"manufacture" poems
Establish a research and development facility tasked with recycling 100,000 commonly used household goods or packaged products back into the original base material needed to remake it into new product packaging. Pass legislation requiring all companies selling products with packaging to buy their source materials from a registered public-private venture allowing any firm willing to participate to do so. Companies must then manufacture packaging locally using source materials supplied by one of the public-private companies. Companies will also be required to hire locally using a diversity and economic income model incorporating or locating the participating companies in the poorest rural counties in the state.
Society grows great when Old Men plant trees. -Socrates
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 7:46 PM UTC
xxxxxxx
Lonely I am not anymore,
Obvious was the need of a companion,
Tears used to roll down as if I chop an onion,
Unending is the happiness in this poem,
Sadness, I have forgotten you.
I now manufacture more happiness,
Shying away from smiling is nonsense.
Thoughts of mine finally orient east,
Heavy thoughts morph into light ones,
Estuary of sadness into a sea of gladness.
Becoming one with her, I am,
Expanse of the rising sun beckons me,
Sit we shall with one another,
Thickets of Selection Grass await her.
xxxxxxx
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 6:19 AM UTC
(from “A Love Song” by William Carlos Williams)
<•>
familiar that apple google and amazon
have me under 24 hour surveillance
e-specially now
as I am in their
geosphere of influence
but sending me a love poem of WCWs that isolates my locale, my intended inebriation status,
and is addressed to me personally (“you”),
that’s just creepy
so charged am I, obligated to oblige,
to counter-compose a love song of mine own,
under the pinot “influence,”
(in a manner of speaking)
which a love taught me to love
what if,
a new love song ecrit,
to an old and loverly land,
a woman-land designed to be desired,
no difference -
kissing a new girl first time,
a wet and unforgettable
compote
when falling
on the neck of your one beloved anew renewed
now I tremble-tread
for the line of great predecessors,
“the land lover scribes”
skilled in natures homaging,
is like a line out the door,
around the corner as if
a new flavor ice cream
has just been isolated and mined and I...
<•>
*I,
but a novitiate
in a far away, wild untamed world
where my nature taken by her nature
cannot deny paying my just due:
selvage
late middle English, from self + edge
how perfect!
“an edge,
woven on a fabric during manufacture,
intended to prevent unraveling”
the pacific coast air
the irregular shoreline - expanding/receding,
god’s own forestry reserve,
the cascades, a goal on the horizon,
country roads where ancient wheat stalks grow wild
all a tonic intermingled, an alcohol to
imbibe through mouth nostrils eyes and skin
all will be my own selvage!
preventing the eastern unraveling disease,
a nearly incurable permafrost low grade
kate spaded infection,
brought along with me for decades,
my loon June companion, now stalling out,
lost from my happy head
a vineyard on every corner,
marijuana growing next door,
rivers that change like children growing up and down,
cheek to jowled property line
live the berries and the hazelnut groves,
god’s hay bales wrapped in plastic
like marshmallows dotting the landscape*
all daring you to say
I could
love
it here
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
There's an apocalypse coming
And we get to choose which kind
Just listen to the meanings and open your mind
One means revealing
One means demise
Are we gonna keep stealing
Or are we going to open our eyes
We're killing the earth inside and out
Instead of trusting our hearts, we are living in doubt
We can love each other and change the path of the planet
We need to grow our own food, raw and organic
We can't just manufacture everything, process, and can it
Stop the GMOs, pesticides, and factory farming
What it's doing to the planet is absolutely alarming
They create lakes of blood and an earth of toxins
If you read the clock then
You'll see that it's time to change, this isn't how it's supposed to be
We should be living together in a sustainable community
One that helps, nurtures, and loves
One that plants trees and gardens and shrubs
It's time to bring about our utopia of the future
We need to get rid of the lies, the hate, and the torture
Wars, jealousy, and competition have to end
It's time for us to forgive, it's time to transcend
To our new world, our kingdom of heaven
Just read your clock its 11:11
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
Art is opinion masquerading as truth.
When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist.
Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher,
and should not be the end of the penman.
When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth
It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past;
whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall
Descriptive yet lies
Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ********** of thought, that leftover dream of God
That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
You can literally manufacture it in a chemistry lab;
There are formulae and measurements of hormones that add up
To this supposedly tangible entity
A nicely brewed test tube
Of elaborately named chemicals
The very thing that makes you tremble in your skin,
That has caused wars and set ships assail
Confined to a liquid in a glass container
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
The right winter
for dope and ice
for walks along the river route
home
The right winter
for arctic pin-prick wind
holes in boots
turquoise dress coat
far too thin
for walks along the river
But The Merrimack couldn’t find her way
when fabric moguls migrated south
Fascinated by nylon nasties
they traded their silks and cottons
for those petro-polyesterdays
While she—
could no more manufacture life
than mint their money
So, they blamed her
Pronounced her—“Dead”
Decried her *****
Now—
She wanders sadly under bridges
stopping to eddy in an overhang of birches
In dank canals, I found her sleeping
angered only at the falls
Poor outcast!
with current edge she splinters light
from cities sadder still
retching her oily stench
past Plum Island
into the sea— into me
What’re a few warm tears
falling from someplace on a bridge
to the icy waters of the Merrimack?
Rivers get lost in the ocean don’t they?
Let them find each other there
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
for Harlon Rivers
the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent
it is all of these and not one
he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river
transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully
as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly
his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,
searching revisionary pathways
directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves
thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait,
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position
in him,
my own histories,
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication
this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others
but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers
<•>
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
Life reduced to a ticking clock,
As shriveled men desperately clasp
To slick tomes filled with diagrams
Of shadowy glass towers, convoluted machines
And factories with a singular purpose:
To manufacture their own existence.
The Plague spreads to druidic forests
Where those who simply existed
Overcome with glutinous ambition
Demolish those majestic columns
Which supported equilibrium
While the world gleefully cheers.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
Yet I Am Ready
Watching the waves eat away the castles made of sand
Staring at the way wind is churning at infrastructure land
like a big bad wolf who found the fear and lean foundation of a brick house
I am ready for her hand
I am all ready
Traversing fields filled with fruitless wonders
burning tundras rolling thunders
A Man attempting to put out its grand made funeral pyre
with nothing but a Jack and Jill bucket filled with reverse osmosis electrolyte infused hydrogen oxygen expired prayers
I am Ready for no man land
I have a radio already
Listening to Nokia raven chirps and bubble bee gyrations.
Evergreens whispers as wild blooms break concrete and asphalt and building plans
giving smiles to homeless man and woman
dreamers flowering in the night lights that were supposed to replace stars
I am ready
for the woods to takeover the hoods
for bear feets to take over the streets
for napkins to become extinct
to write with my god-given red ink
so that my being will dye into stone and dirt
To leave my DNA on my mothers belly and hear her cry
As she covers my mouth closes her eyes tearful from radioactive winds
let her know that I loved her and hugged her every chance I could
I am ready to give up me for we have not given back enough
We have devoured the essence and forgotten how to seed and harvest
the nothing has become us
which is why Earths flesh is colored rust
like blood mixed with scratching dust
we have bruised the body
and wonder if we can blame something someone else
but US
Every time the finger points the object of our deflection disappears
Rearrange the letters she was trying to help us HEARt
Rearrange the letters EARth is trying to make us Heart
I'm trying to make us Ear
These MTHFCKRS are among US.
We have bred them with our love lust
still unaware that they a fungus
These MTHRFCKRS have become US
they save a life to **** it from us.
they manufacture fakes to stunt us
These MTHRFCKRS have become US
Ideas devoid of what we need to come up
She must go now and rip it from us
We must shed our blood just to fund us
Cause these MTHRFCKRS have out done US
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 5:58 AM UTC
12/30/2013
I Met the **** Hater
Have you ever seen someone so beautiful
that you felt like crying?
Have you ever felt so utterly Disgusted by someone
that you wished they were dying?
Do you think I feel gay guts and gayness in my genes?
Or did society manufacture me - one of their gay liberal machines.
I'm not sure which is better,
Either way you'll make me a martyr.
But I'll be your Hester Prynne baby
with my Big Gay Letter.
I cannot erase
that look on his face.
when he told me **** **** Go Away.
I'll punch you in the face just for being Gay.
A separation of message and mind.
Hateful judgment is not hard to find.
When I stand in the shower,
or sit down on a park bench,
I'm a **** to him clear as gay.
It's like he thinks I ate some magic flower.
My girlfriends don't fare much better - to him called a bar *****
This guy is the part of society that makes being gay scary to say.
He thinks Gays making out in public can't be allowed.
He thinks Legalized gay marriages should be disavowed.
He thinks Animal *** ********** and ****** are because of gays.
He thinks Gay **** between two women might be more okay.
He thinks *** should **** more gay people.
He thinks Criminalizing ****** would make things more equal.
He thinks Adam's choice of Eve or Steve is all that matters.
He doesn't care about myself, or your heart's fragile rathers.
This man is the **** Hater.
Not a rare breed at all.
He could be your waiter,
or your teacher,
maybe even your sales assistant at the mall.
I Met the **** Hater,
while I made out with a guy at the bar.
The **** Hater was kinda old, yet strong and tall.
But I didn't fall
down.
or become dehumanized.
When I caught a glimpse of his face
and saw that utter look of Disgust
that I just cannot erase.
I saw it in his face - the **** Hater's
'Homo Hate.'
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
To Ezra Pound
These are the names of the companies that have made
money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight Annodomini fourthousand
eighty Hebraic
These are the Corporations who have profited by merchan-
dising skinburning phosphorous or shells fragmented
to thousands of fleshpiercing needles
and here listed money millions gained by each combine for
manufacture
and here are gains numbered, index'd swelling a decade, set
in order,
here named the Fathers in office in these industries, tele-
phones directing finance,
names of directors, makers of fates, and the names of the
stockholders of these destined Aggregates,
and here are the names of their ambassadors to the Capital,
representatives to legislature, those who sit drinking
in hotel lobbies to persuade,
and separate listed, those who drop Amphetamine with
military, gossip, argue, and persuade
suggesting policy naming language proposing strategy, this
done for fee as ambassadors to Pentagon, consul-
tants to military, paid by their industry:
and these are the names of the generals & captains mili-
tary, who know thus work for war goods manufactur-
ers;
and above these, listed, the names of the banks, combines,
investment trusts that control these industries:
and these are the names of the newspapers owned by these
banks
and these are the names of the airstations owned by these
combines;
and these are the numbers of thousands of citizens em-
ployed by these businesses named;
and the beginning of this accounting is 1958 and the end
1968, that static be contained in orderly mind,
coherent and definite,
and the first form of this litany begun first day December
1967 furthers this poem of these States.
December 1, 1967
3.8k
It had to be a yes
It coulda been a sure
There ain't no way to know why don't you go and ask the *****
I'll blame it on the Drinks
no matter what you thinks
**** it up to having fun outside of roller rinks.
Blame it on my Dad
add up all he had
Never had the time talk but yo he wasn't Bad.
But Don't blame it on the ra rah rah raw ape Culture!
Blame it on the hips
the rubbing and the dips
**** a rubber neways it woulda ****** ripped
I asked that ***** twice
don't I sound nice
Check my stats wow Now you know she wanna slice
Hey Hey it wasn't me, It's spaghetti strapped tees
skirt above the knees
my eyes are steady sayin please
I can't control my blink
they way you dress in pink
I'm the best to women no matter what they ****** think
But Don't blame it on the Rap ra ra raw ape Culture!
I saw you from a far
you walked up to the bar
It must have been a sign from god so now your in my car
Of course you are a tease
there's no way that I could leave
A damsel in distress in need of what I gotta see
No one believes that I
could
ever be apart
of
something had to make me
act that way
(YOU)
ain't me
It Won't happen again
boo
believe me cause
I need too
hold on to my status
as the baddest
of the good dudes
So I'll Blame it on the Dress
Girl I won't confess
Blame it on my Name
that got you feeling all that shame
or you can Blame it on the Ra Rah rah Raw ape Culture.
Blame it on the Ra rah Rah raw ape **** Culture.
Blame it on the Drinks
forgetting what you think
Blame it on the Money
cause we all could use some Honey,
Blame it on the Ra Rah rah Raw Ape **** Culture
Blame it on the ra Rah ha ha ha Raw ape Culture!
Soon You'll be a wake
have time to contemplate
No matter what you do
they'll favor me before you
Say whats on your mind
Sell your rhyme to Time
Manufacture a movement
hashtag a catchy tag line
I objectify ya body cause I'm picking up the tab
calling you a goddess but I'll never call a cab
Tell'n me ya problems my shoulder is your tissue
would it make it better If I just got with you
the scratches on ya body are old bf issues
Even Judge and Jury will straight up diss you
So you can Blame it on my Dad
The one I never had
Blame on the rain
*** you faking just for fame
You can
Blame it on the Ra ra rah Raw ape **** Culture
Blame it on the Ra ha ha ha ha **** Culture.
I'm saying what you want
You didn't look that drunk
I make you feel good bout your body
Call me Trump
My hands are all up on you
but you didn't run so I got you
and
I'll blame it on the Stress
the money and success
I'll blame it on the way you looked
standing by my desk
So Blame it on the Ra Rah Rah Raw ape **** Culture
Blame it on the Ra ha Rah Ha ha Haha **** Culture....
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
What failures
oh the failures of leaving home at seventeen
of living and thriving as a minority foreigner
of working and studying to post-grad levels
of maturing wonderfully and being up and decent
of loving and marrying and creating a good home
of no crime, no debts, not a drunk, not a player
of no stained reputation, no borrowing or theft
of being easy-going, nice and friendly, an all-rounder
what failures
the failure of being successful and capable in grace
the failure of doing so well a white neighbor burgled
the failure of saying that's not right, you're rotten thieves
the failure of standing up to bullying thieving mobs
the failure of being gangstalked and destroyed
the failure of being an educated professional black
the failure of being a solid, courageous, wholesome man
the failure of knowing you can't do wrong and get by
Ladies and Gentlemen
these are my failures
Its all there in black and white
its the failure of being a minority
In the british democracy of the Socialists
for it is greed to work hard and be successful
its a failure for blacks to aspire and do well when your white
neighbor is a drunken, welfare dependent waster and thief
And Blacks beware, for if you dare tell them to go change
you will be stalked, hounded, smeared, defamed, humiliated
harassed, bullied, slandered, sabotaged, and basically driven to
suicide or a breakdown
They manufacture Failures to reflect their own failures
They call it Trading Places and dish it out to 'Uppity' Blacks
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
She
stops at the isle of gold lane and haze
holding her head up whine and gaze
that haughty look wander in space
She
Frowns
unhappily
on a bench across the street
intense perplexity
under her clouds
in a dark city
She
pouring arrogance
egocentric maiden
fear her own imperfection
He
"She's in manufacturing business"
"What does she manufacture?"
Unhappiness
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
My human body
stings of age
ache and pain
My human bone
breaks
My human strength
decays
My human form
twists, deforms
courts mirrors
My anxious nerves
burn
My fragile heart
stops
Make my limb
Make my life long
Take my parts
Make me evolve
make my limb
make my life long
make my heart
beat, eternal
I long for painlessness
Bless this beautiful ship I control,
but I would trade the ephemeral
flesh, bone, blood and marrow
to the first back alley broker
of cheap plastics I meet
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 8:29 PM UTC
Quite admirable , awe-inspiring , a divine piece of manufacture
It’s capriciousness is an equivalent of swooning of rapture
This carpet conveys itself as flawless , the fragrance is pleasant
The glossy finish generates a yearning to have it present
The blissful texture is mesmerizing , subject to perfect knitting
Not to mention it’s size is perfectly fitting
~
Though the alternative side seems worn and tattered
And the fabric surrounding is scattered
There are pockets and splits
There are strewed fiber bits
Along the edges are multicolored spots
And the yarn had formed knots
~
At that point the onlooker would become flustered helplessly
Were they to take it into their tenancy ?
Sure it was depleted
And maybe it was slightly untreated
Though it was equally handsome
Despite it’s opposing filthy expansion
~
Then the beholder would ponder a tad
And realize the flaws weren't so bad
They were to be contemplated abnormally
Though as well stood out morbidly
The allotment seemed now suitable
And each side was mutable
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Caught somewhere between my vision of Hell and yours,
I was shown the truest meaning of the place.
Where an eager mind and playful soul is forced to all fours,
And told that they mustn't wear their true face.
They manufacture devils in the name of social grace.
They'll strip you of your pride and **** you to your core,
And it isn't done until you've been cast to the rat race,
Just to be reminded that your life's become a bore.
But I won't be a cog within their cold and ****** machine;
No, I'll never let them chip away who I am for their fair trade.
They manufacture devils, yet have the gall to call me mean.
I say I'm every bit the demon that you ******** made!
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 4:37 AM UTC
Put me on your assembly-line.
Manufacture me limb by limb.
Make me transparent to all of the pain I used to know,
love me like the back-beat to your favorite songs,
let your passion move me,
and I will
do the
same.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
The Pill
Called up big Pharma,
Sad and depressed,
I told them straight out:
Dudes, I need a new karma.
*NO problem they cheerfully replied,
(later I wondered, which pill they were on)
We custom make, haute couture, drug-design,
Mood enhancers, in little canisters,
You need only supply the cash and the system vascular!
Your soul's desire?
To be a better wilder, rambler,
Or a life calmer, better anchored?*
I know what I want, exactly,
A pill that removes
Specific words
From the frontal lobe temple
Verbal storage center.
*NO problem! (so cheery it was kinda scary)
Which words would you like to have
Exorcised, annihilated, irradiated, confiscated?*
I list from below, from side to side,
Let not one be denied,
Bury them all in nether-lands,
Swamp them under mountains of
Granite and sand,
Banish them from my lexicon.
How much do you charge?
But one dollar per word.
The list I emailed complete,
Herein I reprint.
Scars Pain Wound Strain Torture Anguish
Disfigure Damage Mar Mutilate Maim Blemish Deface Damage Ruin Distress
Afflict Trouble Wound Torment Agonize Sad Suffer Sting Throb
Torture Torment Despair Suffer Distress Hurt Vex Trouble
Ache Hurt Misery Woe Bitterness Misery Agony Bitter
Heartache Afflict Hurt Cut Loathing Shatter Broken
Alone Bleed Struggle Self-destruct Monster
Nightmare Cornered Darkness Horror
Loner Confused Goodbye Suicide
Slash Cut Desolate Submerge
Dissipate Dead Stinking
Enough.
Awaiting my concoction sweet,
When an answer they begat,
A response forthcoming, indeed was snubbing!
**Dear Sir/Madam,
We regret to inform you that we are unable to manufacture
Said item. Removal of these words would be a violation of
Federal Poetry Laws.
Sadly yours,
Big Pharma
P.S. Are you the author of "Yo! Yo! Warning: the government is reading your poetry! (Metadata Mining This Site) on HP?"**
P.P.S. Please do not contact us anymore.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
Whether storms are all numbered, counted, and expelled from heaven's manufacture as sensational, furious strands of wind and rain, who can say? As they arrive, however, it is nonetheless clear that they arrive as effects to sets of circumstances.
I sat up straight as an arrow, freshly awakened from a stirring dream of madness as the latest one arrived, watching the black clouds like mighty arms, struggling and arguing against the trees outside my bedroom window. I had been torn by an invisible hand clutching me by the throat, snatching me from the murk of an ephemeral bedroom.
Engulfed in unsatiated fear, powerless to convulse even the tiniest flesh patch or creak a bone, my body was wrapped in only a gray silken **** cloth. As I lay awake, speechless, thunderbolts cracked.
As I was rendered helpless to petrification, I was surrounded by strike after strike, a confounding series of white bolts striking seven times in each place, following a path of concentric circles around my small bed.
I struggled to move, feeling a moving static across my body like jellyfish stings from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, as I felt the cold chill from each bolt setting my face into a freezing strangulation.
I was pulled away. I faded away from the smoking holes surrounding the bed, the sub-zero chill outside and the torturous heat of fear and arrhythmia pumping spews and spurts through my arteries inside, and I was left to wander in my own fantasia as I stared up to the ceiling above me in my real bed, daydreaming of its meaning in epistomological fashion.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
I've seen the world and explored sacred places.
I've opened all my senses.
Seen its beauty and overwhelming glory.
These rose colored lenses.
I've read every book and heard every story.
Spared no expenses.
You might think I'd be happy and content.
Tonight I've realized.
There is one thing missing from my life.
One thing I'll never find with my hands nor buy with my sweat.
One thing impossible to manufacture or imitate.
I've found it before.
Dwelled in it for a moment.
I can't stay forever. But knowing you exist.
I'll be back for more.
It's everything I've adored.
Without i grow untame and bored.
It's what our connection is built on.
It's where our shared spirit was born.
You've shown me your raw nature.
It's pure form.
Your capacity to nurture.
Entwined spirits, our rough edges now smoothed and worn.
My shell you've broken to free me.
A welcomed moment of destruction.
We've tread through the shallow waters of superficiality.
Certainly we've made our introduction.
The soil beneath my feet shifts.
A stumble turned roll.
Down this mountain so steep.
Take me into you. And together
we'll roll in the deep.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
what is this love
for I have beheld it
cast in metamorphosis
a love that makes
transformations on the mind
permissible transformations
improvisations of the self
in ****** intensity
which emphasises the drama
of sometimes, dark, violent
and repressive potentials
vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment
of intense and exhausting experience
of vigorous vertiginous chaos
indomitable in its desires
what is this love
is it a registered predicament
made memorable by vivid language
that would butcher in ritual
gratuitous memories and testify
to an urgency of unwisely relinquished emotion
what is this love
does it flourish in flawed
and unreasonable understandings
accumulated upon the mind
in vicarious thrill of sympathy
where traits are highly exaggerated
and eagerly anticipates
the oppressive weight of the past
that functions upon a common collapse
of distinctions
or does it manufacture artificial precepts
pretending in attractive collaboration
to associate fiction rather than fact
what is this love
is it that by treaty or inheritance
with loving ferocity would embalm all tears
and hide all those collaborations
in flared conflagrations of the heart
and yes create a turmoil in the mind
hotter than a thousand summers
and vividly stamp upon a twisted body
a moral viciousness of fathomless malice
that wouldst close its ears
to the admonitions of conscious
and thus through an improbable
incantatory verbal rite
touch the hidden order of all things
in disassembling nature
what is this love
if only it was known
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
.to have gained so much through a process of loss is a meandering truth to my life. the relationships i build, manufacture..become processed. an unreal version of the way life was supposed to be. for me anyways. where has the real "grit" gone to. the granules of momentum in mind and heart. to be willing to overcome the self pity, to go the distance, to be you. i look around, peer into the eyes of others and see a smog. a stream of tar. thick with loathing and disdain. for what reason do we allow ourselves to become these wandering entities? we do not deserve this life, this body, this chance if we are going to let it become stagnant, flat, static. i much rather let reclusive acts take me away, than to be consumed in the negativity, the natural downturn. don't grasp onto the cruel aspects of life, live through them and continue by appreciating the grace that has been given to you through such turmoils. love whom you choose to love with all of your sacred heart. you have an endless pit of this emotion as long as you are strong enough to witness the miracle of forgiveness. be one with you. be you. dont leave pieces of you lying about. you are the morning the after noon, the evening and the night. the blossoming sun, and the face in the moon. you are eternity if you wish upon it. wish.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC