d e z i j
k l m n o p r s t u
f

now we leave: łen łill that be?
we should all somehow know...
to łork out a When a Where
(notably with the "h" being but a surd)...

mother how should i further this?
herbata
hasło (ha-s-woe)
hołd (**-**-w'd)

to no other: otherwise only in scotland:
the loch of tipsy work...
albeit: orthographic distinction...
хęć - a whim a desire...
a loch is no: cheat of a lake...
latching onto the otherwise boredom caron
exposed...

дух (ghost) with a душa (soul)...

else there's c dissociated from the s...
and more so with a kappa kaput...
the drumstick slick on a wet snare of: tss...
ц - almost...
then morphing into a ць -
yet in my version: no so silent...
ćma: moth...
цmokaць / cmokać: to click with the tongue...
to kiss smackingly -
to ingest food via a smoczek...
a smoчek - a smoček... the baby soother...

this is my third day having to return to
this canvas...

first thing's first:
palatization (palatißation)
is not... a name of german crusader song:
palästinalied...

this is one of the main reasons why
i can't imagine myself as being able:
to write a novel -
i can't bear this birth of words into
this pseudo-Kandinsky -
it would be much easier with painting
something for a year -
than writing for a year -
the same thing, over and over again...

if i write a "poem" or, rather, a poo'em...
i expect the concept of
ensō: a circle has to be drawn with
a single uninhibited stroke...
when the body is set free and the body
merely complies...

comparison... if one were to draw
a most pristine ensō...
one would never achieve an ouroboros
depiction... it's quiet impossible
to use one volume of ink
attached to a stroke to complete
a circle... let alone a depiction
of an ouroboros...
what starts off as concrete soon...
fades away... thins out...
until there is so little ink left
on the brush that individual hairs
of the brush start appearing...

a pristine depiction of life...
but never the hardline ouroboros
depiction: this cerberus of reincarnation:
i never would have believed in it -
given that: there would have to be
a limited number of souls...
the thought that i might be introspective
enough as to be one of these: "elites"...
and the rest... were "n.p.c." drones...
zombie-esque drifters...
that had no psychological infrastructure
to have memory and rubric of learning
bound to them to be: invested in?

i am still going to write this Kandinsky...
one way or another...
but i can say only that:
i can imagine myself returning
to a painting - and painting it for a year...
but a book?
if a poem can't be written in one sitting...
it's not a poem...
this is not a poem: this is a novel
equivalent...
the best to my ability: which is none...

all i will ever manage with this
is a pedantic scrutiny of russian orthography,
how i don't follow metaphysical arguments
of the germans, the english or the french,
because i don't dream that often,
and when i do dream?
i dream up nonsense...
last time i dreamed that a hiena was
biting at my arm like a corn-cob...
but it wasn't biting to draw blood...
it was biting and cackling in order
to tattoo me... it bit into my arm and detailed
indentations akin to braille...
a pianola roll...

and that's the only details of the dream
i can remember...
perhaps i strained memory...
perhaps people who dream...
are fond of forgetting...
perhaps i don't dream because i can
remember being 4...
a shadow (my maternal great-grandfather)...
a large piano, a small piano...
he worked a retirement as a security guard
in a kindergarten...
i once spent an afternoon with him...
i have seen pictures of him...
but i don't remember the face in the photographs...
he sat me before a bonsai piano
while he sat at the large piano...
and i guess: we were going to be the new
Chopins or something...
he's still a shadow... a grey form...
perhaps a extract of memory that reaches
back 29 years is the reason why i don't
dream... then again...

what if i were to have recurrent dreams?
i've heard people have recurrent dreams...
i just have details of dreams...
i'm not complaining but...
it has become exhausting to simply sleep sometimes...
to replay that lullaby of the void...
yes: yes... i will return to russian orthography:
give me a moment!

well, on my "haitus" i had to look beyond
"conventionality"...
there was a period where i found
the glagolitic script - i said to myself:
there must be an equivalent alphabet to match
the runes...

there must have been a way to encode
without the romans and greeks...
after all... there is the St. Cyrill alphabet
and that of Methodus...
how many ethnic groups are there
on this old, yawning continent -
minor point: old age is not plagued by
yawning - only youth yawns...
old age is cured of yawning -
hanging over them the yawning death...
when father - when father - will this old
ponce come into my *****?

glagolitic and cyrillic?
well Ⰱ Б...
Ⱂ and P... which is not exactly lent-greek...
i guess it's only "wise"
to go back into the modern scribbles...

there are so many branches
to be plucked off a pine
to reserve yourself with ending up
to owning a pike...
so what would it help me:
if i had to reverse and ezra pound
my way forward...
bubble bulging roma notations?
i see: when that chisel in marble
V is not supposed to be a U...

EVROPA... etc.

i need to bring to the fore my own
distinctions...
spread: universally within the confines
of the people that speak it:
i even had to made balkan additions...
like the caron S and caron C...
to hide the english gimmick
of SHarp and CHeat...
evidently we use the Z to replace
the H when stressing our "demands"...
Šarp and Čeat...

so back into russian?
i almost forgot that i said...
their orthography is not worth the dog's
bollocking of a lick...

i was wrong, obviously...
but even the russians are supposed
to be allowed their idiosyncracy -
their orthographic pedantry...
russian orthographic pedantry?
ah...

when е met э...
was also the time when э didn't meet з...
this is pedantic...
another russian pedantic "detail"...
how many Y's or J's do you need...
to detail: the elongated-iota?
before... "****" becomes confusing...
within the confines of gamma...

i'm pretty sure the russians have
fixated their attention on the Y/J "debate"
working from their central premise of
the english AYE... I... the pronoun bunker...
der deutsche affirmative: ja!
yah in the hebrew respective for: wisdom...

let's see... i'm pretty sure the russians
have all the vowels bow to this mecca
of Moscow, cite me: and please reiterate...
that i use J and Y interchangeably...
i don't imply: to jot - to "dz"ot...
or Joseph in Ypres...

otherwise: a yeti climbing a yew shouting: yes!
it's not exactly jargon -
but... a prefix y- in english...
is not a suffix -y in english...
which just... "out of the blue"...
demands to be associated with the iota
of: ply... and yet: it's no i.e. e'et...
it's neither ate or the fwench and (et)...
it's a yeti... but not a jetty!

never mind... back into the fussy russian...
i'm pretty sure you will find all
of the pentagram (vowels) bowing before
the altar of pseudo-gamma:

                                     ю (yu)
                                    /
(details in) й ------ я (ya) -- ы (oh look, solo!)
   the above"rant")  |
                                  у (which is a u)
                                /   \
                     e (ye)       ё (yo)

almost... but i'm far from learning russian...
i find these orthographic details...
coexisting...

зъ = ж = ż = rz = ř / ž...

eastern, mother slavic...
beginning with a western slavic translation
"innovation"...
central / western slavic...
balkan slavic...
oh we are such famous clarinet players!
because what happens
when the caron is sliced into two...
and an acute ****** pops out?!

hence the зъ beginning...
yes... it's not "silent"... it's simply not
palatalißed... the tongue doesn't tip-off
the palette... the sound escapes via
the gritting of teeth...
with it: the tongue can rattle and a trill
R is heard...

зъ (ż) contra зь (ź) -
życzenia - well wishes| źródło - source...
now to only write these words
in russia - without knowing the russian
noun-denotations...
for orthographic purposes...

жыченя... or is it... жычениa?
зьруд... problem... can't find the english
W in russian... or the ****** Ł...
there's the english V... the ****** W...
but russian doesn't translate (Вв)
so vell into wery: not so weary but
nonetheless very not so, so...

my problem is not about that though...
this poem this poo'em this:
a pigeon drops a zeppelin-****
on your top-hat implies good luck...
no 13's or black cats crossing your path either...
i could most honestly spend
100 years of each of the 100 individuals
bound to the salt mines in the vicinity
of Beijing... and i would still find myself...
without tears...
because this is the most inexhaustible
crux: it's really bugging me foundation stone...

i won't even mind the modern greeks
at this point... they do use diacritical markers
too... but over-do it... as if compensating
or trying to compete on level par
with their metaphysical dittos...

чaхa: czacha... almost slang term for:
czaszka... чaкшa...
and this is by no means "smart"...
i can't solve crosswords puzzles...
well i can: but i need to find myself
in the company of my grandmother...
in the morning...
i would have had to drooled over some novel
from 7am until she gets out of bed
come 9am... we'd drink coffee and i'd
smoke cigarettes...
and it would be a month prior to christmas
or easter, or the interlude...
and... i'd be freed from writing or
reading anything in english...
either me looking at diacritical distinctions
in the realm of orthography between:
russian, ******, balkan...
or... me never learning french,
or attempting to: ever, again!

******* suffix-eaters...
dyslexics in reverse...
say one thing: write another thing...
this is probably born from my frustration
at being unable to learn french...
perhaps after having acquired english
i was given german to learn...
but no... first hurdle... french...
flop!
now it's a diet of no crosswords...
some sudoku from time to time...
and my new hobby after having found
"too many" googlewhacks...

so there's nothing smart about this:
this is in no way useful to anyone -
being the sort of person
to "mind" whenever one's being asked
to spell their surname...
it's hardly that difficult but...

would i go for the echo sierra charlie
hotel lima echo romeo tango...
or go out full greek with it?
perhaps the greek...
since that would solve the problem
i've had for a while,
concerning the eta / epsilon "debate"...

how does a greek laugh -
what is the crux letter via which
a greek laughs?
you see a H shape on the horizon...
but you... hear the noun: eta...
you later see the name eta...
but that's eta: without an apostrophe...
the apostrophe 'eta being the "surd" H...

in greek then...
epsilon sigma... **** it... there's no "sch"
of a german worth in greek...
let's cut it out:
epsilon lambda epsilon rho tau...

otherwise in russian...
once more:

ś(lub) - wedding - сь(люб)
"soft" sign - ' - apostrophe -
or ACUTE elsewhere...
why not сьлуб?
i don't know... it's not like сь is even
minded in russian...

ah! my favorite!
goń! gonitwa: a race -
the verb impetus: race! chase after!
гoнь!

since ы is the "odd" one out between
the application of "ь" and
and "ъ"...
come to think of it...
ы gave birth to: ю (yu), я (ya),
у (u), й ("y"), и ("e")...
i... i.e. and... in ******...
akin to those languages that use e...
to also imply and...
ё (yo)... how did i miss the umlaut
infiltrating the russian 'bet...
i blame catherine the great!
and... е (ye)...
is that the pentragram?
u, a, e, i, o... yes! we have it!

i truly had better days when sudoku was
the better puzzle to fill a day with...
not this... from glagolitic, to greek,
to roman, to post-roman to russian
and back into...

if we are all "supposedly" literate...
begs the question why: why oh why the emoji...
the *******-wanking hieroglyphics...
the :) and what not...
i guess to better escape this sort of
headaches... minor chances of everyone
becoming a bilingual:
but what's there to brag about
being bilingual!
i guess the polyglots do not have such
headaches of detail...
they just... bypass these rules and regulations...

to better guide me:
if i managed to sift through james joyce's
finnegans wake... and didn't find any
diacritical markers in it?
can't i compensate?
i'm compensating right now!
if the 2010s as a decade was a decade
filled with... sisyphus titans akin
to kant, hiedegger, kierkegaard,
knausga(a)rd, joyce...
beckett - yes...
again that hollowed "y" distinction!
it's not a sisi: yes yes problem...
hardly me being ***** either...
e'ver... i'ver...
ain't that a *****...

clarity of diction... the best motto there is...
crab-bucket-intellectualism:
alternatively the focus away from
any ontological stressors of "example" -
ontological and its variant of
a priori:
perhaps, given that the ontological
is an a priori argument...
here's my crossword puzzle -
ref. thesaurus rex...

and by no means... at all...
etymology is the better variant of any known
history...
when this bundle of words:
that an ontological dialectic can be achieved:
that ontology can be given within
as much as an a priori: bigot! focus...
with as much as an a posteriori:
wizened unicorn quid pro quo tanz!

hamsterwheel loopholes or:
crab-bucket intellectualism...

now: i really could have put these words
to better use... to make them linear...
less cryptic... but how can i?
i'm solving a crossword puzzle in reverse!
i don't expect the easily scared moths
to entertain this fire...

i expect midgets to be dancing...
before my eyes...
whenever i listen to
faun's tanz mit mir
or in extremo's rotes haar...
when the bagpipes and the flutes
kick in...

- since if i were to write a coherent sentence:
succumb to a linear narrative...
i'd people reading this to be also found:
easily talking about it...
perhaps i don't enjoy freedom of speech
as much as i enjoy the freedom to think...
perhaps i haven't written anything
worth speaking about, regurgitating,
making vogue, working for some intellectual
period-piece of "vogue"...
perhaps this is a shared problem,
hidden in a cipher...
of: how i can't heave this tool...
this tapeworm of existence,
this medium of god...
to later trash it, to have nothing better
to do with it other than play-games...
worded games... crossword puzzles...
perhaps i need a crossword puzzle to imply:
neighbour's share some words...
together... but then write them differently...
perhaps i require a crossword puzzle...
to read into some russian...
on the praxis base of english...
flying past Warsaw toward the itch
of the edge of Asia...
breathe the air - the heart of the continent...

perhaps i would have never managed
to escape this world if i ingested
mind-benders of the h'american 1960s
revolutionary schematics of the:
new-humanists... crash course in literature:
only one magic mushroom trip away!

фoрк ин дэ рoaд (fork in the road)

ИN...

some shared words, of etymological
curiosity...

(fork) вилка - wilka -
polish? wilka? that which belongs to
a wolf... widelec...
видэлэц...

(knife) нож - nóż -
well... orthography comes into play...
while people can have their...
ahem... in-the-meantime metaphysical
playground...
the ground, the word,
the geology is already here...
written alternatively?
нузъ...

i take a different stance to the common day
****** back east...
when russia starts slagging you off...
you put on a Boris Yeltsin mask on
and dance the drunk panda dance...

(spoon) ложка - łyżka -
in polish? ah those russians... ло ло...
лож: lorz...
lo lo and behold the translated
quasi-russian into the borders of europe...
ł.w.(ызъка)...

black and white (черный и белый):

czarny i biały: rho-si-ye!
char-nee-ye! bel'ye)...

perhaps the timing is a bit off:
the proper wording would be:

czarno na białym -
not: in black and white...
чaрнo на биa-wh-ым...

knocked-out to be honest...
the russians use ый like that?
YJ? oh right! i use it too!
in the prompt:

tyj! tyj ty grubasie!
hmm... -asie...
it would do me a lot of good...
if that iota didn't have a decapitated
head of a halo hovering above it...
why? so i could introduce the acute
slant over the S and surd it...
i.e. -aśιe...

тый! ты груб... exactly...
grub-               -aсьие
тый! ты грубaсьие!
to grow fat: тый!
              "problem": -aśιe vs. -aсьие...
well... it's there: сь...
but it also isn't there: и...

but it isn't: but it also isn't...
i just managed to find out that...
in warsaw (if i lived in warsaw)...
we have that conjunction: -ый-
however rare it is: it is there...

any more delegations from Moscow?
tyj! tyj ty grubasie!  
and i will write these last few words
and know why i don't really feel like
solving crosswords puzzles...
or doing those i.q. schematic tests...

**** it... the welsh should know and help me
out... concerning?
how it's YN and not IN...
how it's Y and not I when referring to THE gwyll:
dusk...
y gwyll o hywels: the dusk of powells...
only the welsh would know my "pain"...
yn y gwyll o y hywels:
in the dusk of the powells...

taking a step back - a step back...
yes yes, apologies... if my punctuation...
is too much of a ******* arithmetic!
too bad!

p.s. and yes... don't leave anything lying
around in the drafts or as private...
chances are... with a 2 day delay...
this will never be fed into the LATEST feed.
Waiting: Her ******* rest upon layered lacquer::: the tides of her hips arch high, press and point needle North, in a nascent newborn lust


she is infectious in her descent... she draws down, slowly South... unaware I see her there... I am frozen, wanting only to crawl toward the taste

the hammer of my heartbeat plays silent symphonics, she holds herself, moaning, to the sounds of a harbor rhythm:::


i make my way toward her

this man's approach is unique.
Calculating the quiver of anticipation::: the man is instinct, the man
grows hypnotized
.

The pendulum::: the zig zag::: our protagonist reads her inner thighs.
The vine of his attraction now extends to where those thighs meet. 

She is ready.
The sun had given way to tepid snowflakes 
And we know she owns the fall,
the
auburn occidental autumn
until it's crunchy brown
Deep Thought Nov 2016
One late night in Seattle I had an out of body experience.
I jotted down this love letter from my deceased mother.
She told me a long time ago she'll be living in my heart forever, here is proof.**

You have to be patient with yourself. Know that nothing comes easy. You're going to fall multiple times throughout life but doesn't mean you can't stand above it. You'll have people who will break your heart having you searching for answers that you may never find. But know when it's right to let go. The more you look at the past the more destructive you'll become. I want you to be happy, I know you're more than capable of that. I remember you being a little girl that used to laugh at the little things. Understand life has it's ups & downs, that is something you'll never be able to escape. Remove yourself from anything negative or harmful to your heart. You are who you are & no one can alter that. Experience living but take advantage of the tangible things in front of you. Life doesn't always go as planned. The choices you make can only lead you to what fate has already decided. Love yourself like I did when I first met you at birth. Keep me close to you & never forget how much I love you.

- Mommy Dora
Ghazal Nov 2018
Too many expert voices lay a claim on your shape,
You are either too full, or
You have gone too far,
Too many moulds get thrusted at your face,
To some you resemble a pear,
But they feel your should look more double cherry,
And whichever fruit you succeed in turning into,
You still, are a tad too hairy
But then does anyone ever tell you,
That sometimes ice cream will be the only answer
And that is just fine?
That a bedtime prayer can be enough night-time routine,
Which needn't include expensive lotions and creams,
That you need fats as well as you need protein,
As also each little gift that Nature crafted lovingly
For this marvel of a creation that is your Being-
So that your skin is fed and living,
And your knees are lubricated and sprightly,
And your blood is rich and active,
And your soul-
No one will give you
"How I brightened my soul in 4 weeks" tutorials,
But you ought to set your happy soul-goals,
A tummy rub in a sunny lawn on a lazy winter afternoon/
A drenching bath in heavy July rains/
A spontaneous poem effortlessly jotted down on a napkin
Level-happy!
And when you're that happy you will know
That you aren't a cut-out on public display,
Not a fruit,
not a diet,
not a fad that peaks and wanes,
You are an everlasting uniqueness,
You are an undefined shape,
You are that collection of rare energies
That only comes custom-made.
Jaye Bennett Oct 2011
Vacant. Empty. Twisted. Lacking.
Chills shoot though my body filling the cracks whatever is left
Let go of the Meaning of LIFE and one is lost

Worried. Angered. Freaked. Spinning.
Words jotted down upon an empty page to show giving proof to rage
Reality is no kind reminder in correction of humanness

Stupidity. Irony. Pathetic. Foolish.
These eyes have absorbed from the outside world all which is meaningless
Vibrant life left behind to retrieve if one is wise

Hope. Love. Joy. Peace.
Never take the God-given gifts taken for granted or hard ways shall teach
Throw them aside as ******* and despair will find what's left

Trash. Pathetic. Waste. Shameful.
Such trash is how I perceive some to view my vehemency
No integrity do they see in what these eyes hold scared

Purity. Integrity. Honesty. Valiancy.
Which spring from the soul and mind diluted from ones first breath in the flesh
Access to God diluted from what cannot be achieved

Sovereignty. Omniscience. Omnipresent. Agape.
Witness madness for what God has been met first hand is just in righteousness
Full of grace and mercy to those who Seek Him

Loving. Wise. Holy. Eternal.
To those Who serve Him He gives of Himself correcting those He loves
Comfort is naught promised for character is His measure  

Sanctification. Tried. True. Loyalty.
Purifying His people through teaching His ways is the foremost goal
As choice gold refined and proved accordingly
I started this poem while one of my closest friends at the time was in B.T.
Jeremy Betts Apr 2018
I abuse words verbally like my voice is Bobby and the dictionary Whitney/
Like a literary hyperbole properly arranged to explain this deranged brutality perfectly/
Force the English language to work for me like a particularly dark time in history/
Optimistically take the tongue twister trickery and aggressively attack a vocabulary vocally and personally/
Not physically but a barrage on your psyche, almost psychedelically/
Use words medically, like a surgeon I expertly plant thoughts whispered softly but assertively/
Moving letters like chess pawns to express thoughts masterfully and creatively/
Gruesomely grotesque but gorgeous thoughts written down beautifully/
You can't help but hear the perplexity of mythoticly placed words with comradery/
An oddity with the audacity to raise the bar and up the capacity/
Because what comes out of me has to be exactly what you see because it is me/                
Not just a part of me but all of me/
I'm not a fallen tree sitting in the forest silently, quietly all by my lonely/
It's just the opposite actually and factually/
I will attack with a dialect so violent you violently retract causing you to react cowardly automatically/
I don't even have to lift a pinky, leave it stinky/
Let my words linger there in the air like **** smoke, thick and sticky/  
Periodically come back to peek and see if you've figured out the mystery and found the key/
One that'll decipher decisively what it is that I've let out of me and spread to all humanity/
I could never have planned it, see, it had to happen naturally, organically if you will/
And not to build it up falsely but I honestly, back then, didn't have the ***** to let it out of me and it cost me considerably/
So now this mastery I hold of word delivery bestowed to me gets jotted down feverishly/
With an intensity equal to none inside of this ******* century, can't censor me/
Got a consistency that forces me to constantly cross the border of insanity repeatedly/
Time only to watch my talents as they literally wither away for all of eternity/
Such a tragedy to see such agony but please, no apology brought on by sympathy/
Just let me be as I drift farther out to sea to a place you'll never see/
To let these works mold me into someone you could never be/

©2018
Alexis Martin Apr 2015
the kinds of things i think about after taking seven shots of tequila:

he looks really great his eyes aren't dead anymore and we even hugged for the first time in years

she doesn't deserve him or the way he carries her around when she is too drunk to stand up on her own

my hair has gotten so long remember when I cut it all off in the bathroom at Erin's house because I was too weak to cut my wrists open and bleed to death

did I take my medication today? why do I keep forgetting to take my medication? Why am I so scared of my medication?

I really wish he was here right now so I could kiss him and sit on top of him and pull his hair. I hope he doesn't **** himself. I am starting to like him too much.

-
Waiting on the other side
Of an equal sign.
An equation left
Unsolved.

I'm supposed to be a sum
Her + Me = Eternity
Yet I'm still waiting
To be solved.

Left in a textbook,
Unnoticed and unloved.
Trying to ignore the groans,
The glares, the words.

Jotted down repeatedly,
Still no one sees,
I want out,
I want a life.

Forever hoping and believing
That my real question will be answered.
I'm left as a problem,
Impossible to solve.

I lay on this piece of paper,
Eager to know,
If I'm true,
Or hopelessly false.

So I'm waiting on the other side
Of an equal sign.
And equation left
I solved.

I'm sitting and wondering
If there's anyone home.
Yes.

I can even make maths depressing.
st64 Dec 2013
marvel at the complex-pattern
painting such a span of swirls
light-panels less than shimmer
in the afternoon shadows on the wooden kitchen-table
biggest fear - your leaving


1.
beautiful summer-days lost in your eyes
oblivion dances like a wily-***** at hypnotising fire-licks
from our languid-bed, I'd lazy-feed you lox-on-crackers
and everything you liked
heaven never had it so good

........................till

woke up and *you weren't there

where'd you go to?
no letter, no call.. for days


2.
to overcome this fear
I brought in a  b-i-g-g-e-r  one
that used to drive me to serious-pitfalls in the past

off to the exotic pet-shop, my toes marched me
and I got one - very toxic thing on legs
without a natural terrarium

once home, I set it free
I set free.... my biggest fear
        to blot out your absence
        to overcome your presence
        to forget you

it crawled around and made a home
while I hardly breathed nor slept
and moved about on ginger-steps


3.
I kept feeling strands of your hair
          in my sleep
          on my cheek
          inside my cry
and woke to moonlight bathed in sweat

I did not wash your pillow, after weeks now
I bury my face in olfactory-memory lingering
and pine for you, but I see your missing set of keys and..

/ scratch .. scratch /

I hear a sudden scurrying
heartbeat jumps out cage
eyeballs to the parquet-floor

nothing.


4.
I'm getting used to this new pet
and she doesn't mind my breathing
                    oh, I swear she's a brain-scanner
                    when she looks at me that way
                    like she can read me.. through and through

I dare not pet, I dare not touch... ohhhh no!
       I leave her the daily-bowl of delicious, fresh worms
       to find it empty in the evening
I guess, thanks for freedom.. of sorts

one day, I left the window open
as I jotted down some poignant thoughts
at my antique-escritoire
    espied her legs upon the solar-sill
    thought she'd be running... a leaver, too
but no..    
                 she was sunning all her legs awhile


5.
the season's changing.. leaves are falling
crackle of wind in the air

now, I'm making me some coffee in my silver whistle-***
hot, solo beverage to calm my settling-mind
when.. ping-ping.. comes a text
lo and behold....
it is you...

you!


6.
delirium / delirium /
(I'm on cloud-nine... you're coming home tonight..
                                      you love me so much, you say..
                                      made a mistake..
                                       you've got something big to share..

I've taken time to prepare a special-meal.. candles and all your faves
but must pop out quick to get some lox...)



I'm back now, got the stuff now
key in lock
but the door.. jammed by a weight.. of sorts
can't seem to push the ****-door open...
shoving hard, I see........







fear compounded by a minus
simply multiplied
disaster





S T - 4 dec 13
plan(e) in the air.. pushing tin's a fine way to get there :)



sub: fly

days fly by
on wing of trust
in rusty-daze
Alex L Dec 2011
Life,

it pushes you away,
then pulls you right back.

Do I make the move,
do I give it a shot...?

There's so much to question,
        consider,
              ponder...

is it worth it,
am I good enough,
have I been pushing too hard...

There are too many thoughts for one person
to think...

Should I go for it?
Kiernan Norman Nov 2012
swim until you can’t see land

until names etched deep in cardiac tissue blur

and fade, scored over with seasalt and creases of a million maps,

a secret stash of maps. absurd and hoarded and crumpled under carseats and

rolled neat

and boastful in umbrella holders or worse, framed and hung

Maps jotted freehand on napkins stained with tea and mustard and left

to be bused with the crusts and pocketful of change.

swim until you can’t read the maps.

the lines to here from there are arteries

on your fresh, clean heart.
NOLWAZI JOUBERT Jul 2015
The originality manufactured naturally,
strength gained without any body building,
hard work born with no need to learn it.
Rising and falling known from first sight.
Being a refugee has now become a norhm.
Watching the sun set on empty  stomaches like some soup opera.
Poverty unplanned has been
jotted in the caleneders.

Always ready to take to the heels like some marathon race fleeing from wars.
Carrying a spiritaul shield to protect their lives because not even  any asurance can cover their deaths.
So many cries nobody knows if they are of joy or sorrow,
but i know that most of them project a message of pain.

Learning to be a doctor with no degree only because their societies need to be saved.
Little boys carry heavy battle machinery and are forced into war without any military trianing.

Poor Africa you are projected as helpless,
but nothing is so rich as your soils and every other thing that crawls on you,
the preys and its preditors so firece and cunning clever than those  pets that trained at some fancy school.
Your landscapes so unique they all are amazing to glare at.
Nothing makes you Africa so beautiful
than the golden rays from the sun departing to its sleep.
Giving everyone that chance to grasp a smile.

Africa is rich not because of money, but beacause of the natural resources extracted from it.
Something i thought of writting with no intention, I hope it makes sense
Captured in the psych ward part 18


Today Ron just had two days off and he was feeling so refreshed and got up at 6 am and had a shower and a bagel and went to fran and dans for a coffee and bacon and eggs and Ron said, on Saturday night I had the most enjoyable night of my life. You see I bought myself a new yacht and the lady who sold me the yacht took me out on a test drive if this yacht and boy did we have fun, you see I packed my fishing gear and I'm the muddle of the sea this lady who was hot as, said come to the bedroom to give the bed a workout and yes Ron and this lady had *** and this was great rich yacht ***, the kind of ***, he normally wouldn't have, and yes, Ron enjoyed that, and Barry said, what was her name, if you want to engage yourself in ****** activity you must know the woman's name and then Ron said, her name was Bromwyn Carter, and I really loved her, boy did I love her, and then said, thanks for breakfast and went to the hospital to clock in and give the morning medications and this morning was different for Ron, he had to do the daily activity meeting, which was going to be hard for him, cause he was taking Bill to his TAFE course and this meeting was scheduled for 9-45, so the nurses went around the HDU to say the meeting is on at 9-00 am and to be hosted by Ron, so if you wanna go to it, 9-00 instead of 9-45 ok and Ron covered a lot of topics at the
Meetings like the toilets never having being cleaned even when they promise they will clean them and Ron jotted that down saying toilets needing to be cleaned and Charlie Chaplin said, nobody cares for me, I want to see a silent movie in the states and they never listen, can uou please tell them to listen to me. And Ron said well, Charlie even if you are Charlie Chaplin we are specialised into making you fit for society, and if you want to think you are a Charlie Chaplin and more importantly forcing others to believe your Charlie Chaplin, to me you ain't working and Charlie and Ron argued about that for 1 minute and then bill said, I asked for paper to do some drawing and they looked at me like I was a crazy person and Ron jotted it down everything that bill said and said ok here are the things you do today
Walk at 10-00
Pottery at 11-30
Lunch at.   12-30
Dreams at. 2-30
Dinner at. 5-00
And supper at 7-00
Now the dreams is anyone who has weird dreams just come along and talk about the dreams you get, no they are good , he explain how your dream patterns affect your life and
Anything else and Charlie Chaplin said my voices are only mucking with my hooligan and saying I ain't a family person anymore, that is what he is saying over and over again and making me feel like a poor hooligan who every time lie down I feel the hooligan reach over me and the voices say as I say leave me alone
You know I hate you I like your brother and family more than you, cause you don't know how to lighten up, you **** at lightening up and Ron said to Charlie ok sit there and think about why those voices are in your head and I will have a nurse check up on you and I will take bill to the TAFE course and I will be back this afternoon, and again Ron took bill to his TAFE course and went to fran and dans to have spaghetti bolognaise for lunch with a cappuccino and he explained about the fact he had to do the morning meeting this morning and all the problems these people had were total and ****** goofballs, well one day Ron said that Charlie will be helped. Cause the other workers are saying he has only 3 more months in there. Unless the court orders it, but to me there is no reason why he can't get out and Pete who now is found a computer course and very slowly learning computers bit by bit
And jeff apparently is doing very well learning how to be a plumber. You see it really is just patty roe and Charlie Chaplin who are looking to not do much for themselves in there
But my hands are tied you see I believe in reincarnation I but I also believe in working to help the future learn more about you and the person you have become and left to pick up Bill and then drove him back to the HDU and clocked on and gave the medication and the dinners and after that he clocked off and bought red rooster and went home and ate dinner and again fell asleep on the couch


Sent from my iPhone
Dorothy A Jan 2016
Rob's father came up to him on his eighteenth birthday, and tossed a *** of cash at him. "Time to be a man", he said in his usual gruff manner, "Get yourself a hot one".  His grinning face seemed more like a sneer, but Rob wasn't all that surprised. Throughout his adult life, he was thankful and glad that his mother kept him fairly grounded, did the best that she could, molded him into the man that he was, and he marveled at how she put up with such an *******.

Her name was Kat, but there were no introductions, not while he was soliciting her for ***. She was a few years older than he, but Rob never asked for any details.  He just wanted to get on with it, for he felt not only awkwardly nervous and ill-prepared, but halfhearted in his approach to buy some time, to hook up with a stranger in the shadows of the street lamps.  

Sure, if his old man wanted to give him some money—free cash—why the hell not? Instead of finding a "hot one", Rob was face-to-face with a burned-out and vulnerable, young woman who tried to hide behind her ****, seductive exterior. She was equally as halfhearted as he was about getting it on, for business-as usual seemed to weigh her down like a heavy chain wrapped about her ankles

So Rob opted out of this whole thing. He asked if he could buy her a cup of coffee. Why not? It was a chilly night, and they wanted to warm up—in  a legitimate way.

They found a small, late-night diner. It wasn't long before Kat admitted she made a huge mistake, and would do anything to get another start. Her regret was leaving Nebraska, leaving her hometown—her mom, her little sister and brother left behind. Her father was the dearest man she ever knew, but he died when she was eleven-years-old. If only he could see her now. She would be so ashamed to face him, and glad he wasn't around to witness this sordid path she regretfully chose.

Once, Nebraska seemed like an insignificant blot on the map of the world, but now it was inviting to her. She longed to make amends to her family and to get back to the basics.  She wasn't sure what she would do with her life, but what she had right now wasn't what dreams were all about. It was a world of unscrupulous pimps and men who lurked around, wanting their fill, their lusts exposed discretely, yet so ****** upon her to be met.

She had enough. Rob was the first guy that came along in a long time that really cared to listen to her, though he seemed more a boy than a man. Yet she's been with his kind before. She has seen all kinds—white and blue collar, old and young, married and single, the well-experienced and the sexually inept, the *** addicts and first-timers, the boring, the daring, the *****—yet safe ones—as well the creepy kind that a street-smart lady needed to have eyes in the back of her head for.  

When they went to the bus station, together, Rob admitted, "I got to tell you, straight. I'm still thinking you could be scamming me for drug money...and I'm maybe a complete *****... but I want to take this chance." Kat smiled, a tender sort of a smile, and gave him a soft peck on the cheek, along with a big bear hug. "You're an angel", she declared. She really was beautiful, with big, lovely eyes surrounded by big, fake lashes.  Seen through eyes of his inexperience—his innocence—she really felt beautiful, something she hasn't felt in a long while.

Kat wanted to pay Rob back for giving her the needed, extra money to buy her ticket. She offered to do that in the best way she knew how and made him an offer. Having a night of free *** wasn't what Rob ever wanted. No, there were no strings attached. So she jotted down her mother's address in Nebraska, and told him to be in touch. "I want to prove to you that I'm turning my life around. I'm going to do it, too. I promise", she said, sincerely. She had no trouble looking him in the eye, tears beginning to well up, and she began to choke up while saying, ”I just can't thank you enough".

Whether he did the right thing or not, Rob would wonder. He would never forget her—even if he wanted to forget. Only a brief couple of hours with her, but she made an impact in his mind, like a branding iron that would sear the hell out of his brain. Later, he lied to his dad, and pretended to be thrilled that he got the chance to have such an awesome night—just rocking! It was the best birthday present so far!  For a moment, he thought of telling him the truth, but he pictured his dad saying, "You *****! You wasted your chance and my money!"

Rob decided that he wasn't going to write her. He just didn't want to know, instead wanting to assume she made it out okay. He decided to keep the paper with her address, anyway. It took him several months, after mulling it over in his mind, to actually write her a brief note to ask how she was managing. Did she really go back home? Was she doing alright? Did she put her ****** life behind her?

It was only a week when he received a letter back from Nebraska. Rob kept that letter to himself, never telling a soul about Kat. She was back with an old boyfriend from high school, staying with her mom and working part-time as a cashier in a supermarket. She was so eager to write him back, thrilled that he finally contacted her, and wondered why on earth it took him so long.  Rob believed her, like he first did about her story, and it was a relief to hear from her.  He was glad he took the chance. It seemed to pay off.

He heard nothing back from her until over a year later. This time she sent a picture in her letter. Kat and her boyfriend broke up, for the second time, but she was now married to her good friend's cousin, Nolan. She was glad it didn't work out with the first guy, because now she was pretty happy and couldn't imagine her life any other way. Rob smiled as he saw the picture of the couple, and she was holding her little girl in her arms. He name was Willow, a cute, little girl with strawberry blonde hair.

Thanks, again, Rob! It is all because of you! You’re a sweetheart. My hero!!!

He didn't want to take the credit. He was no hero. It was bound to happen, with or without him.  Rob was quite sure now that he would not write her another letter, but did pick up a card to congratulate her, to acknowledge he got the good news and was glad for her.

He still had that picture of her, and the last news he found out about Kat is that she moved to Colorado with her husband, and now had a son, Nolan Rob. Her husband got a better paying job, and she felt at home near the mountains. A picture of the kids came with it, and her two smiling children conveyed the innocence that she once had and cherished.

Wanted you to see my boy. His middle name, Rob, is after you! I figured you'd know this, but I want to tell you, anyway! :D Much love from us to you, Robbie!

Time has passed, and during that back-and-forth.  Rob's parents split up, sold the house, and he had graduated from college and was on his own. Contact with Kat waned down to nothing at all, and it probably was just as well. Were things still going good in her life? Rob still wondered and hoped so.

Now he was married, with a nice house and boy and girl of his own, thinking of Kat, now and then. He envisioned her doing well, a far cry from the young woman in a scene that replayed in his head, a night when he helped an unhappy and desperate lady get a chance to find her life, again. If ever his day ******, such thoughts could pick him back up.

He'd never cease to wonder about her, but what he did for Kat belonged in the past.  If it wasn't happily-ever-after for her, he'd rather not know.  He did his part, was glad that he had enough maturity and integrity to do the right thing, but no way was he a knight in shining armor.  Still, he was a hero in her eyes, a reluctant hero of sorts. He could live with that.
Todd Aug 2018
Every time I went to the bar, I saw him sitting there.
It didn’t matter what day it was,
didn’t matter if it was early or late.
The same man was sitting in the same spot, alone.
Some days he was nursing a beer,
other days he’d be sipping coffee,
but every day he’d be sitting there, alone.
I never heard him speak a word,
the bartender would bring him a new drink
when his was empty, he’d pay and leave a tip,
all without speaking.
There were times I’d feel compelled to speak to him,
make small talk, try to draw him out of his shell.
But, somehow, I could never bring myself to.
Maybe it was because he never looked at people,
not even when the bar was crowded,
or when someone bumped into him.
Maybe it was the look on his face,
neither smiling nor frowning, utterly blank.
Even thought I could never speak to him
I looked for him every time I was there.
Eventually I noticed, he didn’t just sit,
he was writing in a notebook.
Not constantly, he’d sit, stare off into space for a while,
then pick up his pencil, write furiously for a moment,
then stare off into space again.
Once noticed, the notebook was as constant as he,
a thick, five subject notebook, looking battered and worn.
When I first noticed it, he was barely a fourth
of the way into it.
Watching him became kind of an obsession,
I felt drawn, compelled.
Sometimes I would walk past him,
try to see what he was writing,
I never could.
Some nights he’d only fill a page or two,
other nights, whatever muse inspired him
led him to fill a dozen or more.
As time went by I watched him progress,
slowly, but steadily through his notebook.
Halfway, three quarters,
until one night, he reached the end.
My curiosity was still burning,
maybe he had just finished
the next great American novel,
or maybe a screenplay
that I’d soon be paying to see.
Even more than that, I wondered,
now that his project was done,
would he become sociable?
He waved away the bartender, who was approaching,
a fresh drink in his hand.
He sat and stared for a moment,
then wrote a brief something
on the inside of the back cover.
With that, he closed the notebook,
placed his mechanical pencil on the top of it,
placed it gently, almost reverently, and stood.
I watched him walk out the door,
wondering if I’d see him the next time I came out,
perhaps with a new notebook.
When I looked back at this seat,
I saw that he had forgotten his notebook.
I grabbed it, rushed out the door,
hoping to catch him, to give it to him.
When I got out the door, he was nowhere to be seen.
I was about to head back inside, leave it at the bar.
I was sure he’d be back for it soon.
I paused with my hand on the door, battling with myself.
I wanted to look inside, see what he had written,
yet I knew it was private,
he had never shown it to anyone.
I ended up taking it home, unopened.
I figured I’d return the next night, give it to him.
I’d assure him that I didn’t read it, and then maybe,
maybe he’d tell me what it was.
But when I returned the next night, he wasn’t there.
I left my name and number with the bartender,
said to have him call me if he came looking for it.
A week went by, with no call.
I returned to the bar but he wasn’t there,
the bartender told me that he hadn’t been in
since that last time I had seen him there.
I couldn’t believe it,
I was sure that the notebook was very important to him,
and said as much to the bartender.
As I said this, there was a tap on my shoulder,
I turned to see a guy that I had seen at the bar before,
seen him, but had never spoken with him.
“You must be talking about Peter, always sat right there.”
He pointed to the writer’s usual spot, and I nodded.
“Sorry to tell you this, but he’s dead.
Hung himself about a week ago.”
He walked away and I left the bar,
unsure of how to feel.
I got home, picked up the notebook,
it seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
I wondered if it was the loss of the notebook
that had driven him to suicide.
I disregarded that thought,
he hadn’t even come back that night,
to look for it.
I put the notebook down on my nightstand, still unopened.
I had trouble trying to sleep,
feeling more grief than was warranted,
after all, I had never spoken with him.
Mixed with the grief, was guilt,
maybe if I had spoken, had reached out...
Finally, I fell into a restless sleep,
riddled with half-formed nightmares.
I woke early the next morning, not rested,
the notebook sill on my nightstand
where I had left it.
I picked it up, considered throwing it away,
after all, it wasn’t mine.
But instead, I sat on my bed and opened it.
His penmanship was neat, precise,
almost too tiny to read.
The first page was simple, a list,
titled “The List of My Regrets”.
Nothing shocking in the list, no major sins or crimes.
Friends he didn’t believe,
people he never got to know better,
women he never asked out.
The next page he had doodled on,
a series of geometric shapes, some simple,
some complex, others placed just so,
to form a stark face.
I flipped through the pages, reading some,
skimming others, a third of the way in
I found a poem.
There was more raw emotion on this page
then I had felt in my entire life.
The poem was about love,
and all the expected images were there,
but somehow he had constructed it in such a way
that reading it saddened me nearly to the point of tears.
There were other poems, as I worked my way through the notebook,
even some short stories.
Some pages only had a few words written,
but even these sparse entries had a feeling of finality, of completeness.
Even though everything I had read gave the feeling
of rightness, some sort of unexplained symmetry,
the tone kept growing darker, more somber,
as I neared the end.
The last poem, on the last page, written on his last night alive,
made me weep with it’s simple purity.
“A life filled with loneliness warms nobodies soul.”
The last line of his last poem.
I felt more guilt now than ever, if I had tried,
maybe I could have made a difference.
Maybe I could have eased his loneliness,
warmed his soul,
saved his life.
Then I read what he had jotted down,
on the inside of the back cover,
the last thing he had ever written.
Just three lines.
“I know you’ll take this notebook
and I want you to know,
it’s not your fault.”
More crap from my leaky mind
500
five hundred words are not enough
to say all the things I need to say
but five hundred poems are **** sure enough
on hello poetry to get noticed

alas, I write poetry for the sake of poetry
just like good ole Charles Bukowski
cranking out words with a foul mouth
without a care for the audience

I write words for the sake of my soul
because it is the only time that my heart
feels free to be whatever it needs to be
without the world confining me

so **** straight. I wrote five hundred
words for my five hundredth poem
because I rarely write so many words
to express what is in my soul

I should be listening to jazz while I write this
just like Kerouac so my words will have a beat and rhythm
of the sounds of bebop, instead of a cadence of all my own
who wants originality when you can have novelty

everyone is nostalgic to recreate what has been captured before
the great writers and poets of our time regurgitate what’s been said
for me I don’t really give a **** about the words,
so much as how I let the words live out into my life through my actions

words matter because they order our thoughts and feelings,
they give shape to the amorphous images that play in our minds and hearts and once something comes into being, then oh man man do they have power
that’s why knowing the name of something really means something

who knows if meaning comes from the words, or words come from the meaning
did the chicken came first or the egg?
all I care about is how you cook the ****** chicken or the egg
fried chicken and I prefer my egg sunny side up

Bukowski eat your heart out as I write my stream of consciousness
five hundred word poem for my five hundredth poem
is it getting a bit redundant?
I am a firm believer that less is more

but sometimes I want my words to beat out like they used to
on old type writers like a **** machine gun
the beat flowing like the drums of a marching band
that gives life to even the worst of brass section

I don’t know if my heart can truly sing in a sea of so many words
I prefer capturing a single moment with 10 words, maybe 20 words
anything more than that feels like a waste
just like a coffee ice cream ruined by too much toppings

I am a minimalist at heart
even though I can’t declutter my stuff
holding onto old forgotten receipts
closet full of clothes I never wear

however, on most days my mind is clutter free
old resents are shoved out
fear written and jotted away
the book of the past closed

each day is a gift
freely given
each breath new

may you be blessed
may we keep sharing
for fun and
for free
My 500th poem on HP with 500 words.
Becky Littmann May 2014
Unappreciated, taken for granted, unwanted & thrown away
Disappointed & blindsided by lies
& unnecessary verbal abuses
Broken, badly bruised & forever scarred
Meaningless words were all you'd ever say

Have it your way, peace out with my deuces
For you, the decision wasn't even hard
But giving up on love forever, not even an option
I know my love is still wanted the feeling, once found again, is quite amazing
I'll be able to tell this time if it's real
There's no doubt at all
We'll skip right over an introduction
This is so memorable you can bet in my notebook it'll be jotted
I've finally caught what I've been chasing
& he's the one worth letting pass my built up wall
Lorelei Adams Dec 2011
I leaned in towards her, mimicking the curve in her back and the squint in her eyes. I rested my chin in my hands, completing the final touches to creating a mirror between us. A mirror. I smiled to question which one of us was the reflection and which was the reflector. Or, perhaps, we are inertly tied together at the wrist. The definition of reflecting written in my scars, hidden beneath my cardigan.  I smiled, and she smiled back, no longer questioning me, no longer doubting any part of my sincerity. I leaned back, and she followed me, relaxing into her new role.
I knew that I had her now, that I had all the power. With this, I formed promising words on my lips. Caressed careful tears down my cheeks while her head nodded and her hand jotted. I weaved the world I lived in, colored it red and black, or blue and pink. I brought her to the edge of the cliff side, and nudged her in, to be ****** under the carpet of waves and disappear in the waters and the wild. But, I brought her back up, nestled her in my arms and drifted back to Earth and to the warmth of the desert. I braided her hair and fixed her mind to the glorious battlefields of my youth, the stunning victories and the ****** defeats. I was the hero. A shining beacon of light in the dismal landscape.
I could tell be the way her lip quivered at the end of my story that I had won. Like wrinkled silk clinging to a bedpost, she hung onto every word I said and gazed in awe at the girl who overcame all odds. Victory was mine indeed.

But I take no prisoners.

Carrying her scalp, I left her screaming body in the office, next to the box of tissues and the thrift-store couch, which was still warm from where I had sat.

And I went on to the next therapist, a new story already brewing in my mind.
Tom McCone Apr 2013
Flittering feathers write sonnets
in soaring frequencies;
taking in the ocean at once,
I felt ripples brought to standstill,
damped by second's refrain,
curled back into the
picturesque blue written ahead,
but
no cloud harbours the ceiling,
no late words shown, jotted down
by the
indifferent and
invariably disappearing breeze.

The latterwork of these days took it up,
and hung it out
on lines stretched across skies and time,
betraying tender surfeit, in moments
torn out,
and,
leaving only
vague traces of
woodworn prose,
spilling out my last sentiments:

"we, once,
were alive,
if only for a moment."


In dreams she holds small collections
of sandy flowers,
above the shoreline,
as the dichotomous cluster takes theirs,
behind a fragmentary grain
in the blacksmith's hide;
written, again, are those seasick letters,
wrung out
in the dead heat of the forge,
the demands of strangers,
in stone buildings by the fireplace,
electric heater, off,
the inbetween reeling
of slightened accomplishments,
the scent of oil,
left over, from the husk of noon.

Miss and want, over again,
missing beguilement in afternoon's repose.

"come back...",
but she ain't the one gone.
dedicated to antarctica
ERR May 2012
Maktub saw the light at the end of his tunnel
It approached him with a barbaric screech
Doppler shifting to piercing, painful pitch
On the wrong side of tracks he watched the train charge past
In his new freedom, he explored the station
Wandering through the grimy halls by
Too-busy roaches scurrying from the bright
A burpy crumple lump sat propped against the wall
Reeking of sick and
Filth and dead liver
Maktub bought him a sandwich
And left it on his lap, with a dead president
On whose face he had jotted a blotted
Don’t drink me
The *** woke to this, and
Bless you friend, jaundiced beam
Bless you back, sir
Restored faith in (chances) chances

Some teens whizzed unpaying under turnstiles
On rolling boards, lying on their backs and holding bags
Maktub found them clever and pursued
In a secluded spot they made aerosol spray mural
Mischievous hands intricately crafted as cans blasted
Through their mist emerged a mighty orb of life
And in blackness round twinkled possible worlds
He admired their vandalism; art is everywhere, he thought
At sound of step the mural makers
Dashed, leaving colors and can
Maktub raised it, unfamiliar, and finished the wall with
We are one

Returning to his platform, he saw that more had gathered
And a strumming bard, milk eyed, fluttered notes with dancer’s grace
Her voice sent shivers down his spine and lifted him in spirals
I would recognize the
Song of God, he thought (and I know where he is)
The screeching came again, and Maktub
Leaned to watch, eager for his light
His train had come to take him home
He was calm
He was ready
D Apr 2014
I sat in a room full of people today
I didn't or barely knew at all
I sat there the whole time thinking, wondering,
Staring blankly at the wall

I jotted down a few notes here and there,
Mostly nonsense with no real purpose,
Now here is the interesting part my dear,
Someone else sat there, you've got three guesses

It wasn't Ronald of the McDonald
Or Mickey Mouse of the club house
One more guess, Oh! You've got it,
It was a couple, the very one I wrote about

My god, were they ever happy
I ******* envied them, hated their smiles
It made me sick to my stomach to watch them laugh
And I had to watch them for a long while

You may wonder what made me so angry?
Well I suppose I forgot to mention,
My boyfriend was also present in the room
But instead of happy all we felt was tension

An old routine I'm quite sick of
But the only reason for it is me
Knowing this while watching them
Well, it was plain misery

Oh lets play one more guessing game!
Come on, can you guess what I'll do next?
Well I'm going over to my boyfriends house
And I'm going to talk, talk, talk off his head

*Wish me luck, I hope this goes well...
It's actually more complicated than I make it seem
Jonny Angel May 2014
I tuned into my FM this morning
& heard a strange transmission,
some background noise.
I recognized the code
from my army days,
it was written in dots & dashes,
a series of instructions
for those who have
already arrived.

Jeanie, the mystery-girl
who sits in the desk next to me
jotted something down in her journal
then bolted to the door for lunch,
she was out quick like lightning
& hasn't returned.
Strange, nobody's
come back yet.

Right now,
there's an eerie silence
in the workplace,
explosions
out in the street.
Lilyani Plaza Aug 2020
Opening new chapters and revealing new strengths only to find a weakness to diminish any ending of the chapters that’ll come.
The chapters are uncountable and the beginnings are unthinkable as for the endings are extinct, for there is a never ending cycle of disappointments and evil that don’t stop to allow the good to outweigh the bad.
These chapters are never ending hurricanes with a slight light trying to shine down through this chaotic reckless world.
Every thought every movement is jotted down into this never ending cycle of memories, it almost seems as if god gave up on me and handed my book into the devil's hands to punish me for the sins I’ve done and the never ending outlook of evil I would see.
I now see that my chapters are full of never ending storms of the negatives I see and dead of all the positives I fail to find, but who can find any positives in pitch black darkness.
For now my story lays in the dark with the chapters never finding an ending for its a continuous battle of evil against evil.
d n Apr 2013
y'know,
                                                        ­             *i wanted to tell you,


i started keeping a dream journal.  it was pretty mundane at first (well, mundane for dreams).  flying through buildings, rooms melting into other rooms, people giving speeches in their underwear. i wrote it all down in my shaky, scribbly, half-awake catscratch haptic handwriting and gleamed when i filled the lines with dots and scribbles that only my mind could translate back to english, radio waves making music from garbled slush.  scribbles flooded into my mind in the days and months after, though everything was unfailingly crystal clear like diamonds pressed in forms and tucked away to giggle and fawn over later.

                                           but recently i haven't been able to write some of it down

because
you started making appearances.

at first the cameos were confusing; i ignored them and assumed your roles in my nonsensical night visions were coincidences (metaphorical you couldn't possibly hold more meaning than metaphorical math teacher or metaphorical adam from class the previous day).  and the scribbles were as detailed as before, every moment jotted down with unending diligence.

(but one night you were right
there
next to me.
as close as the last time i saw you,
your hip against mine.
i could feel you.
i couldn't see your face but i knew it was you.
i knew with the
pit
of my stomach.
i felt it in every part of me and it
hurt.)


and then the cameos came more frequently.
and then the scribbles came out a little slower.
a little more calculated.
i wondered if i wanted to remember everything i saw in those dreams,
if it was all going to be as fun as jumping from mountain to mountain.
why were you sitting next to me in the theater seat when i got called on to recite lines
that i never learned?
why were you smiling next to me like you did on those days i could do no wrong?
why
were
you
next to me when my stomach turned into a pit of rotten, nervous train wreck?
the curtains closed and the lights shattered and dimmed,
the pit became heavier than the buildings (now wrecked) that i used to leap with no fear
condensed,
******* in everything i could conceive in those slumbering hours,
swallowing the world and turning to caked ebony the world i built up as my playground.

(daniel awakes to find his playground is a sandbox no more;
he awakes with a heavier pit than he's ever known before.
today, when by passing glance his former lover he beholds,
the pit of dreams in life now endlessly unfolds.)


[ENTER PIT, SWALLOWING HIS THOUGHTS IN MURKY BLUE,
A MUFFLED SCREAM FROM BEHIND THE CURTAINS RINGS TRUE!]


f i n a l l y
i t   r e c e d e s.
but even when i see your name (with my eyes or in my mind's eye),
it explodes into being, shifting the balance of the universe onto the pit of my stomach.  i can FEEL it, pounding through every inch of me until i'm physically reeling, elbows on knees, hands on face.
and. . .
i'd carve my stomach open in between staggered, screaming heartbeats faster than the concentrated swill could spill out if i thought for a second that i could purge this pit that's plagued me for longer than
i'd ever admit.
4/15/2013
9:51pm
the pit has been emptied for now
if it's any consolation
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
when they said their **** against Marcus Aurelius
then they said a thing about Commodus -
and then i watched  the blueish woad:
as said the heart have earned the fork in road
or the forevermore for the upcoming usurpation -
     blunt grey admittedly:
all jotted a count for,
                the 5 good Caesars -
          O my home, that's Scootland -
        a land i neared to: but never had -
          when no noun be an Ascot toward a verb of nearing
a had helter-skelter off a saddle - later said: a bed.
             oh Scotland:
such that via venture into Hardian
a tongue could be spoken less!
   spoken less and thought of more!
and you could say aye to a yee - toy a princess
toward a girth of a robin's beak bullying a sunrise
into a cry... as parallel toward a mamma mia or
akin to fudge and marshmallow chuckling chastity
chewed for that "necessary" calorie arithmetic!
or runny gooey choc: then i be then i be the one for
hunting fat carps in a lake rather than
the kingly rivers of no return -
                 or how it was all right back then:
are you man enough to be staged?!
oh but when the void is but a yawn - what then?
what care to say profound things?
               honestly: none, whatsoever.
then you turn and say perfumed things,
rather than profundi necro - via
de profundis: or the profound contra of
                      dead profundity -
resurgence of the Oscar Wilde cosmopolitan.
          as some said, merely: piglet,
     but then some say: rightly prozac pink -
blue to ******, and white as salt, as sugar,
         as *******, as Colombian death-opera.
           the dead are profound,
agreeably they are, bound to be found,
        they're a little bit obvious,
      X always marks the spotty acne bound parishioner
readied for liturgy -  and isn't that a cherishable act?
  pay the proper price of pray...
                       still, the adaptation of Macbeth
with typescript Shakespeare agonising ****** tongue
  sho' sho' short and all the better for it - was:
and if ever there was a home for me,
if ever,
           it was neither England nor Poland...
it was somehow Scotland, somehow too the remote
Scandi Faroes Islands, a very much moochie *******
stance on Verstappen (v-necked sh'tappen 'appen) -
               i still think of woad as blue,
and Commodus as one of the five righteous
emperors who did good...
     yet counter is not unrepresented - surely
not kindred of Caligula - woad is still synonymous
with blue in patch-fazed sloppy when it was indeed
tempered with intentional tartan of purring purple;
did i say something profound? obviously not...
did i was anything at all? obviously i did...
did i say more than the wind rummaging a tree
to see autumnal revisionism in lost colour
stemming from green? i d' see indeed!
    an epitaph as more than my trinity name
and by date more of residing worth to
gain breath and so forthcoming take to losing it?
if not as failed individuals didn't we practice
the clarity of procreation for dietary existentialism
being necessarily practice, in light of the need
of not having failed? then too no motherly motto
strand of thought to listen to: or a gym membership
not being joined: as much in need
of criticism, as so in need of actual members -
       for the laconic treatment of words
and the high-notion of advert -
           from " " capsules of the 20th century,
through to the shortly lived ~, or question of
ambiguity,
            into the ***** of what's necessarily there:
           of a question, that's a ~question,
that's a "question", that's actually a -question-
           or how prefixation became exaggerated:
or how every single blonde-**** reader
started to behave like an english teacher
and did the herr salute toward getting excited when
punctuating their own punctuation was a
bit: overshadowed - kindly put: underused.
Nicole Oct 2016
We were never a fan of dialogues.

At the other end of the street I would watch her

Each Monday, carrying a new book every time.

I didn't like to read.

I preferred music, in my opinion
Was the equivalent of a book
Each telling a story.

The cup of coffee in my hand felt as warm as my heart
As I blew the hot liquid from the brim of the cup

And take a picture of her with the smoke that frames her body.

I wrote short poems of how captivating her beauty was
On the greasy table napkins provided for the coffee tables

Producing a different piece each time.

Her mouth would move as she read the words,
Mumbling lines of incoherent sentences I could not decipher.

At times I would see a smile break out on her face
And I would find myself consumed in slight envy.
Would she have smiled at the words I've written for her?

She was a song, I was a poem.

She was first written on smooth paper,
A thoughtless idea jotted in messy handwriting
Soon expanding into a verse and chorus
Written over and over again,
Revised by experts, reviewed until perfection,

Interpreted by bassists, guitarists, drummers, and vocalists
Appreciated repeatedly through the stereos of listeners
As they capture each beat and tempo.
She was flawless.

I was a poem.

I was rewritten in a single document copy
Renamed and revised
From the greasy fingers tapping away on keyboards
Typed and deleted,
Typed and deleted.

Frustrating the writer as they could never get an idea out of me
Leaving me in a file hidden in the folders of an old computer
Unfinished and waiting to be opened.

I was a mess in unorganized stanzas of ideas,

Lines which no one will have the audacity to read,

A waste of time,
Flawed.

She was the perfection in every imperfection
An artwork that you could only love through the eyes.
A piece which I
Wanted in my own.
I watched her again silently and wondered
Is it possible to love someone you've only admired from afar?
She was the artwork you could only love through the eyes.
Maddy Tidrick Feb 2013
Even when blank
you flash with memories.
Mindless doodles,
quickly jotted poems.
Stains of past lessons
still remain.

How many eyes
have gazed out at
your white vastness?
How many hands
have nervously fumbled
with your squeaky markers,
scrambling for answers
inside their own minds?

Do you see us?
Some racing to
take the notes
scribbled upon your
pallor surface,
and others facedown
on the desk,
trying to recover
sleep that was lost.

What have you created?
Perhaps a scientist,
or a few?
A lawyer, a doctor,
maybe two?
Without you,
oh ever-present whiteboard,
I doubt our teachers
would know what to do.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
well hey, they decided you had to be puritan shunning your eyes at the word ****... but said you were to be crucified twice-over to see ******* and **** and other morbid clown balloon images that deviated from censoring ****-all / nothing and ensuring you were comfortable with dyslexia of pulverising images that could only be reduced to a close-resemblance of words (onomatopoeias) - ol' McDonald 'ad a farm...**

god save the queen,
god save our...
come on! come on! come on! come on!
do you wanna be in
             my gang my gang my gang?!
do you wanna be in
             my gang my gang my gang (my *******)?!
(garry gloater, uhu uh hum aha um - elvis proved
the english stiff upper lip could be cured - sore
the lippy wrinkle of disapproval insinuated, soar
like an angler's catch of the fisherman's hook!
but the stiff pelvis couldn't - exporting
a redcoat to america is like importing a ku klux hood
to england, ha ha.)
leisurely in Majorca binge drinking
in Bristol is a N.H.S. concern,
Madonna faked the *****,
the ***** faked the Madonna
because of the seasonal olive skinned trysts...
drunks' trolley banks and cabbage heads
of mashing up hairstyles at a metal rock gig...
it was once 80s Nevada deep freeze,
now it's airy new york Warhol cool...
shinobi said: dragon's ***** gave birth to
fast blinking ninjas...
all the world's a stage... but no man
should turn into the world just because
he was given a stage... tabloid literature
faked shakespeare plagiarism of death too frequently....
Anthem Britannia - sail the seas of ****** milkiness
gluten free passive vitamin C, D & A recipients
in the multi-pill... of all the former empires
i got the ****-hole... learn the basics...
the perverts are out there, ready to scream the words:
***** REEL! and get their nuts jotted down
in a blender of teenage emotion...
we're talking the new age futurism off futurism,
since the date prescribed by Fukuyama,
beginning / ending when people stopped the 100
cyclone and entered the lasting 2nd half of the 20th century
as a bleach for the 1st part of the 20th century,
meaning they had to grapple with writing history
and stop looking at art as "post-modern",
well basically modern post-mortem
of the millions dead... the art they make these
days is just gagging for a shooting-spree.
...it's been long since she migrated to heaven, for a sinner like me to be her son is amazing she kept composure & her level
...coming to terms with punishment being the biggest part of forgiveness & all I gotta do is to forgive me
...punishment is for the creator & I'm just a son to woman who died loving a man that made me
...over a decade later she's still comes to my dreams
...this morning I told her I'm in love with a woman & she just smile
...deep in her eyes I saw pain she felt from my past & in her voice I heard certainty of this future of mine
...a man alone can't make a family & so is a woman
...bless me this morning again by reading a poem jotted down for just a dream
...maybe not, it is for the lost trust & believe in love
...it is for the eyes that only choose to see darkness
...for the heart that chooses to remember only pain
...sorry for not being the ideal man but a heart can't choose who to love
...sorry for not knowing you well enough for you to be @ ease
...teach me how to love you or how to forget I ever loved you
...I know you're not my mom & loving you wasn't by choice
...if it was by choice it would be easier to leave you @ peace without any caution of tying a knot one day
...waiting for Mr Right shouldn't be pleasure if we're all the same
...from me to you, a man is made by his life's pains
...And in my dream this morning my late mother came like she does every now & then
...I told her I found a woman, I fell in love & she just smiled
...I wonder why she just smiled if it left me so unsure of me!!!
You don't fall in love with only those you know, some people just fit in your puZzle like they were made for you
...we only choose what we want to see but not feel!!!
This is her month..., My Mother!!!
Shofi Ahmed Dec 2017
The women
isn't for U-turn!
She means it
jotted it down
deep in the heart.
Callow birds
shimmering highlights
of lilacs
on it’s busted mantle.
The lamppost tungsten
is a wax doll candle.
Paraffin paragraphs
jotted down on
clouds in paradise.
Throwing a tea party
at the neighbours lewd front lawn.
Resting place of
my weary head.
Wearing
our mountain tops//your shoulder,
my heart’s
hearth and
watershed.
Antino Art Mar 2021
Any-Her has a name. Had.
It was the title of a travel book.

Any-Her had a
name tattooed along her spine.
You search and read her
up, down, sideways.
She was a work of fiction,
a ghost story. You read her
under the covers
by the beam of a flashlight
against your chin for dramatic
effect. In a flash, she's gone.
You flick the lights out and sleep.

Any-Her is a dream.
Was. Bright eyes, pierced
lips. You'd recognize her anywhere,
in the travel aisle of a library.
She had a name. Her signature
was jotted in the margin
of a catalogue card. She was
a name on a list of borrowers.
You'd wait your turn, check her out.

Any-Her is a number.
She writes it down on
the back of a bar napkin.
You skim details,
fill in blanks.

Any-Her is easily
(mis) read, goes by
an alias based on the
date. You name her
after obscure holidays,
like, "Winter Solstice '20",
or, "Funny Valentine '21".
You celebrate her coming,
the -where and the
-when. The -who is
irrelevant, the -how,
irrational. And -why
is what you keep asking
the next morning
while waiting for a reply
that never comes.

Any-Her is a city
far from home,
you decide. You don't
remember the name.
Don't need to.
You're just one
of -any, passing
through.
undefined Dec 2012
Pardon please my pedantry,
But I espied sir that in your rhapsody
You sometimes overlook crossing all your “t’s.”
If a point should be taken, then please let it be
That these consequential “t’s” should not be jotted down so flippantly.
:P
ok okay Feb 2021
Beautiful minds seem to always get lost
They wander through dreams and memories long expired
And can't find the way out when they have not a thing to desire
Like jotted ink in the rain
Their promises run away from their mind
And they get lost in a loop that they think of as life

It may seem pointless now
It may do for a while
It may hurt so much
Until you can no longer feel
But it will change
Your fears will become strengths
And once your beautiful minds have found their way out
You can live your life again
And never give up

— The End —