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Karijinbba Aug 2018
Be Lost In The Call
Lord, said David, since you do not need us,
why did you create these two worlds?
Reality replied: Oh prisoner of time,
I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity,
and I wished this treasure to be known,
so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart;
its darkened back, the world;
The back would please you if you’ve never seen the face.
Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?
Yet clean away the mud and straw,
and a mirror might be revealed.
Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn’t wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
you must do a little work.
My King addressed the soul of my flesh:
You return just as you left.
Where are the traces of my gifts?
We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
This Sun doesn’t want a crown or robe from God’s grace.
He is a hat to a hundred bald men,
a covering for ten who were naked.
Jesus sat humbly on the back of an ***, my child!
How could a zephyr ride an ***?
Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.
Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
Let the caller and the called disappear;
be lost in the Call.
The mirror of reality. A wise human
Gathers a persons ***** laundry out {as a man gathers sticks and laying them on the fire a viper might show up to bite {so might an angry person whose ***** laundry is out in the open he might let out his inner peace or wrath. We all are steered by something an idea or belief that might be our triumph or our demise.. Careful what you say in anger control it or it will control you...speak no evil hear no evil see.no evil . Mirrors have hidden camaras live as if all is viewing you with a microscope let it become a habit but dont freak out be transparent ..i know it happened to me and i lost more then my temper.
Cat Fiske Aug 2015
before grade six,
when I entered junior high,
witch felt like junior low,
as it was truly the smallest formation of this lowness they try to hid underneath this word "high",
like high school is alright if you get high enough to get though the rough times,
or maybe I still didn't understand the difference between these words,
the words that hurt like he hit with a closed fist but I was lucky to only get open ones,
to feeling like someone spiked my lunch milk because these definitions make no sense, and my brain is trying so hard to grasp so many terms at once it feels as if its tripping on acid,
but no.
its just distracted,
showing me being a foll of myself again and again,
a repeated playlist of all my mistakes,
of me tripping up.
thats about as far and close to acid as ill get.
but what hurts the most is english,
this first language ******* that the tried to wrap around my mind,
but at the same time I finally learned my first english lesson,
I was in grade six,
I learned a french lesson the class before.
and each and every day I had to work to learn the things,
others were allowed to learn before me,
because teachers and school systems stole my education from me,
were I only even remember sitting in english class once because we had a sub, and I learned cursive on the first day in grade three,
but couldn't spell my name yet,
and the mess I was got messyer as I tried to commit the ink to the paper,
where it made me cry because I knew for a fact I was stupid,
and teachers who still wanted to say I was fine and not help me had the decency to say I was smart,
when they were the reasons I could not succeed.
now letters,
and the alphabet,
had no rules,
why to this day I still have not mastered spelling and cursive,
the basic reading skills you'd expect from someone my age.
im 16 and I was 6 when I could divide and multiple,
by hundreds,
thousands by the start of first grade,
the only type of math,
that made no mathematical sense,
where the ******* how'd you get your anwser questions.
being older now,
I fight back writing
look at my ******* work you stupid *****,
so I simply draw an arrow and don't get the credit,
and I leave word problems blank.
and even with doing that,
I had to of gotten everything right,
for them to wanna push me a head a grade level,
because of math,
every single ******* year oh she could go up a grade!
and then my
reading and writing scores said I should repeat a grade,
and they just left me where I was,
see math is the gate way for me,
it was my only thing I felt good about I didnt know what else to call that,
math in my heart of hearts saved my life,
its the only reason I learned any bit of english,
enough to keep up my fight,
its the only reason I belived in myself,
because with math you just have to try,
and you have to try to solve your problems,
instead of writing about them like I'm doing down,
i'm crying while im writing
because they don't see how much they hurt me now.
I just wanted to write this, im going to take this and make something else from it.
And was the day of my delight
  As pure and perfect as I say?
  The very source and fount of Day
Is dash'd with wandering isles of night.

If all was good and fair we met,
  This earth had been the Paradise
  It never look'd to human eyes
Since our first Sun arose and set.

And is it that the haze of grief
  Makes former gladness loom so great?
  The lowness of the present state,
That sets the past in this relief?

Or that the past will always win
  A glory from its being far;
  And orb into the perfect star
We saw not, when we moved therein?
JC Lucas Feb 2014
Sometimes I'm low.
and quiet
not really despondent
or depressed
just
low.

And quiet.

She says she doesn't like the desert,
says it's ugly
and I can't help but wonder
why?
And she's sometimes quiet
but never low.
I think maybe the desert is in me
and when lowness abounds
the wind whips the dunes of my soul
and shapes me as it sees fit
that wind is the sound in my ear
just
before
sleep finally takes me.

and although we wouldn't know what to do with it
even if we had it,
we will pray on for
rain.
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
I want to let you in.

On a little universal secret.

We are an exhausted pool of all the little blind, maddening

instances we confuse ourselves with;

over people and instances and places left unexplored,

for us who feel the weight of lead limbs dangling limp from

the craving of sleep;

patient waits cut short in frustrating moments of self-pity and loss,

bereft and lonely over insatiable appetites.

Over friends we keep only to abuse,

lovers never giving enough but taking everything wrongly advertised;

the needle driven deep under skin after seeing jealousies dance,

float like unreachable things,

taunt and play and roast your heart in an oven,

cooking in the promise of eventual redemption.


I want to let you in.

On a little universal secret.

Being caught alive wrapped in shrouds of your own

faint darkness is miserable.

As a flower feels the warmth of sunlight,

so quickly it droops to meet the rough earth.

We are a maddening crowd ticked off at always

being second best, runner up, participation award;

jilted contestants,

competitors making allies and lovers, sequential,

in an ongoing battle of self and image and

all the ****** up soliloquies we recite with rough tongues

to an imaginary audience of our selves and their incessant advice.


I see your facade.

And i’ll challenge it every time.

Don’t think you have never heard the whispers circling;

don’t think you go home to shut all these truths inside a box of your own,

don’t think everyone else does too.

It seems like a sordid, unfair jibe, between the ribs and spikes in your head,

to wish you were that one perpetually fortunate, lucky, charismatic creature we

worship in our private dark;

we all worship each other.

And that’s where all our collective monsters feed on us poor, poor

struggling souls.


I want to let you in.

On a little universal secret,

that you can only deny so long.

There are many of us, made to feel few,

hidden in millions and billions of tight springs

that only gather so many more of these confusing thorns.

I’m talking about us,

the ones that have to leave a ‘do not disturb’ sign

inked on our foreheads when we disappear to somewhere else

because we have to. As far as we can.

We are the people who fight for conversation first,

and always back away first not because we want to

but because our minds are thick, and sore, and so

exquisitely filled with self-deprecating jargon and patched, sewed

stitched in places clumsily,

a surgeon not paying close attention,

that fails to keep the muck from seeping out.

The pressure in our heads that makes teeth grind, eyes tear,

mouths shut dry and parched, a surge of nausea

a general lingering present future lasting feeling of unsettling nerves;

sparking blossoming dull throbs of hurt that make us bow our heads

half in physiological need and half in the self-fatigue we feel

fighting ourselves every time we rise to a challenge.


I take my meds, I think things over.

I take my meds, I think things over.

Repeat until you’re tongue-tied.


All my friends are getting wasted,

and i’m feeling lonely getting self-wasted with them.

We know abandonment like no others,

because even our minds leave us for a time,

even our very selves walk away from us like broken lovers,

hurt friends, empty strangers, sworn enemies

it lays ambush to our patterns of self, lightness,

trodden leaves melting slowly into the ground like

the cycle back to dirt and lowness again.


This is half my little secret.

But I’ll tell you in time if you’re ready.

So now I’ve let you in.

On our little universal secret.
Sara Brummer Mar 2021
Sweet, loud frog, harsh voice rising
like a climbing vine in a green world
of ponds and leaves thin as filaments.
The sad frog has never acquired
grace or flight, yet multiplies
geography of night.

You may want to be a fish
or a bird, yet there is a steady
wholeness about you, a settled
resignation of lowness –
no particular ambition.

You are a being both firm
and subtle ; with your webbed
feet you cling solidly to the
wet earth. With your perfect
camouflage, you enhance
the beauty of your verdant
surroundings.

Emperor of the archipelago
of lily pads, you astound
observers with your acrobatic
leaps. Nocturnal creature, you
are a visual enigma.

So, hold your head high
and with your rough harmony,
sing me a star-lit serenade.
When your myopic lowness makes angels appear dim
Don't call yourselves Seraphim
T Jun 2018
From days down low, to days up high.
To days where you just want to die.
Just remember, that you'll survive.

Time is an illusion, often causing confusion.
Your personality, you might consider an abnormality.
Just remember, everyone's living the same reality.

Everyone is in the same race.
Yet we pretend we're different, just to save face.
We place importance upon others discordance.
Others are a bonus, don't let them be your source of lowness.

Surrounded yourself, with those that thrive.
Distance yourself, with those that deprive.
Love yourself, the rest will follow.
That's the key to not feeling hollow.

We all have scars, just read anyone's memoirs.  
We can't change the past, so don't let it last.
Go forth with steadfast, and forget the past.
Use it as a lesson which will always last.

I believe, in that which you may not be able to conceive.
Just give it time.
Trust me, you'll be fine.
Astra Zenneth Nov 2016
I’d like to think that we’re not so different
But we, essentially, strive for different things
I might yearn for love like you do but its not what I live each day for
You might seek to prove yourself but never in the way I do
For as long as I’m important to someone
Do I deserve to breathe the air and live

At least that’s what I think
What am I without those who think I’m important
Why, I’d be unimportant
Useless even
Pointless but still adrift without a purpose
My only want is to never stop being important
But sadly my dream, along with my heart, is always crushed

Maybe that’s where we are similar
Both constantly denied the one true thing to make us happy
Denied happiness
Denied a need to live
But I could never compare myself to you

I don’t even begin to compare to you
I live as a child, always attention seeking
I try to stop it but my true self refuses to be contained or hidden
I am meaningless

I know this because it has been proven countless times
Again and again even since early childhood
Maybe some people aren’t meant to be happy
Maybe I’m not meant to be happy
Maybe I’m meant to suffer

Or maybe I’m meant to suffer for others
To give up my happiness so I can see others’
Ridiculous to deny what I already act like
I do sacrifice for other’s happiness
But there lies my lowness again

I make others happy only so I am not pointless
I care for others so they care for me
And I live in duality
Like two of me

One of me is hopeless with no reason to live
And ready to die
And the other is hopeful with knowledge that I really am not useless
Or worthless or any other condemning state of being
And I’m stuck between two realities
Both happy and dead at the same time

And now I don’t even make sense to myself.

What do I mean to you
Am I only the option
Something that exists that is kept for later convenience
A lie
Or maybe I’m not worthless
You’ll never convince me
I know I am
Ask everyone that’s ever spit in my face and walked away from me what my worth is

Maybe you can tell me what all this means
I can’t.
Even if I’ve wrote it
I’m senseless and my writing is just me throwing thoughts into my writing
without knowing If it makes sense
or if it even goes together

Maybe it all leads up to the question?
Why?

Why is it that I’ve mattered to no one?
Why is it that my happiness is always put aside by others?
Why cant I trust someone when they say they wont leave me like the rest?
I think I know

Its because the worst is always proven when they walk away
No matter what they said and promised
No matter how hard I try
No matter how much I put aside for other people
Especially myself

What I the point of even trying?
I don’t think ill ever know
But other me has hope
And when there is still hope there is no end
Maybe ill suffer till my end

Prove me wrong.
2015
jeffrey conyers Jun 2017
Justify it.
Try too.
But still it be apart of selected news.
Just saying.

When white officers **** black males.
Just notice the rate of lowness concerning the opposite.
Just saying.

Black officers shooting to death of white males stays low.
Is it because of common sense approach.
Or power of the weapon in a white officer hands.
Just saying.

A jury of fools avoid solving conflicts.
By buying into this serve and protect philosophy.
When sometimes evidence states guilt.
Yenson Oct 2020
In recognition and acknowledgement
I make you toil tirelessly away
you have to heed
I cannot be ignored

whereas I know not you or care
your anonymity or ignominy
is your concern

but tell me this
does all your toiling over me
put food on your table
and has any one ever genuflected
to you

you may continue
we are highly amused
your chattering does define you
and your status
as you were...do continue....
Emeka Mokeme Mar 2019
Call of
the spirit,
i heed.
Be alone,
alone be.
Don't let
my experience
be a
diabolical delusion
or dream
but adjectamenta
of your
richer graces.
Lowness and
debauchment be
far away
from me.
No debasement,
no debauchery
to engulf
my being.
Changed and
transformed,
is my
heart desire.
To be transmogrified,
the ultimate goal.
Grace received,
bliss to be.
Nothing more,
but beautiful life.
Love eternal.
Spirit divine,
shine forth.
You who
dwell between
the cherubim.
Eternal peace,
you give.
My heart,
at rest.
Grateful forever.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Yenson Dec 2019
To be fair, for sure the chasm is wide
in grace, in minds, in style, in reach or breeding
in their lowness, their mediocrity they all does fall
alas weak semi skilled and verbose ghosts regressives
tardy simpletons baring wonky teeth in urban revolution
brain dead mistakes reared on State-welfare snarling anarchy

Moi in enlightened grace and rarified sublimity
in esteemed value with qualities noble above mundane
barely two score years ago spooks were jiving affirmative Action
lower glass ceiling, give handicaps, at least make pretend equality
da urban bros are lagging behind, stop genocide of men-dem minds
empty rhetoric of the Ali Gs and Enimen clones faking cred la Street

Come look at me, come fight with me
I don't fit your stereotyping or tick boxes of rastas
enlightened, educated, privileged, sophisticated, well-bred
challenges all your dour senses, the one with the mind unbleached of noble birth and impeccable hereditary I frighten the hell outta hankies
the inferior cadavers hound, harass, sabotage and troll in jealous envy

Yeah, I am the giant you have to tie down
The one with the mostest, the stuff of your nightmares
so fight for your right to be backward and gloriously ignorant
lie, discredit,  misinform and dis-inform for this one knows more
makes your inferiority complexes scream in odious pain an frenzy
why wouldn't you all do what you do and miscall it red revolution
found in yellow pine
highness or lowness in tones
steepness of a roof, pitch
The young old man who dreamed of a bus load in the bank and a bed under the bridge attended a party of a wealthy friend.
He said: Why the celebration?
You got a bus load in the bank, and yet your bed costs you more than all the food you'll eat.
Why not live in a different hotel every night?
The wealthy friend said:
Scuse my Rush-un, I may be a ruin inside,
but at least I now am a high rise on the outside.
But now you have two things to lose, your money and your mansion.
So your one plus one makes two minuses.
Worry never comes singular. My high rise is royal to me.
The young old man who dreamed of a bus load in the bank and a bed under the bridge volunteered to serve the homeless a Christmas dinner.
He put a platter of chicken in front of a bearded blue eye.
He asked the blue eyed beard:
What would you do if you had a bus load in the bank?
The blue bearded eyes said:
Have a party till I farted it all away.
What's the celebration?
Scuse my Germ-un, I may be a ruin on the outside,
but at least I'm a high rise on the inside.
You're talking to His ****-All Lowness, my ruin is royal to me.
The young old man who dreamed of a bus load in the bank and a bed under the bridge got hungry and dropped in at a sandwich shop.
He ordered a club sandwich and sat down.
The shop owner brought him his sandwich and
the young old man asked him:
What would you do with a bus load in the bank?
The same as I'm doing now.
Plus give myself and others an extra.
Where's the celebration?
Scuse my Nether-Lance, I may be a one story guy inside,
but at least I'm a one story guy on the outside as well.
And that story is royal to me.
Eat your sandwich, otherwise it'll have you.

— The End —