"masterful" poems
I want to sneak up behind you and grab you
I want to slowly unbutton you blouse as I kiss the back of your neck
I want to undo your bra, exposing your perfect *******
I want to kiss your neck and **** on your ear as I slide one finger up and down your ***** slit and oinch your rock hard *******
I want to rub your **** making your body vibrate
I want to **** tease your ****** with my tongue before ******* your amazing **** as I slide my finger slowly inside you
I want to lay you down and feed you my throbbing **** as i continue to slide my finger deeper and faster, rubbing your **** until you explode
I want to rub your juices all over your ******* and areola and ******* as I continue to slide my **** down your throat until I explode down your throat
I want to slide between your legs and seperate your ***** lips with my fingers before I slide my tongue slowly inside you
I want to continue to lick your sweet ***** making your body quiver and your back arch as I alternate between licking, lapping and *******
I want to slide one finger inside your tight ***** feeling your muscles tighten around my finger and one finger in your tight *** as I focus all my attention on your **** with my masterful tongue, lapping soft and slow, then hard and fast until I feel you ready to explode
I want to **** your **** just as you begin to ****** and your bury my head into your sweetness, nearly drowning me in your juices
I want to stand over you and slide my throbbing **** up and down your ***** slapping your **** with my swollen head
I want to look you deep in your eyes as I slowly enter you, becoming one with you, rubbing your **** as I continue to pump myself deep inside you, watching your amazing **** bounce with each ******
I want to kiss you passionately as **** you hard and slow until you *** all over my pulsating ****
I want to stand up, taking you by your hair and put you on your knees so you can taste your ***** juices off of me
I want to bend you over and slide my hard **** deep inside you from behind as I spread your *** cheeks and lightly spank your beautiful ***
I want to tease your *** with my thumb as I **** you slowly from behind
I want to work my thumb into your *** as I begin to **** you deeper and harder until I grab your hips and pound your doggie style until I feel you ready to *** again
I want to explode with you, filling your ***** with my load as you continue to cream all over my ****
I want to collapse onto the bed with you, wrapped in each others arm, completely naked and satisified, until.... 26
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC
—and not simply by the fact that this shading of
forest cannot show the fragrance of balsam,
the gloom of cypresses,
is what I wish to prove.
When you and I were first in love we drove
to the borders of Connacht
and entered a wood there.
Look down you said: this was once a famine road.
I looked down at ivy and the scutch grass
rough-cast stone had
disappeared into as you told me
in the second winter of their ordeal, in
1847, when the crop had failed twice,
Relief Committees gave
the starving Irish such roads to build.
Where they died, there the road ended
and ends still and when I take down
the map of this island, it is never so
I can say here is
the masterful, the apt rendering of
the spherical as flat, nor
an ingenious design which persuades a curve
into a plane,
but to tell myself again that
the line which says woodland and cries hunger
and gives out among sweet pine and cypress,
and finds no horizon
will not be there.
9.2k
To close enough to whisper is something I shouldn't consider.
She's prays on lonely hearts, I can feel her, she's a masterful kisser.
Any part of her body can touch your skin and make you shiver.
To resist her, it's like taking off your jacket in a Siberian winter.
She'll get into your blood like an infection.
She's the most powerful temptation.
I call her the queen of affection.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
*hitherto i naively challenged
my decision to enter an ominous existence
a vicious maze veiled in obscurity
inconceivable to navigate without the accumulation
of bruises, heartache, and psychic mutilation
the torment’s ache so unfathomable
i begged to evaporate beseeching death’s arrival
and with the dexterity of a masterful wizard
i magically spun threads of my shredded soul
into a mangled ball of mental lacerations
then stealthily in the opaque of the night
i rushed the frigid black ocean’s high tide
and deluging myself in the ebony water
i buried the battered ball
now deeply eclipsed in the onyx abyss
it sapped all my strength to hold it under
drowning in the wave’s of sea motion
stinging salt alive on my pours
gasping for air i surrendered my grip
releasing my marred orb of élan vital
capitulating to the sand on the beach
i ceded the fight and watched the sphere roll
unraveling it glistened against the white sand
an opalescent tapestry lit by twilight
mirroring the stars against the coal sky
in the lustrous lunar midnight
reflected back by silver moonlight
littered with specks of fluorescent insight
astonished i drew in my breath as i read
words interlaced in the untangled web
the wounds are there
creating a looking glass
peer in
and you will heal
your own consciousness
©2016janetaylor
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
how do you paint water, or clouds?
I could read poetry for the brief,
of my of remaining life, however brief,
and never be satiated, of love,
and streams of water,
never stilled, always running
in patterns that exist,
but for milliseconds,
admired by clouds born in, of,
a moment of re-formation that
is perpetuity long:
unending shape shifting,
like the freedom of flowing water
currents, forming, reforming and unthinkable, nay,
inconceivable that human eyes
or their spoken words
could capture their
shiny white foamy essence
But of love,
that we can do, paint, design, recreate its
endless loops of undulations, like the radiating circularity
of a pebble dropped gently
to its burial sight in a quiet pond.
Humans know, understand and excel at clasping and grasping
at the synapsing of human cells from differing bodies:
the exogenous erogenous of human touch that like the clouds
and the water,
who
could paint that,
who capable of capturing
said sensations that wrack
and enliven the body with invisible
interior chemical reactions. I
cannot.
Thankfully better men and women have treatised their entreaties to the powers of the universe and been rewarded with the skilled delicacy of weaving human tapestries, the milliseconds of connectivity, eclectic and electrifying of different currents and differing amperage’s forming and reforming like water moving, just like the clouds changing in response to the externalities of wind and gravity and all the forces of nature that encourage us to study
and stare at these flows,
hoping to entrance them into standing still for but a moment, and instead, mesmerizing us into standing motionless for hours in awe of their freedom.
Love’s undulations too mesmerizing, and freezing us into
place, or alternatively
caucus to run endlessly arms extending,
flying though not airborne,
rocketing us upwards while feet never budging,
but finding good wards, masterful metaphors to recreate and thus to share the fabulous mystery of this thing we know as love.
2:58AM
Friday
jul 22 (jewel 22) of the 23rd year of the 21st Century.
O.L.P.
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 3:05 AM UTC
If only we were figures...
Accentuated in the night sky.
Starlit effigies bound by cosmic tethers...
Secrets of the universe many would attempt to pry.
If only we were figures...
Painted on pored upon canvas.
Fantastic renditions by masterful painters,
Abstract oil swirls dancing to a whimsical opus.
If only we were figures...
Given life in the lyrics in a song.
An example of harmony in verse,
Bridge and chorus...where we belong.
But we are only figures...
Trampled on by indifferent feet that came to mock.
We can't undo such a potent curse...
We are but grounded figures outlined in chalk.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
I'm a Man -
I can spit information
Out there, in any way,
Shape and form I wish;
And I do - spooging
Quanta all over the shop.
However, for all my
Brave endeavours -
My escapades and victories -
I can't create a Universe;
All I can do is document
And record and report
My various experiences.
She has the upper hand,
But She chooses a light
Touch; a guiding principal;
A mistress-led, masterful
Deception of InGenderMent
For the real --> OtherWise.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
Like a lotus emerging
Unsullied
From the mud,
So have you appeared,
In this world,
Yet not of it.
I consider myself
Most blessed of all men
For having glimpsed upon your face.
Not even Michelangelo,
With all his magnificent frescoes,
Could have conceived of such beauty.
The most flowery prose of Marquez wilts,
Inadequate to fully describe your radiance.
The supple, rich compositions of Mozart
Are a rancorous cacophony
Compared to the melody of your voice.
Your entire being is a testament
To the masterful craftsmanship of our Lord.
I may circumnavigate this world
Sample the most luscious of delicacies
Climb the lofty peak of Everest
Swim the English Channel
Trek the Ural Mountains
Watch the Caribbean sunset
Walk the entirety of the Great Wall
But none of these
shall hope to compare with
the blissful moment
When my eyes fell upon you.
It was truly a day of days,
One which no other can rival.
You stood out
A swan
Regal in its repose
Amongst
Ducks
Babbling away
In their ignominy.
I have found my muse --
Alas! --
But for a moment.
Yet I shall not rage.
Neither shall I weep.
Just because
He got to you first.
Just because
He is
Perhaps
More worthy
Of you.
I shall not fly
Into a maelstrom of emotion
Sulk with resentment
And seethe with envy
Just for losing
Something
Someone
I never even had.
Just because
She will never be mine.
I shall not have
To lower and abandon myself
To the maddening clutches
Of grief
To wantonly fling
My artless soul
At the burning altar
Of undignified melancholy.
For it is foolish.
Yet I cannot help
But do exactly this.
Act like the boy,
The child,
That I am.
For what else am I?
I am not a man
Like him
After all.
Not adequate
For anything
Resembling a soulmate
For anyone
Like her.
I can never hold you
In my arms
Never gaze
Into your eyes
My ears can never hear you
Whisper
Sweet nothings.
And
My lips shall never
Meet yours.
So what
Else
Can I do
But mourn?
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Glory to craftsmanship
That endures the wrath of time
Artisans vanish one by one
As is Nature's custom
But their inner beauty
Remains in their labored art.
A masterful stroke of hand
Guided by divine volition
Engages thought's flight
To spheres unknown
Where true art gives birth
To creativity's genius.
Art imparts mystical light
Upon envisioned designs
Shaped by hand, heart and spirit
A poem, a painting, a silver cup
Is brought to life
For the pure joy of creation.
O' masters of the wind
Hearken the hopes of craftsmen
And steer their zing heavenward
They are the symbol of plastic arts
A manifestation of wizardry
Toiling in labyrinth of formation.
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
This is a terrible romantic
and sadomasochistic narrative.
The artist's mind is clothed in fabrics.
Fashion is his vocabulary.
Grim-tales are often told with foreboding,
exacted further through sharp, perceiving lenses.
Collections of sharp silhouettes speak of
a masterful and sensitive touch.
A turbulence of emotions exploded in
delicate and mesmerising theatricals.
Taking delight in challenging popular notions,
Alexander left audience continually in a
lingering aftertaste of shock mixed with wonder.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
(Scene by the brook)
He came seeking solace to Heiligenstadt
and walked alone by its crystal stream
welcomed by songs the nightingale taught.
Its cheerful waters made Vienna seem
a distant, cool and forbidding stage
where few would embrace a pastoral dream.
He dotted his sketchbooks on every page
with earthen tones born of peasant heart -
(though fare rich enough for any age) .
He poured from the stream the fiddle part,
and woodwinds sang with the birds in the dell -
all "choired" together by his masterful art.
At Heiligenstadt Beethoven attended well
and bequeathed us his golden 'Pastorale.'
July, 2006
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Connection
From the past just a voice memories come strong and fast the school its walls doors and windows dissolved they live still
They were an integral part you can’t interact daily come to know them how ever wide the divide extends over years
They were life then now in shadows they still command your imagination never very far from the heart quietly they thrill
Sometimes alone you deny and go but you can’t leave them they were implanted ingrained in your life always they exist
Difference opposite levels vary the constant going and coming a circle one in front one in back this defines grows character
The rubbing and friction goes beyond outer circumstances it reaches inner reality from this constant exposure an unbreakable bond
This is not mundane life these are core components we cheat and allow failure if we close ourselves off our own worst detractor
You will change yourself forever when stimuli and good will is rebuffed there pulsates defenses more than we know in past friends
A prison we make when we choose isolation brick by brick we wall ourselves in close out the sunlight that shines out of other hearts
Mix words with action and then allow yourself to be moved images possess power they can forcefully carry you to unequaled heights
Those long ago days hold seeds from a harvest that can be birthed again and of all times now is crucial the time is now get ready start
The sun at your back the future ahead speak without faltering you are the guiding light of all that is to be shared and made brand new
How strong the future will be is determined by how willing you are to reach into the past being selective you draw on all that is good
Fellow students your parents their history and victories all are your guideposts unerring unwavering their spirits lead a guiding star
Many battles long has been the fight discouragement drags your smile down enlightened others beat fear now you have understood
Yours and their quality is like timbers tested in great sea storms you have come into your own now masterful owners of life now give
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
See that little match-stick,
see that candle there?
See that hard-worn photograph
taken for a year?
Take them punches, boxer-girl!
Much to your chagrin,
it comes back in equal part -
hard and deep within.
Consider bonds between us heat.
And fuel, the time we spent
sleeping close in tousled sheets -
a sky towards us, bent:
gray and cloudless, quick and fleet.
Candle-flame is meant.
to take those memories, and to eat
the message that you sent.
Photo attachment 1: You, him - bottle of Cointreau. Bite marks on your thigh like only I should have left! Grass (both types), a camera. Wrestling. ****** ***
Photo attachment 2: You, him: carousels, cloven-footed balloon-man (whistling high and wee). Hot dogs. Ocean. Wrestling. ****** ***
Photo attachment 3: There was something about a penguin… and there was cake involved. Polarbears - must have been a zoo. Causing me to mope at the keyboard: wrestling, ****** ***
Photo attachment 4: It’s really just *** now.
Photo attachment 5: Please stop.
Shouldn’t be so callous:
that password is personal.
I shouldn’t really have it,
Well, this is what I get for exploring the caverns of iniquity
(that’s slang for your hard-drive),
***** little …
I can’t … cuss you out.
All photographs marked 10/18/07 for devastation.
Now, this thing has ended:
sad, though brief and gleeful.
We were consumed by happiness, never sorrowful
and nothing meaningful;
everything beautiful, nothing painful.
Princess, that work was masterful -
breaking that, making great things hurtful.
But worse still?
I can’t hate you.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 11:29 AM UTC
The prosperous and beautiful
To me seem not to wear
The yoke of conscience masterful,
Which galls me everywhere.
I cannot shake off the god;
On my neck he makes his seat;
I look at my face in the glass,
My eyes his eye-balls meet.
Enchanters! enchantresses!
Your gold makes you seem wise:
The morning mist within your grounds
More proudly rolls, more softly lies.
Yet spake yon purple mountain,
Yet said yon ancient wood,
That night or day, that love or crime
Lead all souls to the Good.
2.8k
All Day
The Dams burst into song.
The golden throats of Honey Ants exhale the sweet air from crystalline lungs...
I am thinking of You.
And the roar of the moss that glitters in the moonlight that fell across your stone,
your soul, your next move...
amid the giants of your camouflage,
your masterful dodge of tedium,
that bores you completely...
The roar of your pancakes.
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
you told me you want to create
beautiful art
and i can't understand
how you don't see
that you are already an artist.
you paint your stories on my skin,
masterful watercolors
in deep reds and clear blues
your every word is a
drop of paint
that i carry with me.
i am a willing canvas
for your beautiful creations
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
The masterful stroke of an artist’s hands
Comes from broken fingers and cut wrists
Hands that have been dragged through hell
And rested in heaven,
That creates real mastery.
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 7:19 AM UTC
I met an artist yesterday,
sat in solitary silence,
In the shadowy corner of an affluent bar.
And cloaked he was,
by babble of students,
Boasting of wealth and test results.
molested In the attire of a catholic school,
His cigarettes born from bible pages;
and -- Inebriated from the blood of Christ --
surrounded by empty glass apostles,
He paints the papers,
In a masterful stroke --
Of pointilistic precision --
In a viscous hash oil
That he had melted on a crucifix.
The artist drunk, and drunk
He drowned himself,
Deafened by his liver
Drowning in a sea of expensive whiskey --
It was a miracle that he could walk on it.
And began to rack
the coke he'd wrapped
in a losing lottery ticket --
In plain sight of those
'sophisticated' enough
To use a bathroom cubicle.
And hoovered the diamond shards into his nostril,
Through a rolled up scrap of paper --
A letter for an Oxford Interview
he could not afford to get to.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Turn the wheel into the sun. Forget the stars. Forget the wind. Forget the way the waves are weeping. I am not coming home.
We are never again what we once were. And I am not sorry for it.
Some of them end before the music can even start. And we are left somehow, like monks, pinching book spines like vertebrae. Seeing if we can find our ability to
Stand.
Up.
In words.
Most days.
I am only words.
But some days, I am more.
Some days, the thought of those ivory temples run me up masts..
I am stretched out. Arms wide. Accepting the storm. Ragged.
(Stronger for it. Unafraid to unravel more.)
Inventing time. Investing it back.
Some days. I am yards of cloth, fighting history.
And when my sea is calm:
Puff your cheeks and blow on my spine.
For motion.
I am still.
I am calm.
I am still calm.
I am still calmly waiting.
It's worth mentioning that we never made love.
Now. Everything is different.
I am listening to an ***** grinder, playing my heart on his sleeve. Taking light from my future and shedding it on my past. Saying, "What happened? Where did you go?"
And I try to answer back but find my throat dry and only able to mutter, "I can't feel you, Lord. I can't feel you."
Some days I am lost.
Is it fair, when asked what happened, to say, "She did. Calliope happened to me."?
Start the music. Let the carousel turn. I am not coming home.
Is it fair to say that I am better now. But not always better for it.
I am walking a tightrope of strength and..
Something else. Something else entirely.
Now, I am tired. I am at a loss for words. I am sinking into the oldest crimes in the oldest ways and creating my own wooden chest. You are on it. Carved. Etched. Playing in my mind like laughter on the really cold days. Your fingerprints matching the grain. A petal for each flower I picked trying to fix it.
And this is how it will end. It was this way before it even began. When we found our faults on the back of each others lips with our tongues.
Thank you for teaching me the opposite side of love.
And this is how I will end it.
I will be words. And action. And learn to touch with passion. Learn to make love, like sounds strung together. Masterful. Seamless. As to seem less important. like lyrics. Like an aria. Rising and falling like tides to my mast. Lips pressed and cheeks puffed. And arms outstretched like a horizon to sail into.
And all wonderful happy lies.
I will be more. In hopes of forgetting that briefly.. I once more allowed myself to be less.
And found my self wondering, If it was me who slipped through your fingers... or you who slipped through mine...
I once allowed myself to seem less.
I guess...
I just needed to get you off my chest.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
Acquiesce here my love
Ameliorate my heart
The assemblage of circumstance provides dulcet ebullience
An efflorescent dalliance conflated into cathartic becoming
My bucolic bungalow made upon your callipygous
A young Life’s denouement
Your evocative elixir fetching
An erstwhile emollient embrocation
Your eloquent fingers find their way to frisson
My felicitous chatoyant gambols in glamor like a halcyon incipient made ineffable by the look of the ingénue
The labyrinthine inglenook lagoon leisurely lithe
The murmurous daffodils wink at the insouciance of your beauty
A panoply panacea, the half shadow complete as an epiphany
Quintessential to feminine riparian resplendence
Your mellifluous voice, an opulent offing, the sumptuous summery soliloquy of an angel
Cools my soul like the smell of earth after rain
Your propinquity ripples the scintilla of my spirit
Your surreptitious smile like a zephyr quietly whispers
Its redolent seraglio sempiternal in my thoughts
As skyward gazes like saccharine gossamer lilt with the knowledge of our raveling juxtaposition
a masterful pastiche, the cynosure of divine revelation
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
When the chill of earth black-breasted is uplifted at the
glance
Of the red sun million-crested, and the forest blossoms
dance
With the light that stirs and lustres of the dawn, and with
the bloom
Of the wind’s cheek as it clusters from the hidden valley’s
gloom :
Then I walk in woodland spaces, musing on the solemn
ways
Of the immemorial places shut behind the starry rays
Of the East and all its splendour, of the West and all its peace;
And the stubborn lights grow tender, and the hard sounds
hush and cease.
In the wheel of heaven revolving, mysteries of death and
birth,
In the wonb of time dissolving, shape anew a heaven and
earth
Ever changing, ever growing, ever dwindling, ever dear,
Ever worth the passion glowing to distil a doubtful tear.
These are with me, these are of me, these approve me,
these obey,
Choose me, move me, fear me, love me, master of the
night and day.
These are real, these illusion : I am of them, false or frail,
True or lasting, all is fusion in the spirit’s shadow-veil,
Till the knowledge -Lotus flowering hides the world
beneath its stem;
Neither I, nor nor God life-showering, find a counterpart in
them.
As a spirit in a vision shows a countenance in fear,
Laughs the looker to derision, only comes to disappear,
Gods and mortals, mind and matter, in the glowing bud
dissever :
Vein from vein they rend and shatter, and are nothingness
for ever.
In the blessed, the enlightened, perfect eyes these visions
pass,
Pass and cease, poor shadows frightened,
leave no stain
upon the glass.
One last stroke, O heart- free master, one last certain
calm of will,
And the maker of Disaster shall be strcken and grow
still.
Burn thou to the core of matter, to the spirit’s utmost
flame,
Consciousness and sense to shatter, ruin sight and form
and name!
Shatter, lake-reflected spectre; lake, rise up in mist to
sun;
Sun, dissolve in showers of nectar, and the Master’s
work is done.
Nectar perfume gently stealing, masterful and sweet and
strong,
Cleanse the world with light of healing in the ancient
House of Wrong !
Free a million mortals on the wheel of
being
tossed !
Open wide the mystic portals, and be altogether lost!
2.3k
Do you know what it’s like,
to be the hunted?
The pursued;
the object, the target,
the one stalked like wounded prey
as the lights turn off.
You never called off your
hunting parade.
You took advantage of your skill.
You moved on me;
a soundless shadow creeping
along the walls,
clutching fear and regret in your hands
as weapons to
take
me
down.
Brutal, savage beast you are;
only I can see those jagged teeth,
razor spikes contouring your spine,
as you grab me from behind.
The darkness colours you,
brings out more than daylight ever could.
It suits you, you and the coal and soot
you shed
in my bed.
Warm, sticky blood you open like a tap.
You rip and tear and
reap your rewards
after such a masterful ****
You left me wounded, dripping blood
like a grimy trail behind me.
Leaving me more vulnerable to
fresh attack
than ever before.
But there was something worse still;
more terrifying than any shot from your gun.
You left more than a scar, more than
a raw wound.
You left something behind that can’t be healed.
It becomes part of my being,
inserting itself into my body,
protruding it’s toxic spikes into
any future I have;
any future that might involve a lover,
any chance at companionship.
You battered me to a ****** pulp;
a ragged mess no one could ever
risk touching,
without the blood covering themselves too.
It would seep into the sheets between us lovers;
it would attack me quietly, viciously;
It would bring out the worst in me,
and every time I would be forced to save him.
Save him from myself.
Look at what you did to me,
foul, disgusting ghost you now are.
You’re the nightmare I hide.
You’re the burn on my skin I keep in the dark.
You’re the voice I try and drown in rapid
loves, fleeting desires.
You’re my brand. You’re the one who
decides my fate from now on.
You pillaged without consent.
You never even knew what you delivered
or what
you
stole.
The hunted.
That is what I am now.
The weak creature, struggling to
heal.
And I can never tell lovers what this
sad, lonely,
aching story means.
What I can offer gets buried in fear.
I can never voice the pain that
rips in waves,
icy and sickly
in my bloodstream.
I can’t voice the remorse,
or the loneliness I shall always greet,
before they flee,
the sound of receding footsteps they beat.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
lately //
i’ve been making a noose of my own heartstrings //
but my father is a fisherman who taught me that the best knots don’t slip //
so i carry a bowline in my pocket for security and a tangled mess of forevers on my sleeve.
But I’ve also been tying anchor bends since i realized my grip was not equal to atlas’ shoulders.
And what a cruel paradox that is //
to think that a god can carry the earth beneath our feet but our hands // molded from clay and mud in the same image //could never be enough of a last resort to anchor our hearts in our chests.
so the loophole here,
so to speak,
is the anchor bend knot //
but! //
you know what’s funny about loopholes actually?? // you see, they were made to allow arrows to be shot from an opening // but the structure of that opening prevents counter arrows from being shot back in.
such an invention is why it’s always been nearly impossible to storm a castle’s wall and my, // have many a noble men fallen at the feet of such entrances.
so nowadays, i carry my trusty bowline //alongside the endless loopholes of those old-fashioned anchor bends.
however, I’m sure you know that the bowline is regarded as “the knot of all knots” right? it’s good for tying just about anything without give.
but the first time i ever went sailing // i learned about the round turn and two half hitches. this knot is pretty cool because the more tension you apply to the rope, the tighter the knot will get //
highly reliable for most things.
i guess the irony here is that // i am personally, most identifiable with this knot.
i don’t really ever use it. i am not a sailor or a fishermen. but i do have a really bad tendency of fastening myself to things that have a lot of pull.
the tightening tension of it
is similar to the mythical 13 knots in a hangman’s noose and what an incredibly genius stroke of engineering.
to think that the masterful art of knot-tying comes down to the basic idea that a knot will hold under tension is simply and utterly graceful without fault.
but here’s the thing;
as soon as i learned to tie a knot that won’t slip,
i taught myself the hangman’s knot:
a knot that essentially slips, but still holds merciless tension around its victim.
i’ve been tying nooses with what causes me the most pain.
with what bleeds the most love //
but as the one and only descendant of my father, the great fisher king,
i am starting to learn that if the knot slips,
you cut the line and start again.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
God was the homicide
that killed a whole world
over his jealousy of man's will not to
bow to his corrupt virtues..
He had planned every life and every sin
was his masterful collusion with the devil.
For both were one and all, two sides of a coin
that always landed on its edge
and no one was the winner.
Definitely, a man or woman who thought they
were a creation of purity.
But if they were a creation of the beginner,
The end was always a plan to fail like an image,
it was never perfect but a delusion
of a copy that like its original
corrupted by ego.
As it knew every breath, but still sent every baby
to the hell of inescapable torment.
As it was its plan all along.
That no souls reached its peace,
but the torture that it watched on its throne
above and sighed,,,
That this was its creation, an image of self...
And it knew it was the master of every moment,
and they all leads to hell.
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 6:38 PM UTC
Oh, amazing language
I thank thee
for my ability to be the thesaurus
my understanding of my native tongue
the masterful way in which we all express ourselves
through the bastardization of 100 cultures
stealing the noises we enjoy and casting the remnants
to the void
set up shop next to Sanskrit or Latin
death to Elizabethan ********
only Ebonics and Mid-Alabama mush mouth
sprinkled with a little Boston soft “R”
paak da caaa in da yaaaad
like a mad ****
disjointed Caucasians
desperate to steal the next black vernacular
nothing beats a middle-class suburbanite
expressing their feelings about broke *** hoes
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC