"logistics" poems
She said she couldn't describe how she felt.
Maybe it was like having stomachaches in the Panera bathroom
or ******** about the erred logistics in the directions
or the echo of my *** on the toilet bowl.
It was probably more like asking a friend to explain the meaning of the phrase "social constructs."
It was more like that.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette **** but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round *** but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood
By Christina Ford
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
if she had asked me, then
"Do we all die?"
i would have answered in a solemn sigh:
"Of course we do."
the realism impenetrable, the grounded logistics.
she asks me now
"Can we exist in other dimensions?"
and i reply, with a taxed, drudging honesty:
"I have."
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
My name is Don Quixote Del La Mancha.
I am a knight in coat of arms
Give me my lance, give me my sword and give me my steed
Where be thy king in all of this
I wear the Royal Spanish Crown and Gold Seal of San Fernando Lavante
I solemnly swear that ***** and bounty shall rest with the king
Even the Catholic Church Christen thee for swift victory
I have signed and sealed orders to save the Princess Donselia Del Deboso
Then, I shall rescue her from the evil clutches of the windmill dragon
My chief architect, Poncho Sanchez is my right arm and canteen
He is responsible for fresh food rations, cold drink and support logistics
Sustenance sustains an army and sustenance sustains great men
A gallant foot soldier is he, and Poncho trails me like a Swiss Guard,
With his burro donkey friend, named El Donkey Camino De Blanco
As we approach the last horizon of the day, the code of chivalry shall not die
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
My heartbeat ticks like a clock on most days
the pounding of my chest reminds me I don't have much time left
I start to wonder why being shaped like an hourglass is such a good thing.
We are always running out of time.
So much so that we don't even count when we reach a mile-
in high school they train you to keep time
but somehow you always end up running and running away from it.
Other kids shamed you for not completing the mile fast enough-
but your body thanked you for not pushing it so hard.
There are days when my alarm wakes me up before the sound comes
like my body somehow knows my time for sleep has ran out.
Things are constantly running away from me-
kind of like you.
I try to slow down the hands to this clock
but as yours wrap around my waist
it only speeds things up for me
because I no longer pay attention to the sound of my heartbeat.
Yours is the only ticking I can hear on those days.
I find myself using too many metaphors
and not enough alliteration or sibilance-
or any other methods of poetry for that matter.
I am too busy organizing these thoughts too quickly
so they do not run too fast away from me.
My mind is something I'm always trying to catch-
trying to keep these emotions in order and on cue
so I don't run out of time with you.
But somehow I end up losing it,
all of it and I am on the brink of insanity again
because how can you feel secure
when you don't know how much time you are wasting
I do not want to waste all this time with you.
If I am just another hour on this clock of your life
it will be the best **** hour you will ever encounter
because the rest of mine are spent trying to place
these emotions that have run out on me.
Spent trying to learn how to keep time,
how to keep them in mind
how to not let them change who I am again.
But see these emotions are not an alarm clock-
they are a pop quiz
an erupting volcano that has been dormant for years,
a hurricane you knew was coming but you weren't sure when,
an hour of detention that goes by so painfully slow
you contemplate your entire life.
These emotions don't come every other sunday-
they don't become planted in the soil inside of me
and sprout when I water them.
They are the dust that collects under your bed
from the particles of your skin-
and you don't know they are there
until you clean out the things you've been meaning to for a while.
My life is all metaphor and not enough logistics.
Not enough order and routine-
the only thing keeping me is time
and the dust has settled again.
It had rested in the lining of my lungs
and sits in the bridge of my nose-
it won't be long until it collects and overflows
and I am dealing with the consequences of not keeping
this life in order, in detail, I made no room for cleanliness.
There is no freedom inside of this mess,
inside of this wristwatch that will not leave
even when I try to cut it off.
The ticking of the clock is all I hear-
it aligns perfectly with the sound of my heartbeat.
I fear it will stop ticking
I fear I will stop feeling
I fear this heart will stop beating.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
The male tortoise was quite harried,
more than that hurt,
not being able to get
the logistics right,
to copulate with its mate,
even after repeated attempts,
in which the girl did her best!
The keeper of his cage
and other men stood
as mute spectators,
looking the other way
acting coy,
offering no help.
**How could he know
that they didn't want
to be seen
as a zoophilous lot!**
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
People of Wal-Mart:
what the **** is wrong with you?
You are reducing our lives
and prices in unison...
Today, in passing, i saw on T.V.
a special report: a year
after super-storm Sandy, New Jersey
still hasn't gotten its
sand dunes back.
This is news?
It took 5 years for the
Gulf Coast to begin recovering
from Hurricane Opal.
No national headlines about
Okaloosa Island a year later.
It was flat. It didn't
used to be.
A year after Hurricane Katrina,
all i heard was that Kanye West
thought President Bush didn't
care about black people. But
Wal-Mart helped with logistics
deliveries. Because Bush asked (kind of).
We basically lost a major city
that time.
Where was our airborne toxic event?
Our 15 minutes post mortem?
Thanks for helping, Wal-Mart.
But this is all your fault.
Because without cheaper stuff,
the People of Wal-Mart
would still be able to think.
They would know that
consumerism is great, but also
that it is an identity crisis.
A buzz in their heads.
Our nation fights wars
for capitalism,
but our soldiers fight
for their lives.
So i will see you on
Black Friday, Wal-Mart.
We are dying here in the
South, we have to save
a penny where ever we can.
And, People of Wal-Mart, don't forget:
No president cares about any individual.
The greater good prevails.
And **** your sand dunes, New Jersey.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
I didn't expect such an eloquent piece of work to slip from your mouth,
An amazing set of words put together as intricate an atom bomb,
Or as an improvised explosive device, so i see,
Thus I must be careful where i tread my glass slippered feet,
and be aware of what breath of words expels from my lips.
I never expected such a skill set of destruction and warfare,
From a beautiful mouth, so deceptive, that it almost seems,
you are an undercover lover,
both beneath the sheets, and between distinguished conversations,
regarding such tentative ideals of love and the ambiguity of trust.
A terrorist it seems amongst the ranks with a finger on the trigger,
with a finger on my lips, and a whisper hush in my ear.
It seems i was blind to your type of sweet deception;
There are codes i didn't understand, and my mind was melting,
from the heat of your touch and the sublime twist of your hips.
I can see your eyes ready to deploy a subterfuge of promises,
as they look into the distance calculating the logistics,
of this moonlight illicit flit of passion;
Never did i expect such an eloquent transpose of intentions,
Even remarkably as this feels like the Romeo and Juliette of modern times.
I am the 'x marks the spot' in no-mans-land it seems,
I am the calm after the storm in the aftermath of your expostulation,
You, my love, are a sublime soldier in this battlefield we call 'togetherness'.
No-one asked you to go to this infernal devastating war;
Yet i long for your return from the eternal, internal battle,
you fight between your heart and your head.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:38 PM UTC
I'm not ashamed of my feelings.
I'm in love with all this anger,
obsessed with this depression,
crazy about my anxiety.
I'm not ashamed of my hatred,
the way it boils up inside of me,
the way it bubbles and spills over.
I hate politics,
I hate race,
I hate religion.
I don't discriminate.
I hate everyone equally.
We are all worthless,
robots with a pulse.
We are all equally worthless,
none of us special,
all of us the same,
dying each and every day,
one at a time.
I'm not ashamed of what I think.
I'm not lost in a world of new technology,
I'm not a teenager with silly problems,
I'm not suicidal,
simply because I wonder
what it would feel like
to taste the metal of a gun
in my mouth.
I'm not a *****
simply because I enjoy ***
I'm not eternally ******
I'm not worried about
heaven or hell.
I'm not worried about death,
sweet release that it is.
I'm not afraid of these things,
these thoughts and feelings.
I'm not a dreamer
and I'm not a realist.
I'm lodged in the logistics
of culture and society.
I'm free falling
between atheism and existentialism.
Hate me for not believing
in God or humanity.
Hate me for loving only myself.
Hate me for saying
what you have probably felt
but never actually said.
Hate me.
I dare you.
Jul 31, 2010
Jul 31, 2010 at 4:15 AM UTC
I counted the ambulances as they glided swiftly by
screeching painful pitches at the cars who were now anxiously parting the pavement sea for the savior's convience or just because they have people that they love & the possibility of a home hitting tragedy shocks their entire bodies.
I sat all pensive and overwhelmed once I got to number ten, recalling all of the times the bad news was delivered nervously to me by a man in a truck lugging red sirens just like the ones flashing before me. That desperate ring, too identifiable to us all creates an eerie silence like a funeral song. Not because of the way it cuts the airwaves but because of the memories it instantly plays back to us.
We all know why an ambulance comes & none of us want to be the one curled up in bed a week from today, crying at the light as it pours through the shutters, sick from a void that aches with every move.
Everyone is reaching for their cellphone.
"Please I need to hear your voice. Tell me
you're okay" & then you see the panicked
lady in the lane beside you who
was directed to voicemail.
I'm so sorry
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
Each mind is situated on the spectrum of belief and reality.
Both ends suffer in their search for the truth.
The man who spends his life navigating the spiritual realm.
He attempts to find the greater purpose for everything.
Every blade of grass, each eroded stone a symbol of something bigger.
The nuances of life analysed and expanded upon to their very limit.
Given meaning in the name of God or the foreshadowing omen of an individual.
The man who traverses reality, grounded in science and logistics.
His mind filled with hypotheses.
Observing outcomes to explain the inexplicable.
He fits his grass and stones into the puzzle of a greater system.
In doing so he is God and the purpose for all things he assigns.
Both men strive to be the voice heard by the masses.
Their findings recorded, read, believed.
In the end does it truly matter.
Two lives spent.
Kneeling, yearning for some kind of affirmation that their time was spent correctly.
That they added anything to the greater scheme.
Pages upon pages filled with every detail in a grain of sand.
The end comes, the ink runs, the pages wither to dust, knowledge lost, purpose forgotten.
The world keeps turning.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
until managing to raise,
saw through lace,
reality, a piece of mind,
distracted.
words of seeds,
logistics of moving
came commonplace.
working,
all will be well.
sbm
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 3:21 AM UTC
I remember being young and thinking I would have my life together when I was older.
That I was going to grow up and at some magical point, life would get better. Because I would be an adult and as an adult I would have infinite choices.
Infinite control.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the naivety of children protects them from foresight. They can’t think about the logistics.
Only the beginning and ending of dreams - never flanked with concern of the pathway in between.
Thus, as a child, I thought I would grow up, gain a sense of control, and have it all together. That I would be able to stop my parents from fighting, work a really fun job, and hang out with my brother on weekends. As a child, that’s honestly how I saw the world. I thought that the problems encountered by adults could be easily fixed because they were adults and they had control.
But I was wrong.
Death, among many other things, cannot be fixed.
I think that these beliefs held by children can be so strong that no matter how many adults tell them life is hard, they just can’t believe it. A sense of innocence so dense in nature protects children. They are so dearly sheltered, so entirely shielded from reality, they can’t imagine its entirety.
Five-year-old me knew nothing about this world.
That its entirety is built upon a give and take of growing physically and shrinking mentally and emotionally.
In which biologically, cells are reproducing and hearts are pumping blood but mentally and emotionally things are breaking down and all the time pieces are being stripped away. Pieces that won’t be given back.
Ever.
It’s sort of awful really.
Because nobody realizes until it’s too late. Until you’ve seen so many people break, you start to wonder if you’ve been broken too or if you’re still waiting.
For you tests, your trials, your tribulations.
As we age, we are broken over and over, only to sometimes be rebuilt. Sometimes rebuilt better and sometimes never rebuilt at all; never fixed.
And the worst part is the realization. Looking around and beginning to see the broken bits everybody has hanging by a thread; a quick patch up so they could go to work that day.
But patch ups don't last forever.
And sometimes things break more than once.
Sometimes the same exact wounds are reopened.
And sometimes, once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t be fixed.
Like an outdated piece of technology, that part just isn’t made anymore.
And nobody ever tells you this growing up. They can’t because you’re protected.
So as you go through life, your shield begins to wear and you begin to notice.
And after noticing it, you’re suspect to watch as people break one by one.
And then you’re left to ponder the arrival of your turn.
Or wonder if it’s already happened.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
*Water color painting of her mindscape
visualized by an artist of repute
and its map, though not drawn on a scale
yet shows the topography and neighborhood,
gives a concrete idea to plan the conquest.
A route map to her heart, meticulously prepared
marking all shortcuts and blockages of passages,
that may lead to confusion and mix up
is an essential tool now at hand
A modern day marauder is just that
he has no time for sentiments of a pusillanimous lover
sentiments are bothersome, portend troubles in store
if logistics are right, plan is great, any peak will stoop,
But yes, the moon they say plays havoc,
love poems that knead the hearts, songs and music
too, if comes between, the project may go bonkers
the problem here is the reign of unpredictability
when love starts its gallop and emotions the other horses
just follow without rules whatsoever,
isn't it unwise trying to stop a dam breach?
Not even the dam breach software be of any help here,
no study is yet available on dissipating such passion,
dynamics of love is an unknown country altogether
no intelligence available is effective to move
against it and make the conquest certainly possible.*
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC
days like these
i feel comatose.
a sleeping beauty
in a coffin.
a death of eternity
..not new
or waking,
a floating enigma
defying logistics
a tiny winter scene
trapped inside a snowglobe
never changing
cold and wet
yes wet like her lips
as she strikes a damp match
didn't you know, it won't catch
warmth is gone from this place
the dark dragging days
snatching
the light
from lidless eyes.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
We are absolutely infinitely miniscule
Incredible at making insignificant changes
We are great thoughts grazing the tips of greatness
Horribly brilliant, not labeled for taking
We are so secretive and sensitive
Sly secrets mixed with fatal feelings
We are superficial, skin-deep, shallow, sketchy scars
Stories of struggle and sadness and adventure
We are tissue and tears and thoughts
Made up of toughness and heavy-duty human
We are the little light whispers of lovers
Grinning when greeted from special people
We are muscles and cells and logistics in biology books
All rolled up into one beautiful ball of humanity.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
Can you ask someone questions of an untold future? How can you ask me so emotionally? Is a future with me the logical thing to do for you.
What about passion? Will we have this? Friendship? Love? FREEDOM? Respect? Will these be included? Is that on your list too?
I need someone I know will be there through thick and thin. Someone who wants a lover as well as my best friend. Love respect freedom and support should be number one. If not I don't think the two of us will last.
Can you give this to me? Can you actually promise me a future? How do I answer? What do I say?
Someone would say that they thought they would always wait for this day.. Not so sure about me as I stare at you blankly.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
Caitlin, Courtney, Emma, and Ellen
Just a few of the girls that I know
I hit it, I quit it, forget it so quick
Their name disappears at the do'
They're here for the night and our bodies connect
At the hand, then the mouth, then the groin
This fish has been caught but my skin remains taut
Confining my soul from being joined
Until she arrives, these girls can kick back
Watch TV, relax, but leave me alone
I'll shout when I need, and grin when they leave
But grieve until my darling comes home
She'll walk through the door, I'll forget all those ******
Came by to visit or even existed
Forgive me my sins, a villain, ich bin
But simple *** is in man's logistics
Call me a chauvinist but when the days over with
I always treat my lady like a queen
The one-nighters sustain lust ingrained in my brain
But none mean a thang [sic] when I'm with that girl of my dreams
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 6, 2011 at 10:11 PM UTC
the man began by pointing at the spots on the baby’s head and then he looked to us as if we were to answer for each. he turned the baby’s head carefully- it might’ve been an old globe to him. he apologized more than once for his age pocked hands. his apologies were unsettling, each one moreso than the last. his assistant minded none of this and sat reading an upside down newspaper while curling and uncurling her bare toes at no discernible prompt. when the baby squealed the man went pale and dropped it and his coat opened and we saw his naked wrinkled middle turn to ash and we saw the baby scooped up by the feet of his assistant and then saw the baby fit in her mouth. she never moved from her chair to do the scooping or the placing and we were horrified as she righted the paper and silently admonished the man for being momentarily vacant as to the whereabouts of her shoes. he went to his fours and nosed the shoes to her feet and we said amen to the tail of his coat. the assistant then stood and as she did so the man made swallowing noises and because we’d said amen together we were able to form a search party from which we periodically broke to **********
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
I walk the gauntlet every day
As do those who have no place
Of permanency, somewhere they
Can call their private place
Self esteem and confidence
fills them with a state of grace
Their position, is not justified
For the rest to look on down
They don't look for your approval
Just don't kick them while they're down
Just think about logistics
One month's pay is just how close
Most are to not surviving
With no where left, homelessness
Is just where you'll be arriving
A person is a person
With a fundamental right,
To fair treatment and respect
And a place to spend the night
Being poor is not a career path
That someone picks in school
But, people who have nothing
Still respect the golden rule
I'll bet you half a dollar
That you really do not know
That they live and work along you
And their difference doesn't show.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
On October 17, 2006, President Bush signed into law, the John Warner Defense Authorization Act. The law allows the President to declare a “public emergency” at his own discretion, and place federal troops anywhere throughout the United States. Under this law, the President also now has the authority to federalize National Guard troops without the consent of Governors, in order to restore “public order.” The President can now deploy federal troops to U.S. cities, at will, which eliminates the 1878 Posse Comitatus Act.
This means the president holding office will control everything, including the arrest of whomever he deems threatening. All communications are controlled, all media is controlled and now the president controls DHS, the military and police.
All the joint training we are seeing between the military and police leading up to Jade Helm, it's a qualification, the police and sheriff departments are being qualified for federalization. Personnel have to be qualified first, before they can participate in joint operations (signed off). This is how the system works.
Also, the other reason for this is for tracking and supply. The government uses specific forms that are entered into the logistics and supply system. If everyone is federalized, the system runs smoothly, because everyone is government document/program number approved and recognized by the same system, not an off shoot agency that require more work to track and less benefits when supplying personnel and units.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
We have all lived these lies before.
But fortunately for you
The ungodly mystics
Have come to blur the logistics.
~Jamais vu reducing you to presque vu~
Normal adults with abnormal hearts
Bodley sensations
Perceived as memories.
Is this all consciousness seems to be?
Accept it
& venture on.
Nature lover wildflower
I am mine.
Before I am anyone else's.
Sendoff the catharsis of psychopomps
Abandon ship
Engage in privet talks with Psychonautes
Denounce the war in my mind
Between who I am and want to be.
For it’s a privlige to be a kaleidoscope
Forever changing color
Ambitious zeal
Misguided hope
Artistic creation
Misanthrope
Elegance in a nonfigurative sense,
Perceptual flashes of internal concepts
Decomposition on the Hawaiian Island
Lose of whits somewhere past the horizon.
Island fever.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
I am asking you to be kind to me.
Let me remember.
Let me dream.
For however many months,
Don't let it fade.
I've read articles, I've researched for years
The mind, the logistics of memory.
I did it out of love.
I've explored it with the singular focus of a dying man
Scouring old books for evidence
Of the Fountain of Youth.
What can I do?
A certain perfume
Worn
To jog the brain and keep a memory in tact.
A gesture or a way to breathe
That brings you back to a lost moment,
A song or maybe
Just the deliberate reconstruction
By the detail
Of a beloved face in the air before you
Although you know it isn't there.
You can train your mind
To conjure ghosts.
And I have done so with mine, over years,
Even when it turns the talent on me viciously.
Am I toying with insanity
Inviting it in?
Perhaps.
Memories are gossamer, fragile,
Like paper so thin and pale and delicate
That you can see right through
And one touch of your fingers,
Even the lightest,
Powders them to silky dust.
I've sought relentlessly
Every trick and association,
Every scientific shortcut
To keep my treasured moments close.
I've touched, willfully, every detail of every second I can recall
Touched the smallest lines and angles and
The little places where the illusion wears thin
Unable to hold the potency of reality
Only its reflection.
I have made myself touch every single moment
That I know it would be easier to leave alone-
Memories are not meant to be so scrutinized.
The price of keeping them is the uncomfortable proximity
To something good which is long past
And the peculiar grief that it will never come again.
But there are things
There are people
In this world
Simply too important, too essential
To let go of.
There are memories
Worth the unsettling work of holding them.
There are moments
I would rather die than not relive.
Please,
I know you are more extraordinary than math equations and good grades
And pages and pages of poetry.
I know that with all of our hidden corners
And how little we know about our minds
You must have a way, you must have a gift for me,
You must have a chance to keep this close.
I am asking you to be what you are.
I am asking you to let me remember.
I am asking you to send me dreams and smiles
And to never let those blue eyes fade to the sepia of old memories
But to keep the vibrance that stops my heart
Alive in my head.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
Constantly averting controversy,
Hurting from unnerving problems.
Not the worst thing I've unearthed inside,
The birth of mind-disturbing strife attacks my life, so I
Turn the knife and end the plight, cause
That's the kind of fright that strikes the right delight I see in sight.
In darkest night, sin harkens.
Vibrant demons mark their silent dealings with violence.
Screaming stops my lungs, no breathing,
Retreating feelings try to stop the gun from ringing,
But the voice inside my head that's pleading
Remains important and so appeasing.
Like a fiend I resort to that deemed purport,
A pristine contortion of me and distortion,
A means for war, hence demons worsen.
Cursed, I've seen adverse **********
Burned, at least the urn was worth it.
Dreams are but a sea of urges,
Waves of hurt; a ****** circus.
Earth was keen to be so perfect,
But dirt, it seems, reversed its purpose,
Purged of peace by scheming serpents.
Words convene to verse excursions
Terse, obscene, and birth diversion.
Learn to breathe when yearn disperses,
Purely seek to preserve incursion.
When earnest deeds immerse subservience,
Evil creeds are sure to surface,
But thoughts serene will soothe the burdens.
Heaps of greed control these words,
Though, predisposed in certain versions.
Weeds they grow in fields of ferns, and,
No one seems to know the urgence.
Flowing streams bring treacherous currents,
Twists and turns that reap insurgence.
Since discernment keeps deterrents,
Court the beast with immense observance,
Or disease will curse life's brief occurrence.
Treat the deepest ravine of courage
With leniency so peace emerges.
Dreams are but a grieving circus,
That creep beneath your bleeding surface,
Seizing leagues of zealous verbiage,
Leaving hurt to skirt loves purpose, return concernment;
Submerge the cures for feeling worthless.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 2:28 PM UTC