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"lifespan" poems
Reinaldo was the name they gave the great white elephant Who came to clear the jungles around Sao Paulo A clever notion that because Reinaldo was born in the jungle Any jungle would do just fine, Brazilian or Siamese made no difference Just as clever was the notion that because I was a black man, educated I would do just fine directing other black men to do work, English or Portuguese made no difference Was I truly so much a fool, twice over? Reinaldo occasionally was afflicted with slothfulness Some of the men thought it was from lack of **** and whip I was of a mind that it was due to lack of companionship It was costly enough to ship one giant beast across a great sea I left a wife, in Maryland, whom I never loved and who never loved me I admit before the plan was in motion I never considered that Reinaldo could have a family Sometimes, I wonder, did he have a wife who never loved him? Loneliness became a common theme in our new home away from home And Reinaldo and I became friends, at least I thought of him fondly As far as I could say, of all the men he responded best to me At times it seemed a load of lumber was hauled as a personal favor For the handler too soft to handle with fear and anger But as much as loneliness was a theme, so was change, and death The lifespan of an elephant compares to the lifespan of men Were this scheme of mine to have worked as desired I could have sent for a cow, and made Reinaldo a sire Soon it was revealed that slothfulness was a symptom of an elephant young, healthy and wise Who sensed not his own, but a friend's imminent demise Now I am left to wonder how Reinaldo will fare in a world stranger than I could have known His softest handler and only friend bedridden, waiting for my disease to take its final toll
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Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
Reinaldo
Reinaldo was the name they gave the great white elephant Who came to clear the jungles around Sao Paulo A clever notion that because Reinaldo was born in the jungle Any jungle would do just fine, Brazilian or Siamese made no difference Just as clever was the notion that because I was a black man, educated I would do just fine directing other black men to do work, English or Portuguese made no difference Was I truly so much a fool, twice over? Reinaldo occasionally was afflicted with slothfulness Some of the men thought it was from lack of **** and whip I was of a mind that it was due to lack of companionship It was costly enough to ship one giant beast across a great sea I left a wife, in Maryland, whom I never loved and who never loved me I admit before the plan was in motion I never considered that Reinaldo could have a family Sometimes, I wonder, did he have a wife who never loved him? Loneliness became a common theme in our new home away from home And Reinaldo and I became friends, at least I thought of him fondly As far as I could say, of all the men he responded best to me At times it seemed a load of lumber was hauled as a personal favor For the handler too soft to handle with fear and anger But as much as loneliness was a theme, so was change, and death The lifespan of an elephant compares to the lifespan of men Were this scheme of mine to have worked as desired I could have sent for a cow, and made Reinaldo a sire Soon it was revealed that slothfulness was a symptom of an elephant young, healthy and wise Who sensed not his own, but a friend's imminent demise Now I am left to wonder how Reinaldo will fare in a world stranger than I could have known His softest handler and only friend bedridden, waiting for my disease to take its final toll
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27
I would like To be on drugs Just for one day Not to get addicted Just so i can let loose Show a different side of me Allow me to see the world differently Allow me to forget my pain, and sorrow. However I am conflicted Drugs may make me loose my mind I may end up rotting in prison I may harm myself I may harm others I may shorten my lifespan Drugs Drugs Drugs
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Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
Drugs
Hypnotized by you, I am drowning, Day by day. In the emotion, Of your love, Gleefully. I'm drowning wilfully, Really not to be save, Listen when I say. Effortlessly I let my body sink, Not struggling at all to escape, I only fear distance from you. Not the physical distance, But the distance of hearts, A distance of heartbreaks. You say similar things, Claiming I stole your heart, An eternal truth this we share. Dreaming on & on, We even struggle often, Our struggle goes on & on. Looking into these calm dark eyes, On your face full of beauty & truth, I gain an escape from worldly lies. You claim I jinxed you the first time, So true- weren't we bound to meet, It's just Time choreographed this. I can't easily refute the blame, After all I am an equal partner, In this lyrical life & this game. So I bear morally equal liability, As we observe our love garner, After all I am older than you. We can't give into these tough times, Not now, today, tomorrow nor ever, For our relationship is a challenge. A challenge for changing our world it is, A bright change for a brighter future, A betterment of your & my lives. I know you're with me in life, I know you're surely lighter, I know you're much young. Younger than my experience, Younger than my sad lifespan, Younger than my reborn avatar. Happier than my own best happy, Happier than my ever-so-pale face, Happier than my knowledge can be.
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Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
Hypnotized
A journey followed by a road, reaching to the distant sky, Feelings which cannot be conveyed in words, but actions, disappear in the sea of truths and lies, under the drifting clouds of the night, A red thread, connecting us without having the answer to where it actually leads, meaningless questions remain floating in thin air, Ages fade but my infinite lifespan, allows me to shine for you forever, My heart reflects your tears, which before moistened the earth below us, making me overflow with emotions I couldn't even understand, Space and time, are for me an obsticle, which I must overcome, So my gaze, even though is fraught with sin, lead you to happiness. Spread like moondust across a damaged surface, you departed into the unknown of the night, disappearing within layers of darkness, Yet, I am not sad for even if you may not be with me from now on, Always cheering for me to move forward, it would be a shame to give up now, even if we had our troubles, fights and sometimes disagreed. And if we can never return to the past, let's enjoy the allure moonlight Together we laughed and cried, yet this dream ended today, What's left are the memories and the feelings I have felt. ~ Umi
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May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
Felt
As the Thunderbolt God Jupiter Saturn’s brother Pursued his loves in disguise The Goddess Hera sat upon her throne Irritated and plotting Gazing with angry jealous eyes Oh, courageous intelligent Athena ****** Goddess of the hunt Dare the foolish to cast eyes upon her unclothed Under the sentence of a tortuous death Its said by many she was not birthed But sprang surprisingly from her father’s head The lovely Aphrodite Would melt the hearts of many a man Who would offer up their life For but a faint touch of her hand The Light God Apollo admirer of the word, reciting poetry Pluck the gold lyres delicate strings While the sea god Poseidon’s twelve daughters Mermaids Dressed in dripping seaweed began to sing Ares of the bold god of war Feared conqueror and great warrior Planted flowers As was his custom in the spring Artemis in fervent haste strung her magical bow For it was pursuit that stirred her blood It flowed through her veins Aged Roman wine Running stags through shadowy woods The gods of the Kings The Gods of the people To whom many sacrifices were made Lived thousands of years beyond the lifespan of man So, say the storytellers of olden times and past days All right Reserved. Tammy M. Darby. Jan. 31, 2019 All Material Stored in Author Base
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Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 9:08 PM UTC
The Gods
I dig my nails into the filth of his mind, while he robbed me of the  innocence i once captured from my mother's womb My thoughts seem to tick.......like the time given to me called a lifespan is running out slowly but fast all at the same time he grips my throat tightly telling me "you made me do this! Why did you wear that? This is all YOUR fault." ......i begin to think maybe i shouldn't have worn that.   But than i think again i had on skinny jeans, a button up coat, and snow boots .............SO WHAT THE **** was so **** provocative that you would break into my sanctuary called my body and rob me off my sanity
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Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Just another **** poem???????
Artist The only description of her The way her eyelashes glitter In the shining sunlight The way her pale face Is angled to imperfection In a captivating way Where you have to feel every curve Every indent on her cheeks The way her wrists are stained With the color of her hair A raw red Exploding into the world Exposing her From all the rest It's just a shame That art is only admired After it's lifespan is gone
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Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
She is a Painting
I hope she knows what she's getting herself into. I hope she knows what your heart sounds like after a night of comparisons between her handwriting and mine. I want you to know that I am through with dumbing myself down to fit inside your god complexed hands. Don't tell me I never tried to save us. I wrote you songs with knives on my palms and your ears were anything but listening. I had a dream about you every night since you told me you didn't know how to love anything with a heartbeat and hope. I started sleeping again when you came back, and oh when you came back... I am not sorry that my temper is as short as the lifespan of us. I am not sorry that your smile is the only one that ever made me want to wake up in the morning. I am all pain and long long longing and she has always been a storm with a heart dead set on your stillness. Our problem is that I never stop shaking long enough for the dust to settle. I've been writing with the same pen for four years and you still only recognize my words when she plays them back. Let it not be confused, foggy or incomprehensible- you were the one. Until the one became none and I stopped being a number when you stopped counting miles. I hope she loves harder than a woman with dementia, relearning parts of you every morning in the places you reserved with my first and your last- maybe next time. Maybe next time, maybe next life will be different. Maybe I'll be patient, stronger, I'll stop covering my smile. You'll stop pretending to be in love. I will stop shaking and the dust will settle and her poetry will make you sick. Her poetry will sprout evening primroses and she won't know that you always fall asleep before midnight or that you're allergic to flowers that bloom when the sun is down.
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Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
Primrose
I hope she knows what she's getting herself into. I hope she knows what your heart sounds like after a night of comparisons between her handwriting and mine. I want you to know that I am through with dumbing myself down to fit inside your god complexed hands. Don't tell me I never tried to save us. I wrote you songs with knives on my palms and your ears were anything but listening. I had a dream about you every night since you told me you didn't know how to love anything with a heartbeat and hope. I started sleeping again when you came back, and oh when you came back... I am not sorry that my temper is as short as the lifespan of us. I am not sorry that your smile is the only one that ever made me want to wake up in the morning. I am all pain and long long longing and she has always been a storm with a heart dead set on your stillness. Our problem is that I never stop shaking long enough for the dust to settle. I've been writing with the same pen for four years and you still only recognize my words when she plays them back. Let it not be confused, foggy or incomprehensible- you were the one. Until the one became none and I stopped being a number when you stopped counting miles. I hope she loves harder than a woman with dementia, relearning parts of you every morning in the places you reserved with my first and your last- maybe next time. Maybe next time, maybe next life will be different. Maybe I'll be patient, stronger, I'll stop covering my smile. You'll stop pretending to be in love. I will stop shaking and the dust will settle and her poetry will make you sick. Her poetry will sprout evening primroses and she won't know that you always fall asleep before midnight or that you're allergic to flowers that bloom when the sun is down.
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29
Once I saw a monkey man, driving down my street in his monkey van, kids tried to run away, but monkey ran, he brought the children to his monkey land. If they got out of line, with monkey man, they'd get a slap, from the back of his hand. The favorite nut of monkey man, was the pecan, he loved pecans, the monkey man, he eats as manys as he cans. Unlimited lifespan, has the monkey man, currently lives in Iran. Likes to read comics, batman, superman, while getting, a monkey tan. Been around, since the caveman, had the monkey man. Used to be a doorman, had monkey man. Wanted to be an anchorman, but there was a monkey ban. Not a woman. Not a man. M o n k e y    M a n .
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Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 8:47 PM UTC
I Saw A Monkey Man One Time.
Suicidal Homicidal Alike but different Each is permanent **** someone in rage Or **** yourself and leave behind a page Your level of madness is measured,gauged But why do I banter Im as mad as a hatter Nothing even matters My life in tatters A knife to me throat Toss me in the moat A bullet in the brain Nothing to gain Sometimes relief other times pain The blood will be taint Burn and Burn Ashes in the urn The worlds will turn The stomachs will churn For all you see is fake And they will continue to take An illusion To launch you into confusion A ruse To light your fuse Our lifespan Throughout man Short and bitter So many of us quitters The rest of us let out titters While they gnaw on us, the critters Bite and Bite Fight for the light To die in the moonlit night To cause each other so much fright Our 'Gods' tell us to **** each other Our own brothers Let the blackbird fly High into the sky To cause the gloom To signal our doom Our demise Of the human enterprise
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Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
Confused
I HEARD SOMEWHERE THAT THE LIFESPAN OF BUTTERFLIES IS ONLY A COUPLE OF MONTHS BUT IT'S BEEN ALMOST 7 AND I'M PRETTY SURE THE ONES RESIDING IN MY STOMACH ARE YET TO PASS THEIR STAGES OF YOUTH
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Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
you're the best thing in my life
Fountain of youth runs in his veins, The man who lives in Sycamore Keep. His circadian clock had come to a halt, Rather than rejoice, he sullenly weeps. You would think that immortality is The pinnacle of human existence, All the time in the world and not a Single malady to be of any resistance. Yet there he sulks, the ageless man, Cauterized by the turn of each century, As loved ones breathe their last and Become a parcel of his fractured memory. But that is just the shell of his woes, For even with all knowledge amassed, He’s utterly aghast with the state of the World unwilling to learn from the past. Every crook and cranny explored, Every experience well savored, Now monotony for millennia to come, His longing to live has ebbed and wavered.   I was told by the man of Sycamore Keep That immortality is a curse so alluring. Indeed, a hundred cultivated years is Much better than hollow eons securing. But sir, think of all the riches you’ve accrued And mastery of all science and philosophies. Who wouldn’t want to have the time to mark The world and purge it from all its atrocities. Say no more, interrupted the ageless man, I applaud your idealism and optimistic delusion, But you’re missing one essential element -- Even as immortals, we’d still be only human. And to be human, is to be fallible. Let’s just say That immortal fallibility will engender no good. It'd be best to truncate our lifespan for the Sake of our survival, yes truncate we should.   And that’s all I heard from the man of Sycamore Keep, Who went on his way to his millennial weep.
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Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
The Man of Sycamore Keep
Fountain of youth runs in his veins, The man who lives in Sycamore Keep. His circadian clock had come to a halt, Rather than rejoice, he sullenly weeps. You would think that immortality is The pinnacle of human existence, All the time in the world and not a Single malady to be of any resistance. Yet there he sulks, the ageless man, Cauterized by the turn of each century, As loved ones breathe their last and Become a parcel of his fractured memory. But that is just the shell of his woes, For even with all knowledge amassed, He’s utterly aghast with the state of the World unwilling to learn from the past. Every crook and cranny explored, Every experience well savored, Now monotony for millennia to come, His longing to live has ebbed and wavered.   I was told by the man of Sycamore Keep That immortality is a curse so alluring. Indeed, a hundred cultivated years is Much better than hollow eons securing. But sir, think of all the riches you’ve accrued And mastery of all science and philosophies. Who wouldn’t want to have the time to mark The world and purge it from all its atrocities. Say no more, interrupted the ageless man, I applaud your idealism and optimistic delusion, But you’re missing one essential element -- Even as immortals, we’d still be only human. And to be human, is to be fallible. Let’s just say That immortal fallibility will engender no good. It'd be best to truncate our lifespan for the Sake of our survival, yes truncate we should.   And that’s all I heard from the man of Sycamore Keep, Who went on his way to his millennial weep.
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38
the bottle's like a violin, screaming demons in my stomach, a cyborg forging information as lunch, purging an urge for self-destruction, my outer shell's cold but the circuits a storm, of electrical database lifespan into megabytes of **** see death is a story, and my analogies are allegories, mourning after the goriest morning is NOT worth storing, blank pages turn into mythical dissipation, and with that loud speaker you'd think he could pen down imagination, a midnight gig playing with cosmic instrumentation, for the humanoid race place your conscious on your invitation,
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Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
Cockroach Sandwiches & Coke
...my mom tells me as she tucks me to sleep. Her eyes are bright blue with similarities to the Tenerife Sea. Solid, bright but with an icy touch. I believe her. Then my eyelids flutter open after a kiss and I stare into a young man’s brown eyes. Solid, deep, full, sincere, warm. I trust him more than I should. My own eyes aren’t that easy to decode. They’re a complete mess. A chaos of color conflicting with eachother, instead of settling on one. Blue when I wake up,but green when I step outside. If eyes really are the windows to the soul what does that say about me? Am I splatters of different colors floating around like petals in a mysterious endless lake in the forbidden part of the forest? Am I a rainbow only to be seen clearly when both rain and sun hits upon me? Am I a bouquet filled with different flowers plucked different places with different stories? Forests are easy to get lost i. Lakes are easy to drown in. Rainbows are not tangible. Flowers are pretty but their lifespan is short after having been plucked. I wish I wasn’t a chaotic mess. That I wasn’t torn in between the things I want, the things I can, the things I have, the things I want to be. I hope that one day my eyes and mind will make up their will. But for right now, I my eyes may stay a chameleon. Only seen by those who really see.
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Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
"Eyes Are The Windows to The Soul" (Chaos of Color)
The one who is seen by you or the one who lives inside me? Am I fake outside or inside? How I seem to be is not who I am inside. But then I pretend to be whom you desire. I struggle or may be just pretend to be a perfect daughter, a perfect sister, a perfect wife, a perfect daughter in law, a perfect mother, overall a woman that is considered to be a perfect woman by the society. I don't want to wear Kurta Surwal, I don't want to drape a shawl, I don't want to wear a pote, neither I want to wear a Tika or chura. But then I wear them all when I come in front of you. You say it's a tradition, it's a culture and related to husband's lifespan I don't believe these nonsense but I never let you know my dislikes rather I choose to pretend..........................
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Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
"I"... Who am I?
**Scattered Thunderstorms The radar shows a band of multi-green storms, Parallel running to the East Coast, Stretching from So. Florida to Falmouth, Rhode Island. Path-dependent, the edges skirt my present location, Instrumented, but not weather resistant, Water teases, invites me to a head clearing session. Breezy gusts of overcast, caramel salty bay waters, (weirdly calm), Spray sprites whisper, scattered thunderstorms, starboard side I am the only boat out, especially, The only one going for sure aimlessly, Radar non-discriminatory, stupidity legal, So fools like me go out alone. Scattered Thunderstorms, Unavoidable, summer's favored annoyance of choice. The melancholic platelets budding off my bone's marrow, Forming wondrous clots of sadness, Running strong in the currents of my veins, Downtempo'd, there is no relief for Inside of my radar scanned brain, the scattered thunderstorms, Have arrived much earlier today. What sourced this elegiac distich, Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat? The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's Just to make the point! It is so easy to feel ****** When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me. Thinking back, getting a good idea, Found some long necked Corona overlooked, Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy, And for god's sake, shut down poetry, Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day Value you more than me, but you've worn me down My blood streams your anguished distress, I cannot survive these scattered revolver-repeating Anguish-Cries-For-Relief from the Thunderstorms, That now having reached, breached, That now, having infected my heart which started This day brow beaten, First poem of the day, already shell-shellacked, Now, I must shut me, batten me, down. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The average lifespan of a platelet is normally just 5 to 9 days. Platelets are a natural source of growth factors. They circulate in the blood of mammals and are involved in hemostasis, leading to the formation of blood clots.
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Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Scattered Thunderstorms: From Your Poetry, Into My Blood...
**Scattered Thunderstorms The radar shows a band of multi-green storms, Parallel running to the East Coast, Stretching from So. Florida to Falmouth, Rhode Island. Path-dependent, the edges skirt my present location, Instrumented, but not weather resistant, Water teases, invites me to a head clearing session. Breezy gusts of overcast, caramel salty bay waters, (weirdly calm), Spray sprites whisper, scattered thunderstorms, starboard side I am the only boat out, especially, The only one going for sure aimlessly, Radar non-discriminatory, stupidity legal, So fools like me go out alone. Scattered Thunderstorms, Unavoidable, summer's favored annoyance of choice. The melancholic platelets budding off my bone's marrow, Forming wondrous clots of sadness, Running strong in the currents of my veins, Downtempo'd, there is no relief for Inside of my radar scanned brain, the scattered thunderstorms, Have arrived much earlier today. What sourced this elegiac distich, Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat? The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's Just to make the point! It is so easy to feel ****** When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me. Thinking back, getting a good idea, Found some long necked Corona overlooked, Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy, And for god's sake, shut down poetry, Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day Value you more than me, but you've worn me down My blood streams your anguished distress, I cannot survive these scattered revolver-repeating Anguish-Cries-For-Relief from the Thunderstorms, That now having reached, breached, That now, having infected my heart which started This day brow beaten, First poem of the day, already shell-shellacked, Now, I must shut me, batten me, down. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The average lifespan of a platelet is normally just 5 to 9 days. Platelets are a natural source of growth factors. They circulate in the blood of mammals and are involved in hemostasis, leading to the formation of blood clots.
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47
The life span of a housefly is approximately a month Imagine if that was the lifespan of everyone in this room, from birth to death-- in just a month we grow; learning to walk, talk, eat pancakes, perceive god, light fires, play guitar, make coffee, cook lobster, learning to hula-hoop, to snap, to use the toilet and/or discovering your favorite shades of red, the first time merging with the opposite *** all in the span of a month. How intense must that life feel? Not to mention the physical growth of bone, skin, heart, feet all the way from birth to death in a month. I think people would live quite differently; laws would cease, save for the natural ones, like the lifespan of a month. Such learning with great intensity compact into such a short time... In this way I envy the housefly; the fly that lands on dog **** risking a shorter life swatting death to drink some sweat or warm up for a spell in your home. What a life, the life of a fly in time.
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Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
Flies in Time
A snowflake’s lifespan, once but a droplet, Now infinitely a unique object. Oh, lucky snowflake! You never compete With other snowflakes. You are formed complete. Oh, to be so born! To become my own Arriving on Earth, meant to be alone. You lucky snowflake! You have no power But grow beautiful, to live an hour. You are not long here, made of winter chill, But precious snowflake! Do hold your shape still! I am so common, never quite like you! Each of you snowflakes, are a snowflake true! Of frozen water, from the cloud above, You became special, one and only love. To live snowflakes’ lives! What would I have felt? None would be like me, but too quick to melt.
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Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 9:32 AM UTC
Ode To A Snowflake
As a teenage boy I used to fall asleep at night listening to the graveled voice of Ernie Harwell fashion for me word-images of the exploits by a band of superheroes called the Detroit Tigers. In those semi-lucid moments before slumber, I could see the shimmering outline of my destiny: you see all American boys are meant to be Tigers. So imagine my confusion, when I fractured the right talus bone my Junior year of high school, even putting on weight around the middle, where no athlete worth his pin stripes would gain. My karma had begun to take on mass. I began to acquire knowledge, as the only perceived defense against some parallel universe impinging upon reality. Oh, I had everyone convinced, even my keenest teachers believed I was destined to make my mark in scholarly pursuits. But no one saw the crying ego of one meant to be a Tiger, nor how that bottled up the emergence of the Man. Never reconciled, the Man curled up in fetal dormancy. Lifespan became synonymous with interstellar drift. And every encountered star of knowlege was dwarfed, having long ago collapsed of its own gravity. Still the heavens of knowledge are auspicious, so I looked outward, when all the answers lay concealed within. Only as my life left the outskirts of occluded reality did I then begin to inherit from my instinctual id, begin to listen to disconsolate internal voices, who had known me all along, perhaps better than myself. The thing is ... the stage has long been set on middle-age, what props lie about are encrusted with patina, laden with a dust impossible to gauge or preempt, made worse by the lack of cast, save one. Neither Beckett, nor Pinter, could have absurded this. So, when my acts strike you as quixotic, when I cut with a penknife through propriety, it's because I finally remember what it meant to be a Tiger.
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Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
We All Die Unhealed
As a teenage boy I used to fall asleep at night listening to the graveled voice of Ernie Harwell fashion for me word-images of the exploits by a band of superheroes called the Detroit Tigers. In those semi-lucid moments before slumber, I could see the shimmering outline of my destiny: you see all American boys are meant to be Tigers. So imagine my confusion, when I fractured the right talus bone my Junior year of high school, even putting on weight around the middle, where no athlete worth his pin stripes would gain. My karma had begun to take on mass. I began to acquire knowledge, as the only perceived defense against some parallel universe impinging upon reality. Oh, I had everyone convinced, even my keenest teachers believed I was destined to make my mark in scholarly pursuits. But no one saw the crying ego of one meant to be a Tiger, nor how that bottled up the emergence of the Man. Never reconciled, the Man curled up in fetal dormancy. Lifespan became synonymous with interstellar drift. And every encountered star of knowlege was dwarfed, having long ago collapsed of its own gravity. Still the heavens of knowledge are auspicious, so I looked outward, when all the answers lay concealed within. Only as my life left the outskirts of occluded reality did I then begin to inherit from my instinctual id, begin to listen to disconsolate internal voices, who had known me all along, perhaps better than myself. The thing is ... the stage has long been set on middle-age, what props lie about are encrusted with patina, laden with a dust impossible to gauge or preempt, made worse by the lack of cast, save one. Neither Beckett, nor Pinter, could have absurded this. So, when my acts strike you as quixotic, when I cut with a penknife through propriety, it's because I finally remember what it meant to be a Tiger.
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36
There shouldn't pass one hour without humour in one's lifetime/ lifespan Some think there is no honour in humour Some in their lives make humour a rumour Some just don't understand the life brought by laughter Humour makes life's baggages lighter Funny that laughter increases one's lifespan Is it perhaps why its called a 'funny-bone' Ain't no happiness when one wears a frown Life's baggages may weigh one down, Let it be a laughing matter With triumph comes true stories of laughter Laughter from humour eliminates worries Humour has started families Humour has built friends Humour has united countries I say there is a lot of honour in humour Hobbies in humour Careers in humour Wisdom in humour
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Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 4:15 AM UTC
Humour
The night reveals more than just the stars And moons and worlds and Milky Way bars For the dark matter as a backdrop to the cosmos Will one day rip its space-time fleece But when and where, you’ll never know Stars are like flowers and warrant no rebirth From the gaseous remnants light years from Earth For accretion pulls me in like your nebula cries At the event horizon of a black hole ***** That gladly consumes my coy little lies Watch them all burn and fail, once fiery ***** And consummate a lifespan for no reason at all Churning in a chaotic standstill of time Those supernova dreams and aspirations Ultimately useless, but in all ways, sublime Why do they exist and makes them die? From the quantum quarks to the red giant eyes I am searching for answers in an ignorant space On a planet revolving on separate realities Revolving on a path with a polluted trace We sit in circles round an astral plane Without questioning logic and something to gain But like a star’s supernova, I’m ready to burst Return from space and find our sun mid-stellar explosion Eager to stand up and feel it first
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Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
Supernova Remnant
I just finished texting you on December 31st Sunday night, or maybe you consider that a Monday morning and a country song just came on the radio I couldn't help but to think about how much I hate country music I hate the stereotypical voice the singer always sings, the predictable pattern of strung guitar strings So, at 2:24 am, on a December 31st, Sunday night/Monday morning I started to wonder if you liked country music Or believed too that it's tacky I wonder if "tacky" even exist in your vocabulary Where did you get your vocabulary? Did your mom raise you to believe words would be your greatest ally Was she raised with more than one language I wonder what your ancestor's native language sounds like And if it was ripped out of their tongues Like culture in our history books what stories were told from those tongues that history books could never tell I wonder, what kind of stories you've carved in lover's mouths with just your, tongue. I wondered if you've ever lost someone I wonder if you've ever lost yourself If you did, where did you find yourself? Did you find yourself in your palms over bent knees That kissed the ground that at one time kissed your feet. I wonder when we'll meet I wonder if I'll meet your best friend. If shell ever get scared You'll replace her with me And if I'll have to tell her, she's irreplaceable. I wonder what's your favorite places you've been to The places that made you smile to your human anatomy's most potential And I wonder how much you know about your own human anatomy I wonder if you know that an average heart beats 100,000 times a day Pumping almost 2,000 gallons of blood through its chambers Over a 70 year lifespan, that adds up to about 2.5 billion heartbeat And sitting here, just wondering about you- you made me skip a few. It's now 3:07 a.m. And I'm wonderin' if you've ever wondered what it would be like to be loved by a poet To have your body be put words and your words be put against my body To have lips match figurative language to the figure of your body And write love poems on your cheek And I wonder if you even consider me a poet. What are the events in your life you consider poetic? If your life was a poem, what kind of poem would your 8th grade English teacher categorize it as? If you were a curious child and if now You're ever curious about me If my mind ever wanders while I wonder about you And if I could ever weaver it back At 3:21 a.m., December 31st, Sunday night, Monday morning I'm wondering if you're wondering about me. Or if you ever wonder if I've ever lost myself, but more recently, lost my mind writing poetry I wonder if you wonder if I consider myself a poet. I wonder, if at 3:27 am, if you're awake too, Wondering if I like country music.
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Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
wondering at 2 a.m. (edited)
I just finished texting you on December 31st Sunday night, or maybe you consider that a Monday morning and a country song just came on the radio I couldn't help but to think about how much I hate country music I hate the stereotypical voice the singer always sings, the predictable pattern of strung guitar strings So, at 2:24 am, on a December 31st, Sunday night/Monday morning I started to wonder if you liked country music Or believed too that it's tacky I wonder if "tacky" even exist in your vocabulary Where did you get your vocabulary? Did your mom raise you to believe words would be your greatest ally Was she raised with more than one language I wonder what your ancestor's native language sounds like And if it was ripped out of their tongues Like culture in our history books what stories were told from those tongues that history books could never tell I wonder, what kind of stories you've carved in lover's mouths with just your, tongue. I wondered if you've ever lost someone I wonder if you've ever lost yourself If you did, where did you find yourself? Did you find yourself in your palms over bent knees That kissed the ground that at one time kissed your feet. I wonder when we'll meet I wonder if I'll meet your best friend. If shell ever get scared You'll replace her with me And if I'll have to tell her, she's irreplaceable. I wonder what's your favorite places you've been to The places that made you smile to your human anatomy's most potential And I wonder how much you know about your own human anatomy I wonder if you know that an average heart beats 100,000 times a day Pumping almost 2,000 gallons of blood through its chambers Over a 70 year lifespan, that adds up to about 2.5 billion heartbeat And sitting here, just wondering about you- you made me skip a few. It's now 3:07 a.m. And I'm wonderin' if you've ever wondered what it would be like to be loved by a poet To have your body be put words and your words be put against my body To have lips match figurative language to the figure of your body And write love poems on your cheek And I wonder if you even consider me a poet. What are the events in your life you consider poetic? If your life was a poem, what kind of poem would your 8th grade English teacher categorize it as? If you were a curious child and if now You're ever curious about me If my mind ever wanders while I wonder about you And if I could ever weaver it back At 3:21 a.m., December 31st, Sunday night, Monday morning I'm wondering if you're wondering about me. Or if you ever wonder if I've ever lost myself, but more recently, lost my mind writing poetry I wonder if you wonder if I consider myself a poet. I wonder, if at 3:27 am, if you're awake too, Wondering if I like country music.
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By Arcassin Burnham Moving traces out of my mind, You think I'm lost or something, You think the only ounce of ignorance, Has a cost or something, Or maybe your ego had a stand off or something, Like you couldn't handle all the boundaries, Guess it taught you something, So snuggling under purple and pink clouds, In an empty room, Regrets wouldn't be aloud, In the realm of bloom, Where the flowers are, Like it had a lifespan or something, Living 30 years long like it was meant to be or something, To be misjudged but the wrong pill you take or something, Red one or blue one, Want cancer, Look at the sun, And the stars, Realize who you are, Don't be threatened by the lonely ones.
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Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
"Unknown #2"
Clamp the red march onward! Cut the winding trench! Mask a visage for protection from the visceral drench. Light the forge in battle! Keep the battlefield alive. Hear the laborious drumbeat of a heart trying to survive. Stainless steel and knowledge in the forge are fired Gone are human needs - Death is never tired. On each second rests a lifespan. Each minute gambles years. A surgeon only has two hands and no mortal fears. The battle surges forward as blood is forced right back from the heart it came from; a heart still under attack. Even as the battle ended, with blood, tears and sweat, the war raged ever onward, Death remains a threat. Every day a battle. Every life a war. Against Death and the ethereal survival is the score.
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Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
The Great War
The frothy waves reflect everything As they are kissed by the pale blue sky and the liquid gold that descends on the horizon The waves start of as graygreen, then white as they crest And as they extend for their five second lifespan on the dark sand They turn a brilliant baby blue touched with a burning orange of the now fading sun. I watched and waited Anticipated what might happen when you pulled into the parking lot Cold hands shoved deep into my pockets, feeling around for what I was supposed to say Ideas ping-ponged back and forth but no poetry escaped my pursing lips Even as you pulled into the parking lot, Let your engine cough and sputter like all the things that I tried to say to you that night Tried to hide inside myself as I sat in the passenger seat Confused, conflicted, jaded, manipulated I let my mouth run like the Nile, But it didn’t matter a word I said… You were beautiful like the ocean But unlike the frothy waves that reflect the pale blue sky and liquid gold that they are kissed by You reflected nothing as you pulled away from my lips Your hands still wrapped around my waist Tugging at my jacket’s zipper Because I already bare my soul, so why not bare my body, too For you…I wouldn’t have thought twice Following the advice of my two best friends, I was more naughty than nice for once in my life I went in for the **** and I got Stabbed Clearly it was a simple and sincere mistake to make Out with your best friend and into the pants of her closest classmate, mister I-don’t-date-friends: I hope you’re happy how this ends. The sea swallows the sun Leaving only but a pale orange afterglow.
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May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
Last Sunset
The frothy waves reflect everything As they are kissed by the pale blue sky and the liquid gold that descends on the horizon The waves start of as graygreen, then white as they crest And as they extend for their five second lifespan on the dark sand They turn a brilliant baby blue touched with a burning orange of the now fading sun. I watched and waited Anticipated what might happen when you pulled into the parking lot Cold hands shoved deep into my pockets, feeling around for what I was supposed to say Ideas ping-ponged back and forth but no poetry escaped my pursing lips Even as you pulled into the parking lot, Let your engine cough and sputter like all the things that I tried to say to you that night Tried to hide inside myself as I sat in the passenger seat Confused, conflicted, jaded, manipulated I let my mouth run like the Nile, But it didn’t matter a word I said… You were beautiful like the ocean But unlike the frothy waves that reflect the pale blue sky and liquid gold that they are kissed by You reflected nothing as you pulled away from my lips Your hands still wrapped around my waist Tugging at my jacket’s zipper Because I already bare my soul, so why not bare my body, too For you…I wouldn’t have thought twice Following the advice of my two best friends, I was more naughty than nice for once in my life I went in for the **** and I got Stabbed Clearly it was a simple and sincere mistake to make Out with your best friend and into the pants of her closest classmate, mister I-don’t-date-friends: I hope you’re happy how this ends. The sea swallows the sun Leaving only but a pale orange afterglow.
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