Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
•°•A-Z°•°
[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero
this is a work in progress
Continue reading...
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
yesterday was my birthday (what if the poetry ceases)
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need
explanations.

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
#yesterday #was #my #birthday
Continue reading...
Abigail Madsen Apr 2014
The Game of School
It is time to revolutionize education
Because I am tired of memorization
Creation of nothing but the same
Desks behind desks
Staring at a black board
Bored of all the information
Citation after citation
And all for what
I’m tired of education
Because I don’t learn anything
Teachers preach
But no students learn
We try to earn the grade
But we only play
Play the game of school
This “learning” should be a tool
But instead were only being taught
How to memorize
To categorize
And to analyze
Words
Formulas
And answers
Never
Taught information
True helpful
Real world stuff
That is enjoyable
In the game of school the rules are simple
Stay quite unless spoken to
Sit down until forced to stand
Most importantly
Having an opinion is okay
As long as it matches the teachers
When we are born the first things we learn are to stand up and speak
As soon as education age hits us
We learn how to sit and shut up
To empty our individual cup
To listen and abide
To hide
hide opinions and stand aside
“because I am a teachers and this is education
and what I say goes
why
because I said so”
I’m tired of learning how to be normal
Because I want to learn how to be a bad ***
So why can’t I
And I don’t want a hundred for coloring in the lines
I want a zero for coloring everything but
Education is in groups
Smart
Average
And stupid
Not to be cruel
But its true
And believe me
You are judged on it too
But when looked at as individuals
-Something education discourages-
Everyone as smart
Because the only person you’re being compared to is yourself
That education
No any two snowflakes are the exact same
And no any two people learn the exact same
We have four different classes
English
Math
Science
And History
Four periods of sitting through plenty of worthless information
I wont listen to anyways so why force me into it
If I’m not interested
Why bother
Passion based learning is what we need
So I’m planting the seed
Seed of thought
In the minds of those who have power
Power to change education  
To a passion based formation
I will no longer allow educations dictation
To control me
It’s now time to see
What “Education” could really do for me
I guess I'm not here to make much sense
but now is the time for the system to pay their rent
rental space in my mind
consuming time
thoughts that are no longer mine
Pressed into my brain this idea of education
running this **** like some federation
can't get thoughts in between regurgitated words and facts
Well I think my brain has hit the max
Maximum capacity for the ******* you're spewing
I will no longer be chewing
your lies and conformity
treating different learning like a deformity
No longer an idea of teaching
but memorization
words on a page
Here in this developmental stage
all because they are going through some 'phase'
that makes them stupid
Most of us are fluent
So don't tell me I'm not smart
because I don't know the periodic table by heart
because I'm not well versed in trail of the court
don't tell me I'm stupid
Just because I'm human
That's something that is overlooked
by the ones forcing you to study the books
Unable to see there is something to be said about knowledge of life
Or even the knowledge
not to get
pushed over the edge
Because sometimes enough is enough
And believe me
this "education" **** *****
--Built off of one of my previous poems
#change #education
Continue reading...
Michelle Garcia Feb 2016
Memorization
I am memorizing

the shape of your teeth, the crater on the side of your right cheek
when you smile, resembling
the California coast

your concentrating face,
the way you dance like
the only other person in the room
has already returned home

how you wrap your arm
around my waist as if you already know
that I am going to fly far,

far
away

This is how I know

that no matter where I build my home,
mine will always reside
in the heart of the only man who has memorized
the way I eat my dinner with my fingers
and the way I will always pray
to love him
for as long
as we are given
#love #prayer #god #happy #happiness #winter #smile #joy #sweet #memory
Continue reading...
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2023
Yesterday may have been my birthday (What if the poetry ceases)
October 2023, ten years later…dedicated to all my dear friends here,
some who may be reading this for the tenth time!

<|>

you need two hands, one foot.
counting my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody else created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrites and
future versions three and more
foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
when I ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you tasted grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake made, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if needed for
explanations.

none know, or can provide,
still and yet,
a priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
a song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
an ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
by white blood cells ,
champions of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrected
once more,
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not yet currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?

mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint odors dismissed,
the Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

Michelangelo didn't know
the Renaissance come
and gone,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day +/- a few,
seven or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
first penned ten years ago,
annually tinkered,
weirdly prophetic
and still spot on…

in the “early” days, wrote my poetry on a cellphone
while soaking the venoms out…
#lipstadt #yesterday #birthday #poetry #ceases
Continue reading...
Adam Pierce Critchley Dec 2010
This One Took Effort
Write lyrics like spreadsheets with number crunching
Calculate the isotopes
numerical accuracy in the vein of vain attempts to overcome
the show off tendencies of artist who exhibit flow to illicit
concern about existence beyond what they can see of pedagogical poetry
more concerned with numbers and patterns
who gives a **** what the stress is on the vowel in the third stanza  
lyrically despondent personal correspondents for a publication that says
more about what you know than what you feel
and who you are
computer says no, statistically impossible, synaptic haiku
five seven five
musical ronin
go go gadget of talent
extend-o-pole and flying nimbus as you train like son-goku
hyperbolic chamber where time is an illusion only to collapse
true Saiyans are warriors from the womb until death and after
over nine thousand and the scanner short circuits
write on the clouds with light so hot that it burns on thought
not contact
no constants, just variables, electron microscopes to try and hear the angels sing.
Large Hadrons small dreams, no love, just roman numerals
XIV, ***, Blood transfusions in the realm of “O Positive” and you're just a pessimist, negative Nancy at the end of evolution
Flesh and bone as a tent in your double helix of a genome,
flesh like clay in the hands of some master
but you know no master
no nations, under no gods but Darwin
all 23 chromosome pairs making 46 parts of your brain
screaming neurons fire
WRITE
WHAT
YOU
ARE
If you should so choose as to end not with a bang but a whimper
then your memory is forfeit
contribute in some meaningful semblance of sarcasm and sinsethesia with anesthetic medications of pop remedies and voided memories
of sinthesisia
Smell the colours and taste the sounds of pen on paper
when you never own a pen or a pad
just a bright white rectangle you stare at for hours on end
No thoughts just Digg and Reddit
your only contributions a thumbs up or a red thumbs down
like buttons
but no dislike, because if you've got nothing nice to say
then say nothing
unless you're outrage and full of spite
and morose
at the state of human nature
beauty and song thrown out in an effort to leave nobody behind
and so we have a generation coming in
at the age of 5, who are told new math
new science
wrote memorization of equations
no thought process, no argument about relation
theory of relativity, the genious mind just numbers and letters on a page with squiggles and lines that don't have to mean anything more than they mean on the book
we have a generation with no lust, no hope
Do they dream in black and white?
do they dream at all?
is the consequence of IQ tests and graded paper intelligence
the thirst for knowledge and creativity?
WE HAVE TO SCREAM
at the injustice
Burn it to the bricks and ashes
we hurl through the windows
in the streets and in the parks
car radios and clock towers sold
for cheap homemade *****
dance around the fire like the wild things are
LET THE WILD RUMPUS BEGIN
but then we're still hollow
no happy medium, just excess
in the pursuit of Dionysus, trepination,
demon possession is illegal in the eyes of the police and federal law
spread your legs and lean against the car
as they frisk you and plant the seed
of doubt
in the cuffs of your jeans
You have the right to remain silent
but I hope you don't
refuse
question
resist
work in progress.
Continue reading...
Landslide Dec 2014
Memorization
You asked me why I traced the lines on your face,
I couldn't bear to tell you that I wanted your skin to burn my fingertips until we met again.
I found myself staring while you were sleeping, memorizing your every feature.

I don’t want to forget even the tiniest freckle.
I could paint every square inch of your room with utmost detail.
I memorized it while you were dreaming of all the places you'd rather be, and I was awake from the horrors of the nightmare that is your departure.
Maybe if I don't forget the view from my side of the bed, I'll be able to close my eyes and still imagine things haven't changed.
for Daniel.
#relationships #memories #distance
Continue reading...
Anais Vionet Sep 2022
omelettes
It’s Sunday morning. It’s bright and cool, the sort of fall morning that makes the world’s problems seem like fake news. Peter and I are at the Marriott Courtyard, off campus. This morning’s breakfast is Peter’s 19th birthday present to me.

I’m redorkulously happy and surprisingly hungry. Somewhere, in the noisy, happy sounding kitchen, there's a bacon, cheddar-cheese, tomato, ham, green-pepper, and spinach omelette being convoked in my name, and my tummy is growling in anticipation.

Our waiter brought us large white mugs of nutmeg coffee - God bless her for that. Sipping it, I scanned the dining room, where carefree, normal people were enjoying their brunches. They didn’t look like they had hours of reading and problem-sets (homework) waiting for them later - but who knows?

Peter leaned forward, smiling, to refill my mug and then, when adding some cream, he almost overfilled it. I couldn’t help chuckling. I enjoy this awkward man’s company beyond all sanity, to the point that it’s a little cringy and embarrassing. Our smiles seemed to clang together, like symbols. I wish I could bask in the warmth of that smile all day.

“You could do me a favor,” I say shyly, “a little extra present?” I said, trying to look pitiable.
“What?” he asks, with a skeptical look. I open my bag and pull out my latest physics PSET (a homework problem set).
“This problem haunted me in my dreams last night,” I say, smoothing out the wrinkled paper and rotating it so it was right-side-up for him. “#6,” I said, confirming that with a pointing finger.

He glances at it. “Ahh, classical mechanics?” he guessed. “Right,” I confirmed.
He looks up at me through his bushy, blue-black eyebrows, “You took AP physics one in high school and physics 2 last year?” He asked. “Yeah,” I confirmed, “but this problem is throwing me.”

“Well,” he says, motioning me to hand him my pen, “you’re perspicacious all right, but you’re basically a biology major,” he begins, “a set of studies that involve a memorization mentality. For physics one and two, I bet you memorized Maxwell's laws, the Kinematic equations and the table of equation cases, ya?”
I nodded yes.

“Unfortunately, that’s not going to cut it here,” he says, shaking his head, “All of those nice simplifications aren’t in play here - there are no cases to rely on - it’s derive as you go.” As he explained this he was briskly scribbling something on a paper napkin and the answer was there, on that, a second later, when he rotated the paper back to me.

His eyes are a dark, gingerbread brown, but despite that darkness, they seemed warm and lit from within. A swoop of his dark blue-black hair has fallen across his forehead, I leaned over the small table to tuck it back into place. “Thank you,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief, “did you show your work?” I asked as I folded the paper and napkin away.
“Of course,” he says, amused, “but we’ll review it later,” he assured me.

“Happy birthday ME!” I said, in a whispered cheer.
“Yes,” he grinned, “Happy Birthday, YOU,” he pronounced as our omelettes arrived
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Perspicacious: “the keen ability to understand difficult or amorphous things.”

Redorkulously = so ridiculous it’s dorky
#university #homework #birthday #coffee #boyfriend #teen
Continue reading...
Aaron McDaniel Feb 2013
Inspire
I wanted to start off my speech  with a little poem.
When this poem is over, I want to know if any of you recognize the author.

“On top of a hill, there’s a rose.
This rose get’s sunlight and nutrition from the soil beneath it
Never before has the rose been asked to do a task suitable for garden
When asked today if the rose can grow the grass around it
The rose stood still
Little red rose, I can tell your stem is nervous
The wind is whipping you like a baker and his cream
Put the nerves behind you and begin to water your fellows
Success is only a day away
Tonight the rose watered the garden.”

You probably don’t recognize the author because the author is me.
In August 2010, the beginning of my sophomore year, I picked up poetry.
I kept it to myself.
Most of my friends thought it was lame or stupid to be writing.
Mostly because I’m a guy. They were all interested in cars, sports, parties, you name it.
Where on the other hand, I stood in my living room with music as loud as I can get it, and a pen in my hand.
I didn’t write sad things. Mostly I wrote inspirational pieces.
However, it was to make up for the feelings that I had.
See, I had tricked myself into believing that I wasn’t going anywhere.
I’d given up on myself.
Everyone around me completely believed in me and wanted to see me do something great.
By November, I had gotten into writing to a point where I liked it. I wanted to show someone.
So I showed a few of my writings to my english teacher.
She was awestruck that I had that kind of writing capabilities, and suggested I looked into Slam Poetry, or competitive performance.
I was terrified.
I was 15 going on 16, with no self confidence to speak of.
How was I going to do that?
I wasn’t. There was no way you were going to find me risking what little bit about myself that I liked to be judged by total strangers.


That’s when a few weeks later, there this a gathering in the auditorium.
I walked in and sat down next to a few of my friends to see what was going on.

It was
incredible.
A few poets from Portland had come to our school to perform.
Everything I had been told about performance was right in front of me.
Something, and to this day I don’t know what it was, took control of me.
I marched over to one of the poets on the side of the auditorium, and asked if I could be put on the list of kids who were going to be able to perform.
I waited. My stomach was in knots. I was probably about to throw up
Then I heard it.
My name.
My legs walked up.
I vomited my words sloppily in-front of people.
It was terrible.
But the feeling of doing it....
I was hooked.

I kept writing.
I was told that there was a competition in portland to be put on the first youth slam poetry team to represent maine, ever.
There were five spots
I wanted one.
I practiced in front of my mirror
Memorization and editing was my life after school for about three months.
Until it was time.
The day came that I was suppose to put it all out there.
Three poems.
Three rounds.
Five judges.
One outcome.
I vomited my words all over the audience.
I hated all three of my performances.
Until I heard my scores.
They were almost all tens.
I came in second.
I was on the team.

I’ve performed in other competitions since then, against other poets in their mid thirties who have been writing for years
And beaten them.
I’ve been told my traveling artists that if anyone on the team was to go anywhere, that it’d be me.
By then, I’d only been writing for about a year.
Some kid who liked nothing about himself, from a no name town in Maine,
getting praise from poets who have seen the world and gotten their names put in books for centuries.
I’ve been published.
Twice.
Possibly even putting out my own small book of work, soon.
I never thought it’d get to this level.
I worked and worked and worked until I hated every single poem.
Then I taught myself to love them again.
I kept performing and building my confidence.
I wouldn’t be who I am now without it.
I even took the confidence that I have gained and used it to do something I never thought I’d be able to do.
I joined the National Guard.
I had talked about it since I was a kid, but never had the mindset that I’d actually do it.
But here I am. I’m going to be a medic for the National Guard.
Never had I ever thought of doing something like that.
And I am.

My message to you is that every single one of you have a goal.
Some of you might want to be lawyers, doctors, mechanics, business owners, or even poets.
Do it.
Don’t let anything stop you.
We’ve just met, and I already know you can do it.
But it won’t be handed to you.
You’re going to have to work for it.
I’m living proof, standing in front of you that goals can be accomplished.
I’ll even give you a little hint.
Something that someone I met a few years ago taught me.
False confidence is still confidence.
You just need to do one thing that will terrify you
Risk it all. Put it all on the table for everyone to see.
You’ll be surprised how many people will look up to you for it.
Your dreams are out there
Waiting for you
Before you go to bed tonight
Think about what you can do tomorrow
To make them happen
Thank you
This is a speech that I will be doing for the annual FBLA performance in March.
I hope this inspires you.
Continue reading...
L A Lamb Sep 2014
Math-Plath=Mutual exclusivity- math-aphors
The inverse of error
A metaphorical math
Because I rhyme so sick in season
You can call men Sylvia Plath
You can call me Sylvia Plath
Spilling verses accidental
Spilling blood like pen and paper
Give me rock paper, scissors—construction
Philosophy of metaphors—the reciprocal of destruction
Creation in deviation
Multiplication in meditation and mesmerizing memorization
Mad in the head, but I’m a mat-hatter for love
'A zombie by neuroses
A zombie by drugs
But on those pharmaceutical
Cause cut **** is for thugs
(3% probability
Is in the margin of error
How many times have we ******
And would you even care?
Oh, despair. The plague of a woman-
Slick wit like slick ****
And you can call these rhymes grimy
Because I’m cleaning your eyes with it.)
Continue reading...
Richard Itskovich Sep 2010
Enough
Enough-
Its enough having these corporations run our nation while the infiltration of money making keeps destroying world peace aspirations-
Its like Satan and his manipulation keep telling me that success lies in the accumulation-
And the accumulation of that money making is what makes life exhilarating?
And the exhilaration of materialization keep growing as a representation of America’s successful creation-
And soon it becomes discrimination-
Upper class elevation vs. lower class stipulations-
The poor patient vs. Rich patience-
The barring margin of APR regulations-
Keep our nation rotating-Gaining speed and evaluating-
The appreciation of desperation is all for corporate gaming-
The memorization and commercialization keep our nation deprecating from the rest of the worlds visualizations-
Our accreditation creates frustration-
Segregation and integration by the new world organization-
Integration to a peaceful appropriation is questioned by this American administration-
AND I QUESTION IT?
Continue reading...
Lisa Cunningham Jul 2015
Drowning in Love
I find myself in a daydream about those lips

Slowly caressing every inch of my body down to my hips

Leaving me in such a state that I cannot control mouth

Deep moans of yes and no and baby please don’t stop

I find myself surrounded in your arms, lost in your voice

I’m not fighting the mood but it takes m y body by force

Blessing my ears with such a tone of memorization

Sending me into a ****** state of confusion

That only you control and I dare not fight the hold

Cause everything you are doing is like food to my soul

As if I need it to continue for my own survival

The thought of you stopping and leaving gives me a taste of dehydration

Hogging this glass of water to the death of me, you hydrate me

Close my eyes as I continue to steady my breath

So much water I’m drowning in my water flow

Trying desperately to keep my head above the current only to be dragged down to the bottom

The water overtaking my body granting me the pleasure of feeling every desire you have

Reaching out for your face to pull you close, gazing into those eyes

Seeing the passion you have for me only takes us to new depths of waters

Suddenly the effort to breath becomes easier as we are exchanging an never ending oxygen support

Legs wrapped around you waist, squeezing to keep you near

As my body is shaking with overwhelming pleasure from this sea we have created

Wanting to bring you to the edge of the waterfall and watch you overflow your self

Both of us deep underwater submerged in love

Suddenly floating to the surface again

It seems we overdosed on love, in our own sea we drowned.
Reworked from a shorter poem
Continue reading...
Víctor Manuel Serna May 2014
Depressing Thoughts You Don't Want To Waste Time On
Indifference
Let's do something different. Let's not give this one a form, or try to create structure, a pattern, a format in which to read this. Let's not try to make an art of this. Let's just let the words spill, so that they are all said before they're forgotten. Because this brilliant brain you were given and abused, Victor, well it's not quite the same, it's hard for it to function right, it's hard for it to be what it once could have been. So yes. It is rather weak, and everything leaks out rather quickly, memorization isn't much of a possibility. You can't even remember the words your love says to you. Your wife's words are the sole consolation to all the other **** that life throws at you. Clearly your brain doesn't see the importance of seratonin, or endorphins, or dopamine. 'Cause well, it's holding them all back. Your brain seems to have its own philosophy, that everything works fine, and depression is a myth. And so your "heart", (which is really your soul, which isn't physically existent, so it could be said to be a figment of your imagination, produced by your mind, which perceives  everything that is physical after your brain has processed it, but your mind also cannot be touched, so it may also be nonexistent, does this make me a nihilist?) takes all the consequences and lets it all run through you and take it's toll. So yes, everything just feels like ****. And you really just feel dead. But it can't be said that you are, because you don't know if you are. Your Angel is the one who reanimated you, who suddenly reintroduced the color that you didn't notice was fading from the world. But you see, you've just ****** yourself up so much that you can't get your hippocampus to do much of anything. So now that you've finally met your wife, and now that you love her more than it's even humanly possible to love, you find it increasingly difficult to hold on to what she's giving us. It's like we're trying to carry sand in a fishing net. I can't retain my only happy memories. As she drifts further away, my memory decays along with my soul and my body. Everything I was, everything I became, just goes to ****. It's all a waste if she's not there to receive everything you've worked to create and give to her. You know, Hell is beautiful and sulking in sin is bliss until you've been to Heaven. And I was there. I keep slipping off and falling only to find that she was already waiting to catch me. But each time, she lets me closer and closer to the ground. I'm scared of the day when she won't catch me. But the fear is dull. Everything is dulled. Before she came, you were suffering all the time, every moment, intoxicating yourself so that you could force yourself to be a normal person. Because you were so not normal, that no one could relate to you. And although I deny it, I just want someone to understand me. I want someone who's felt the exact way I feel, so they can tell me how not to feel. Well, you don't feel now, Victor. You don't feel anything, feeling is for humans, and you're not human anymore. You're just the shell of the egg, waiting for the chick to hatch, without feeling that the fetus has already combusted down to ashes, a body without a soul. Incapable of making it anywhere in Life. Because you are me, and I am you, and we are I or you or me, and that's not the way it's supposed to be. All you can do, only because of muscle memorization, is stroke the strings of what's been called an instrument but to you is the extension to your body which you use to voice your soul. That, and attempt to end what you've loathed living, which is a life without her. I had more to say, I have much more thoughts, but let's be honest with ourself, Victor. Anyone who's read this far is probably tired of all your ******* about how you hate your life, being a typical teenager, even though you're hardly that anymore, even though I'm around the corner of having some of what I say be taken seriously. But nobody truly cares, people just get tired of complaints. I don't know why I'm still writing, nobody will read this far. I don't even want to write anymore. I just lack so much motivation that I don't even want to complete this, I don't want to express everything else I was thinking. It's just too much effort for something I don't even care about. Nor does anyone else. I should change the title from "Indifference" to "Depressing Thoughts You Don't Want To Waste Time On". This totally strayed from my original thoughts. I was gonna say something but I forgot. I forgot everything I was going to say. I just feel empty and emotionless now. I hate leukemia. I hate Adam and Eve for committing the sin that ****** us all over, I hate Satan for tempting them, I hate these events. If they just wouldn't have happened, my Angel, my love, my wife, My Azami, she would be okay. Every type of cancer, every type of sickness or disease, could never have hurt her. And we would know she'd make it though this alright, well, it wouldn't have happened in the first place. We'd know we could be together forever. But I'm writing too much. Again. I keep forgetting no one will get this far. Whatever. I guess it helped a little to let some of it out. I just ******* hate this. That I might have to live without her. I hate it so much. I need to drug myself, I can't stand so many negative thoughts and feelings. If only I had been born with a normal brain that acknowledged the need for happiness, and to release seratonin. Whatever, too much again.
Because they're not your thoughts or problems, so why would you care? You don't know me and it's not affecting you, so you should just leave me to myself. It's too much effort to try to help a depressed drug addicted masochistic freak who's probably just in a "phase" and will come out of later. Of course I'm a kid, and nothing could really have any significance, it's all just stupid teenager issues. Whatever, **** it, **** trying to make a point or caring or anything, trying to say things that have a meaning, **** everything I once loved. Just forget it.
Continue reading...
Julie Anne Lail Feb 2010
Cult Classic
I can see it
intriguing smile, flirty eyes,
hair just so, to where it falls across my face.
My breath caresses the mic as if
a snake charmer wooing a cobra.
The crowd leans in
ever so slightly
in one uniform motion
but each are unaware of the others.
Confident, charming
I own them for that moment
and everything I say matters.
Maybe too much.
They chant with me
cult-like in rhythm
and memorization-of idle words
profanely displayed on billboards,
websites, anything at all.
They drink it in- starving to be inspired.
They are without, and I’ve convinced them I’m with.
With what? With consumerism,
battling to control their
next poorly placed dollar?
with knowledge that they don’t have?
Why don’t they have it? Have they tried?
No, of course not. This liberty island has
given up on the American dream; hoping
it can be fought from a prostrate position
on an over-stuffed couch from their
over-stuffed mouths.
They’ve been stuffed with too much power,
too much misplaced freedom.
America, you are no longer free. You chain yourself
with entitlement and ownership.
You force your ideals on any too weak
to speak up for their own. You have turned
into one giant, fifth grade girl fight
with hair-pulling, pinching and screams.
You don’t even know why you fight anymore,
do you?
Continue reading...
Grace Pickard Mar 2014
Wandering thoughts
Beside the window sits chirping
Chirping
Chirping
Birds! I'm trying to write. DBQ... FRQ..... Fml...
Starting-
passing by the sun hides behind the top of the sky
Noon- I'm trapped
Black
white
Colorless ideas and sights
"Opinions" used to persuade the guard to mark down you did all right in your studies
Adolescents- slaves to your presence
Obey the clock
Tick
       Tock
Tick
       Tock
Tick
"talk" speak your mind as long as I agree
God forbid,
My mind wanders
Far away lands,
Flowers unsold
People oh so bold
Love un-withhold
                        Stories untold
Take hold!
Wake up!
Absorb this!
My soul is invalid...as I am a slave to sick, adolescent oppression
Education is just memorization.
.
My mathematics notes
#trapped #free #math #boredom #oppression #english #tick #tock
Continue reading...
brandychanning Feb 19
The Pleated Skirt (a story about a poem) by Brandy Channing
The Pleated Skirt  by Brandy Channing


It was in San Fran,
a destination chosen for
its variety of vicarious distractions,
romance was in the ebb stage
of ebb & flow, and there was
a sufficiency of distraction there,
that my mind
could be there,
in actuality,
in the present,
in the moment,
accounted for,
and the cancer of
rooted sadness,
that wastrel feeling,
was temporal boxed,
in my traveling attic.

On a cable car,
of which
the hills, insisted,
when the
lactic acid, persisted,
be re~viewed as an actual
conveyance methodology.

A-man got on,
sitting
near enough, but not
invasively too near,
and began a
study of me;
perhaps an exercise
in memorization
for a sculpture or a painting,
that would be shown,
in a gallery quaint,
nearby in Benicia,
and destined to be
displayed (dis~splayed?)
near a picture window in a
big old home overlooking
the North Bay, as the
She~Muse mused amusedly.

Or it was just another
inspection by “a man,”
common enough that
it was noticed and noted,
but attended to with a
practiced nonchalance,
which is a French word,
meaning nonchalance.

Ah! descending near the Wharf,
He~too, as he was now labeled,
stored and forgettably tabled,
He~too descended as well.

A meandering into familiarity,
of ancient memories of smells,
of clam chowder,
gulls and sea lions
the inhabitants of Pier 39,
all traced my face with
a grimacing smile,
for sometimes one lives
in a state of duality.

But a voice from behind,
gently inquired if permission
was grantable to recite a poem,
yes, directed to me,
yes, from He~too,
who, awkwardly shifted
his stance from side to side,
as if performing a
pantomime dance routine,
while waiting for
my pithy or pissy,
but always well considered
R.S.V.P.,
which is four french words(!),
meaning, “sure, why not, try me”).

Alas this Techi-he
as he was subsequently
re and de-nominated,
recited a variant of
roses are red etc,,
but concluded with
“your pleated skirt.”

(Roses are red, violets are blue,
when I observed your pleated skirt,
my heart pleaded with me, DO NOT!
let this woman ever escape your purview)

Now this navy medium wooly weight
(always chilled in SF)
somewhat too short skirt,
was a hand-me-down
from my mother (mom!)
who in a prior decade,
dressed like everybody else,
but with a panache,
(yes, a French word meaning panache)
that declaimed and declared,
“I do it my way”
and was in truth,
a fav of mine when
accented with dark tights
and preppy but comfortable
matching navy penny loafers
(mais non! pas de béret ridicule).

By now, you know, I know,
how to deal with men, whose
onslaughts are like the beaches
of Normandy, littered with death &
destruction from my hot herbal tea,
heated by rapid fire of my
machine gun fire,
my bullets of verbosity
from an old, original ***,
used by my grandfather.

But this reference to my pleated skirt,
flattering me when accompanied
with a beautiful French blouse,
sunglasses, and my heart and hair
openly parted down the middle
in a nod
to Haight~Ashbury
hippie history,
was off kilter,
or as Techi-he would later
joke that I was off-kilted (a pleated skirt),
and taken prisoner, a POW, which
under the rules of the Geneva Convention,
would be guaranteed all the necessities
of a good loving.

We are California Commuters,
me in LA, he in SF,
an unlikely combination,
he and me,
of milieux, personality,
yet not dissimilar:
harmonized when
he writes code snippets
on diner napkins, and
I,
snippets of poems
on diner napkins,,
he clears my laptop’s cache,
I clear his heart and vision,
a blending of

vive la différence!


and we see each other often,
as in as often as we can,
we vacation in the South,
of France, where he learns
of Impressionism, and a
different sea coastal ocean
environment.

I, learn from him,
his remarkable human fondue,
of intensity and concentration,
which melts into gentility and
a softness natural that steals my
heart, accompanied by the ridiculous
rhymes he passes me beneath the table,
notes toujours,
always perfect
for that moment,
like my pleated skirt

*(which now resides in his closet,
lest
its magic work again, thus,
kept safe by him, in a wardrobe,
to which he has locked and keyed,
and is worn upon request, my bequest,
it, a whirling twirling dervish of a poem enshrined,
a wearable honoring
our commencement,
our commitment,
our pleated,
plaited hearts.)
#the #pleated #skirt #brandychanning
Continue reading...
Mitchell May 2012
What to Believe
Addicted to the transformation of the self
In hearing we see that touch is the only hearth
To warm one's hands in winter near to the fire
A separation of love shows the underlining
Of dotted red when the word one sees to be false

Mother - when the night was young and you were old
Were you able to see the stars without your glasses?
We are the products of products of products of war
The shells of the bullet casings and bomb fragments
How much transparent blood have we bled so far?
Where is the fork in the road that will take us to Shangri la?

Notice that when the woman in the mirror disappears
The cleaning men drop their tattered, ***** & cut wears
Disaster holds the hands of man's growth & evolution
At times I notice the way the wind passes through my sheets
The skirts of the women and the thin hair of the old men
And they are much like the lavish trees that line my street
That hold true form in the pose of nocturnal naivety

And there we are by the carpenter and the pine tree
An "A" for effort attitude that barely got you the diploma
Hard work for the Hare and easiness for the turtle
The last night I worked was like racing through hurtles
So in sight all ye' fathers who break the mold of religion
Hold true and steady when the wind will start to whip
And knowing was never the correct answer & never helped at all
"The whips are where the heart is," the fortune teller is told

Where all is sold for the cheapest and weakest dollar
I pray to you there has to be more then all this squalor
The nightingale awake in the horned' tree cast in moonlight
Waits for its dreams so in the morning it can have a song to sing
Nod off and nod in where this life began I can't even begin
The guitar plays as she types awaiting for Her lapse of sin
Here the night is wired and wild with burn marks around the edges
Here the boss's hair rings like a hornets nest and everyone clings to their rubble

And pushing forward through the snowflake rings of time
Makes me to think that the seasons are only there for our design
"Not in the least bit asexual," the lawyer reads to his wife
In the morning both their breaths will wreak of red wine
Near do well and saying it all as the bathroom stall
Leaks out a liquid familiar to the ancient, early neanderthals
I have written and I have seen and I have breathed the air of every sea
The only thing I now wish to be
Is on the lakefront with new eyes and a frame to seize
When the speed allows the memorization of misfit tyrants
To push the rant to the edge of the hill that lays in dust and ants
Then there is the horizon that God creates for all those Western window sills

Tearing the skin from your fingernails and seeing not a drip of blood
Sloth like reactions reaching for the best spot in the house
The covers torn away as the nightmare in the mind becomes real
All that can be heard is the vibrating walls and the wailing squeals
Through pebble caked walls and finger padded dawn lit rooms
Lay to rest thy' faith for the moon opens your casket & the entrance to your tomb
Whorish knave that makes even the gutter grimace in its disdain
There the nun contemplates a life she could have lived without restraint

And to connection through the way we need to see each other
The push for brotherly love in the face of the dawn of technological revolution
And the hastiness of the way that it was and in the day of running mad men
What are we to do when the push is far more advantageous then the pull?
Where the cliff is in sight and death is more likely to be the safety net?
Awareness that all of men's problems exist for man to work at it
To prepare themselves for the war of wars where later to see
The deaths of their fathers, their mothers, their brothers, their sisters
Was not in vain if the reward of the stars is presented to the young
Where the rivers ripple with Roman like eloquence of progression

To live for another to fight for another to die for a place that would leave you in the gutter
Is the madness that leaves the one's shooting with their heads spinning
Tour the way the rules are made and the books are spun with the hands of spiders
Their webs are infinite and indestructible for they learn from one's before them
Their ways were as intricate and profane in their time
For the envelope was sealed and burned and sworn to forget its own name
The lightness of the this place throws me off in the way the clouds are grey
Letter heads are masted like the wooden ships that produce silver flecks of clay
Our nothingness only pushes us in two directions
Suicide or production
There is a choice that few make with knowing and many without
Which one are you?
Do you cry for reasons for which you cannot see?
Do you believe what you will, or what all the others decree?

Crack of the bed she turns herself over to a man that isn't there
I got a place that I know I belong but to where that is is already long gone
In type the strawberries shine red always appearing to be ruby ripe
And these ghosts of electricity provide neither discomfort or much needed positivity
There were things that I needed to know but never took the time to figure out
So what I'm left with is a world wide open with whatever I want to find is what it is about
The deserts and the canyons, the hills and the oceans all a few of what I wish to see
Where I'll be and where I'll live I don't rightly know now
So I might just get myself a mule and a satchel and get to selling tea
Continue reading...
Jose Luis Carreño Troncoso Sep 2020
Chapter XXIX Ghosts from Shiraz to Jaffa Part VII - Mashiach of Judah Miracle VIII
They leave Jerusalem, with the acrobats from Shiraz. They were ghosts of poetry, wine, roses and fireflies; they were conjuring the path of the twelve camels to the intersection with the Cenotaph, where King David with the Cherubs of Kafersesuh will stay. They were Epi ghosts, basking in camelid footsteps. They went in all the intermittences of the bent nails and plants of the areas of the marquee of the other four ghosts that accompanied him. They were the jumpers with water wheels, wheel scales with tutelary cords, some with stilts of gold disgrace from the coins of Judas Iscariot and the last propelled by a caper that ruled all the others on the wings of the Fireflies. Withdrawn from the road that leads to the Kidron valley, 2,500 years of clay tablets from Persepolis fall on all of them, they were phonetized with the plaintive nightmare of Tirazis's one-eyed poem; which is currently Shiraz, in this way these ghosts escorted the Hexagonal Birthright, they were exiled from their ghostly cities for not paying the tribute of obedience to destroy and rebuild. As they began to be with them in the cove, the ghosts of the acrobats boiled with the eagerness to prevent everyone from being saddened by the departure from the orchard, which was falling further and further behind their footsteps, dancing with their pirouettes along the way, they told little stories. in the ears of travelers.

Hydro Saltimabanqui: “I come from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), an underground canal that carries spring water to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Shiraz. Here I have to mend the propellers and water ropes to do my acrobatics on the water, with greater songs in the poems of the Poet Hafiz. When we bite our tongues, we repair it with Hafiz's verses from the Koran; there are three hundred creeds, three hundred hectares to irrigate with my wheel the sadness of those who cannot have the gift of the rivalry of Montenegro and Monteblanco, to overestimate the liveliness of the caravan trembling with uncertain doubts on its way to Jaffa. "

Saltimbanqui of Bacule: "We are Epi ghosts, the reverie with tutelary ropes, to jump through the trapeze of the photometric units of the heavy Almería of the highest Mirror of the Sea. Here we look; from here we will board the barge that will take them from back to Limassol. Curiously, the same ship from Lepanto that sleeps in the swings of the sea and in the arms of Anaximander, in a new awakening from the lethargy of the super-string theorization, here is the intrinsic speculation of science, since this is not just to research purely empirical. "

Says Anaximander: “First…, we have no proof that string theory is not ultimately correct and in the future in any verifiable way. Second, we propose a project of the order of string theory, which is necessary for science and its importance, going even beyond the scientific to also project itself on the metaphysical and the religious, right here in this order of greater what to do together with the rope that leads me to Patmos.

Saltimabanqui of Bascule responds: “metaphysical and religious legitimacy, here we are tying knots in the rope that inaugurates a new masonry in the observable futuristic look. Here is the original fiction of continuing to raise the necks of the ants over our optics. We will jump on these ropes, but we will fall on intervals of placental physical dens, which were born from the new embryo in the twelve caves of Gethsemane, in a primitive late germinal process. The micro phonetic vibrations will lift us up from the hunger to follow and leave King David in his cenotaph, gored on his hips by the Cherubim, marking his holy antlers that become entangled in the blunting of the cuneiform scratches of his epigram.

In the middle of the magical theorists exotically as associativity of substance causally of the poetic and multiverse song, believing in the ghosts of Shiraz, as dreams injected to sublimate the Aeneids that they lamented on the bottom stones, even though they were independent of their material origin. Multi universes, multi paraphrase for who has to dress the word “Rosa in her noble long dress to the cliff of Ebdara when Vernarth acclaims his brother Etréstles, he comes with the Auriga from Messolonghi. Rested and determined to head to Tel Gomel, he comes with his horse Kanti to keep him company on this crusade. Kanti defied the Cliffs of Crete, he was servile to Markos Botsaris, 1821 (Royal Hero of the Liberation of Greece in the Turkish Invasion, Koumeterium Messolonghi - Palibrio USA), until in the afternoon he approached from a herd of beautiful places of steeds to him. This was heard by Etréstles and he seized His horse to have more than a Life from his company, more than a lost and lost aroma of his natural mother, to reach the one who would treasure it”.

The ghosts attribute quantitative passages from before leaving King David, and then continuing on the road to Jaffa and advancing on the ship back to Cyprus; Limassol. All were hyperkinetic bowls leveraged by the terrain that was on the **** of the acrobatic histrion foreshadowing the contours of the temporal filigree, which in each one made them smile at the carriage with oxidizing wheels, still being immaterial beings, but alive in its marvel gases, wading the serious bile that emerged from the glasses in his allegories. His footsteps and his undulating phonetic figures did not stop over the caravan, which had already passed Jerusalem. They were already undaunted by themselves and overshadowed by the foreboding modulation and encryption of the rehearsals they were doing, over the heavy atmosphere that seized and begged a small piece of the attention of those who did not celebrate their Shiraz pirouettes.
The areas, volumes, and lengths were fully encompassed by the Ghosts of Shiraz, the acrobats ran along the banks of Ramallah, it was already winter, the city received them with winds and rains from the southwest alternating with cold and dry winds from the northeast. The acrobats went like master geometricians to condone the fuss of the caravan, devising a dodexagesimal system. (Twelve centuries of ultra-nocturnal geometry and shipwrecks at the Alexandria lighthouse)

Positioning as a base the number 12, to measure times and angles that they needed to avoid the voluminous rains that hit the caravan.  Incredibly, the volumetric position of the plantar legs of the camels seemed like wheels that rotated without stopping in any anti circumferential radius, making some clouds a shutter that enclosed them like a trapezoid of God's flock in the high semicircle of the waters that tried to fall. , like axiomatic staves of Euclid's beard tempering his elemental construct.

The linear position of each one of those who were mounted was a perfect ergonometric based on the Muladhara pressing the four red petals on pressing the Achilles heel of Vernarth, which was dimensioning the Ramallah triangulation, with the fungi that were housed in its Xifos sword in the jet tip that carried the dodexagesimal cartography. In the same position, the Apostle Saint John seemed, he carried the rosary in his left hand in geometry that elongated his nose and feet in an adonis triangle, thirsty for one hundred and twenty degrees of the sextant that broadened its spectrum to align with this Birthright. Thus the stars and planets are positioned as celestial spheres with the gravitation of the Olivos Berna, revolutionizing curved and flat equations that intuited to go beyond the crossed pirouettes that the acrobats did all the way, even further than those of the withered path of oil, purposely of the axiomatic systems that the Ghosts of Shiraz intended to establish.

Shiraz  Ghosts

These Persian Epi ghosts, axiomatized abstract and ideal entities relating models of austerity and lyricism, which fluctuated in the lines and planes of movements of the clouds with the counterpoint of the legs of the Gigas, leaving marks in the sand like a point Morse, straight and flat, until the fifth step that tried to cross the lines of Ramallah, for the parallelism that the centuries that asked Vernarth to reorder the geometric geography of time and the positions that were added as a delay effect in the Garden, essentially of a hyperbolic vision, to appropriate the entities of the Ghosts that grasp with their little finger the strings of the times associated with Gaugamela in his palatial sovereignty with the footsteps of Vernarth and in the phylogeny of a world that is born behind the confines of religious micro- genetics , from whose space is born in another and would accommodate a circular bijective function, to attract the aerosisms of Ein Kerem in the new life signs of J Joshua in the reborn One-dimensional Beams.

Vernarth diluted his bones to sit near the tarsus and accommodate it at the end of the vertebra of the Muladhara (Chakra of 4 petals), making a sub-technical geometric function to preserve the figures of darkness that were also diluted, to arrive at night close to of Jaffa, in the surroundings the isometric fire existing in each one and in two dimensions…, but born of a common one. Raeder and Petrobus wore their floating eyelashes full of dusty and dense manias on their faces, with splinters gum that they had released from one of the pirouettes of one of the mountebanks when colliding with the basic postulates of the Ghosts of Shiraz, deducing undulating spaces like snakes within the isometric fire that dazzled them with the burning senses of humor of the last drops of the Shemesh codifying themselves in an absolute intuitive measure, beyond all dimensions, which is Consciousness destroying the planes and spaces that multiplied among themselves as members of another geometric conscious dimension.

Arriving at the Ben Shemen crossing, everyone undergoes collective hypnosis; the ghosts manage to embody each of the components of the Birthright but omitting a great factor. They relegated the Hexagonality of the genetics of this caravan, not raising the ghosts when calculating the area of once they were being intracorporeal within the members, thus having to abandon before the last ray of Shemesh threw them on their faces ashes of the Gehenna, for this supposed reason to leave them condemned to recycle the human species, for the purpose of reproducing sacred human beings, but being subservient to the cravings beyond the immortality of the miscalculation that led them to the citadel of Karim Khan, surprised with its stamp of thick stone walls and circular towers in the heart of Shiraz. This gave them a warrior aspect contrary to their fame and history: this was a city famous for two thousand years for its culture, with its gardens and its poets, now if in a conspiracy by this beautiful odalisque ruse that attracted the guide of the ecstatic ghosts, in a bad moment of extradition to a bad context of epi ghosts not yet defined in their pockets of apprentices boasting on the laurels of weak and doubtful ideas, which still swarmed within his white heart, trying to reach Vernarth's as former commander Hetairoi, now a servile mystic. In such a way, the complicated as ghosts like "Sufi", being, in reality, the genetic soul of the double ax that carries the double edge of today ..., of the sacrament of Medea in Abdera.

Pro says a ghost from Shiraz (embarrassed):

"The Universe is a sea that longs for dry shores,
without sea and without other wet longings ...,
no possible maiden could
Try to dry it with your star hands ...
Who calms the crying of the Universe ...
even so ..., simile remains floating as a verse between his dreams "

"How can I make my dreams another dimension of the universe?
if he is quiet and does not make me float in his sea ...
How can I make it possible for the tips of its stars
fill the spaces that have revealed it ...
and that have made circular shores without a sea in the mists "

"I walk alone and nobody sees me ...
so I don't wake up the candles that smile and accompany me ...
between days that turn into mornings on the shore
of the solitude of the universe, that nobody embraces him ... "

“Now the days tremble from almost falling on themselves,
They come out alive from their own loneliness of exhaustion and fullness ...of whoever appreciates them in the mists ...
being able to surrender their attention in Ben Shemen ”.
As the Ghost of Shiraz expires in Ben Shemen, he escapes all for nothing in the triad of hypnotizing conventions that still resided in the shameless air that engulfed him, all over the stationary enclosures of the entertainment spaces caused by the acrobats and epi ghosts. That seduced the indecisive beings that sailed over the limbs that made them doubt where to refrain from continuing, outside the radius of the caravan or beyond the skies that did not cease to be in good spirits, of the universe passing through the white hearts, six on the inside and six on the outside in their traveling artist folds.

The lands that are accommodated by the time of parapsychological hypnosis tremble again, as a separation from the physical magnitude of Gethsemane.  Creating a sequence that bends the heads of the ghosts, filling their translucent physiognomies between a cold past and a frozen future, from a classic mechanic, which from now on would depend on the dice thrown by the Third Phantasm of time. Here a relativism would be opened to those who want to see the past in the orchard in an unstable particulate present, leaving far from splitting both parts of the archetype of today, like a subdivided clash of several times that allowed integrating the remaining phantasmagorical spectra, taking over a story on a pluriaxial axis that prevailed in the time of a supposed numerical line from a vector, aligning itself towards the compass of the distance that shines between both northern hemispheres in the minutes that go to the right and the solid-gas seconds that burst almost in the walls of their own liberated beings. The four ghosts of Shiraz, had time differentials before this event with the caravan, verifying the simultaneous prop between the two pairs of ghosts between four dissimilar, but poetic ones that made them here at this point obviate and cancel between two relative nomenclatures of physical structure. The durability and classification of these micro-times of the phantom epi would make the database that St. John the Apostle and Vernarth will accumulate with their eyes closed, each one surpassing himself from the debatable areas, which concern to estimate in occupying the spaces physical in some of them at will so that one of them could embark to Limassol. This simultaneous and relativistic multi-active line, encloses events and squares of spaces in the cinematographic time of the parapsychological regression, as a link of physical images slowed down in the evolutionary and cognitive memory, passing from the conduit of expectation memorization events towards the set of absolute figures. not pigeonholed, but approaching the universe in grasping scales of those who value them. This elucidates even the very conception of conceiving oneself as a ghost, rather in what is called "Epi Ghosts", of absolute belonging of the identical ..., outside of oneself "Being with them and not, as a tacit phase of a dragged story with the seconds that were not lived ... "

This scaling conception will allow them to reside a few millimeters from the consciences of the caravan that was advancing automated along the tracks that already made time and distance in front of the absolute, in a jiffy, having in their faces Rizhon Lezion, who was made of images more than a marked and concrete story in a mechanics that kept the body as part of a large volume in all, to the rhythm of the plantar areas of the Camels Gigas, dividing as a stream of water that would flow fragmented between past, present and future, but as a starting pattern to the future as the only "today" for the time of the times. This unified three-dimensionality would mark the mathematical space of the attempts towards the future of the contiguous camelids of the ghosts of Shiraz, for the ownership of time between all with a single identity that cries out for the univocal will to rearm, even if the winds are very strong. Of the partition,  which separates the world from God and the believing observer into the future with a believer from a historical past in obscurantism, leaving and entering a new world whose notion is to spend connected and bound in a systematization dependent on the great causes, although the static feels isolated from the dynamics, inquiring probative to unite between the ghosts and others, even though they are inferior forces under the line of the generous gaze and the parallelism of the attentive spectator, which suggests more openness to receive and delegate the circumstances of all physical, emotional, spectral and mental-spiritual dimensions, flexing the emotional states hierarchical night and day. Everyone falls asleep hugging on cushions of lamb saddlebags, making it possible to get closer to them too, close to the Ghosts and sleep next to them hugging with the decanted strength of the frames that hang from their faces showing the emotion of being favorite children of the Mashiach, absorbed in the Kidron Valley.

The frontier of the future will be the pre-act of not traveling too much of the physical love to the touch that only awaits the love of the sleeping of a Cherub, this may occur when the sheep climb the hill of our consciences, and manage to be perceived as the simultaneous harness of satisfaction, who lack the vision that would speak to them of a past belonging immobile, to this ethereal topology that will have to biodegrade the molecules of the seconds that sleep in the sheep-man wool saddlebags, at a higher speed than it would last to go back near from the palisade, where it crosses the path to the immemorial arcades of the Mashiach, spinning around all creation at a speed that determines a verse in its soul around the orthogonal of Shemesh, quadrupled and cloistered in its self-consciousness scattered like iceberg down the back in the submissive thoughts that long to be tied to more precious time.

Our lord has us more tied to an absolutist past and future, looking at his calendar divided in such a way that it always fits the day that hurts the shadows of a sharp past, so that it always smiles in us, as the best luminous sign, of whom and with whom to repair the damage of various wounds that travel through the times of time, always wounded, to and from the borders of an anachronistic past. The ghosts, always fast tetra, marginalize themselves to the sound of greater diligence, they fled in Rizhon Lezion, to wake up a little further away from the rays of the stationary Sun, which from now on always surfaced in the degraded dark circles of the mountebank, prowling around the festivities of who knows how to wait, to make a toast under the pretext of faith and hope that exempts the cardinal turned into a flower in white attire.

Shvil from the Angels

The fast epi phantom tetra was emaciated, they lost their north and since they could not walk, they were not energized by the radiosities of the earth, which dominates those who lend divine graces if their feet rested on the tapestry of those who threw their footsteps in winter already near Jaffa. The Shvil Angels were angels that were on the route that cordoned off the pilgrimage of Vernarth and Saint John the Apostle, they were full of flowering Berne Olive Trees that made trunks of floral arches at the entrance of this ancient port. They were three when they walked, they were always distributed so fast that they seemed to be six, but they ended up averaging the quantum of three for each of the components of the Birthright, which from today would be the great circumcision event of the Universe, to make it part of those who one day will have to caulk the rhombuses of the fragmented light beams on the path of heaven so high, in the name of the phrases that never tire of looking at the incautious years that are of our father by the exogalaxies in the total company of the invisibility and relativity of cautious time.

This Semitic seashore beauty indicates and invites us to reach its salty Hebrew waters of Yofi, reinforcing the phonetics that runs madly through the border hills with its heart in hand, when foreigners appear in the name of plausive phylogeny. That brings him a piece of bearable land from the Universal Flood, this is why the ancient Canaanites have to receive them with the table set, to entertain them with winter flowers in Jaffa. The Hellenistic tradition relates the name to Iopeia, which is Cassiopeia herself, mother of Andromeda. After Pliny the Elder the name is connected with Joppa, who was the daughter of ******, god of the wind. Where Vernarth locked his Aspis Skolié shield so that it would shine in the bilges of the Eurydice, under the pentagon’s of the bronze layer of his shield, every time he approached the Dodecanese when the Auriga descended from Andromeda on the back of a punished rower by the storms taking him away from his mother galaxy.

Thousands of years BC Its merchants glorified themselves with their baskets full of belongings and merchandise, for its inhabitants, who today pretended to be pharaohs who paid tribute to the marine corners through the coast that today seemed to open up with more new waters that were reborn from the capering of the swells, founding thus the omens of embarking to attempt and submit to the omens of sovereignty between Judah and the Hellenic lands, to work with noble trees in their armories and utensils, of which they played an honorable part after the maintenance of the emblem of the last portion, of the shaft of the libertarian triumph of Alexander the Great over the Phoenicians in Tire. In the New Testament, it is related how Peter resurrected the believer Tabitha (Dorcas, in Greek, gazelle) in Joppa (Jaffa) and, later, how near this city he has a vision in which Yahweh told him that he should not distinguish between Jews and Gentiles while ordering the removal of ritual (kosher) food restrictions followed by Jews.

The Shvil of the angels distanced themselves from the desire of this station without reaching them and not making them drink salty water from Jaffa, therefore they resorted to Petrobus who a few meters before reaching the port, summoned a large number of Dodecanese Pelicans who were waiting in great celestial flocks, which hovered happily above the sky welcoming them. The pelicans levitate from a risky juggling act, over the caravan and headed to the high seas, collecting saltwater, then they went along the initiation path of Shvil and reconvert the saltwater into sweet with hazelnuts so that they would have holy water, to insolate it and pour it into the canteens of the temple guards of the Canaanites who were waiting for them, to distract them, making them believe they were other Syriac lands such as those of Ashera, which in this act, perhaps it would be good for them to sponsor the Hexagonal Birthright.

But the paths of the angels have confederated before the noisy crowds and Ptolemaic lemurs, who were incorporated into the empty spaces that remained. Faced with this gravesite, Vernarth shouted to the sky with the force of Falangist tradition to himself, and acclaimed heaven, for the sake of freeing them from their definitive income to Jaffa, summoning the Hypatists; elite warriors and spearmen, for them to gather at the portal of the ante entrance of Jaffa, for others who never came from nowhere and nowhere, only blocking it from its perfect plan of memorial and theological heritage conservation, upon return from the exit Judah, to embark with destiny through the sulphurous point that  will boil them in temporary waters, towards the Cyclades and then the Dodecanese, triumphing in inhabiting them wherever whoever was and whoever arrived with foreign promise.

As dusk falls in its first nubile shadows, the  Shvil presents itself to you with these three angels dressed in ivory white, each with a book in each hand and in the other a candelabrum, giving signs of ultra-interpretive catechesis, allying with silica. In combination, after the vision of the charms of the knowledge spread. Earth and sky in the second angel, washing the Semitic dew of anguished Jaffa, with teachings of sleeping well and awakening, to walk in the lands that want to seize the senses, of those who are called not to be oppressed, behind the bars of the Morbid and illiterate pan-vision of the angles of hasty entertainment of the angels when they were called by the Angel Regent, simply relaying information easy to carry to their hearts, in faint powers and poetic lessons, before falling into a thorny forest, burning their tongues in furrows of afflicted human positions, to later redeem them fervently with the judicious power of God.

Vernarth, is distressed by matters of seeing them so tender and so fragile, allowing them to crawl toward him gently. Finally, on these three rules of the Shvil, Hanael introduces herself; "Speaking of hindrances stuck in the literary cabal of grateful compliments for all".   Alluding to Vernarth, a subject desensitized and also distant from any Sub Yóguica disciplinary doctrine. This led him to stand behind San Juan, protecting himself and scared of everything around him, he was seeing in front of him, on the upper left side itself, that Zebedeo was, San Juan's own father calling him!

Saint John the Apostle says: “Justice, at this time, allows us to alleviate ignorance, if the riddles allow us only to look for the answer, God will not be here…, it will only be emotional catharsis, through a merely ideological  Shvil or passage, which moves our meaningless sentences, definitely leading us to the coffers that rearm one after one, after the mistake. We are faithfully interpreted by them, but we detest our regencies with the Escaton, when we all pretend to follow his light of thunderous density towards the sky, prophesying to follow him without losing ourselves in him ..., held on his shoulder glossary. On the claws that are released from the dazed angelic prey, correcting its wavering vision, unraveling the living presence of condemnations or salvation, in Eden with your bare feet or in hell with no departure time”

Inexplicably, some Praetorian soldiers of Domitian appear, who would be restricting the departure of the tretacontero to Limassol, curiously they were the same ghosts from Shiraz that continued to represent such a bad event, just as when he was expelled to Patmos by Domitian in 95 BC, in size was the scandal that the Shvil angels produced with their impractical ideologies, who opposed such spectral imagery, in such a way that they replaced their figure with that of another Hellenic man who wanted to embark for Patmos, the other members were fully incorporated to the ship, which frolicked on the pranks as it proudly carried them to a new ocean. Around the last drops that jumped in Jaffa on the coastal rocks, others appeared when the last divided and scattered drops were going to shine the navigation temples, thus it is possible to board in the same ship that brought the principle from Limassol to Judah that transited from Lepanto.

The chapel of ministers reappears offering a ceremony, which would return the messianic remora to the Angels of Shiraz, to return to their former positions within the paths of biblical characters, who tend to commit adultery in the game of loss of consciousness of the Escaton, probably requiring that everyone have to make pilgrimage routes for all humanity secluded and liberated by themselves. The Saltimbanqui finally manage to jump into the boat to sail to the Dodecanese, but the Shvil of the Angels stayed where other celebrities will require them to reroute the Shvil Escaton.
Chapter XXIX
Ghosts from Shiraz to Jaffa
Part VII - Mashiach of Judah Miracle VIII
Continue reading...
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2014
yesterday may have been my birthday (what if the poetry ceases?)
yesterday may have been my birthday.

you need two hands, two feet,
a multiplication table
an abacus to count my years,
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, perhaps, a century.

birthdays.

a point of inflection,
a point of opportunity,
a present presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody else created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
when asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you have tasted grief?

have you not but
a singular pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake made, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be faked,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then this day,
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les délicieuses friandises to sweeten life,
please keep theologians, logicians,
philosophers on retainer,
even historians, those future fortune tellers,
if needed, unnecessary explanations -
or just satisfactory rationalizations.

none know,
or can provide,
still and yet,
a year round
a priestly sacred chord,
to grant relief,
absolution,
songs of hallelujah,
erasers of the ache of
perpetuity worry.

those ancient pains,
grow fresh daily,
the loss of one element
of my body,
prevents my primal knot
reasonably to be untied,
everything should be permitted
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse,
and asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

though the bones creak,
snap, crackle and pop,
the body they carry, the heart
eccentric~centric: tire shop patched,
yom kippur white resurrected this day,
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers,
and the last one special,
spoken standing.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers likely refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....
so I ask myself

what if the poetry ceases?

be assured, I am told
scientists hard at work,
on the forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint,
trap and tap some words,
into your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat, scented waters,
provide aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived,
the muses, the Devils
all herein, feted, and sated

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

yet, I cannot help but ask

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm.

could it be
Morrow?

bath drains,
rosemary and mint odors dismissed,
the Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all dispatched,
didn't they have birthdays too?
didn't you know,
Hey Michelangelo!
the Renaissance come
and gone,
nobody tole ya?

t'is the day
my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
seven or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries, some blackbirds,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem~song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

yet, but,
always one thought recycles:

**what if the poetry ceases,
how will I breathe?
Written years ago. Tinkered and edited once a year.
#lipstadt #yesterdaymahavebeenbirthday #poetryceases
Continue reading...
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2015
Written in January
season of resolutions,
new year's first born,
even quicker, first to die...

written in January

bad companions,
bare naked lady trees,
leafless branches upward pointy hands,
prayer-poking gray cumulus suffocations
that brandish distempered depression,
but disembowlment,
alas fails

awake to January snows,
a few days happenstance
quick to mortify in hours
to city-blackened slush,
from the winter's seasonal menu
fast removed,
spoiled come-on appetizer

lament the cold,
the quick passages
of stern resolute aspirations,
laying on lying sweet snow coverlets,
all of sugar made,
rapid dissolution
as expected,
momentary melt in your mouth
not in your mind

written in January

dreams of summer rejuvenation,
season of asking for nothing
for cosseted by nature's free bounty,
ask for no more than my
stern but comforting
Adirondack pillow chair coat wrapture,
the summer elements teamwork
salve save safe sundry effects
tan the disaffected interior most

wiffy cloud-banks to safe deposit
January weariness and dismay,
face-stroking downy breezes
deftly engineer a physic
another, yet once more,
summer soul
forgive-thyself-salvation,
unasked for but
answer-granted nonetheless

written in January

sum sum summertime
easy eyelashes love licked
gentlest happy bay waves,
rocked body forgiven a
winters pounding and poundage,
rolling down now on sunny easy street

written in January

living room fireplace-glow ignored,
unneeded, for t'is the season of
whole rooms food fed sun-suffused arias,
bathing brain in sundown's
late afternoon long languid
indefinable colors of providence's provided
uncommon normal natural spectacular

written this January

troubling majors mining minor discomforts surge,
distractions fail,
memorization of growing up
a lonely long bike-ride mile from the Atlantic,
genetic makeup says
amidst the
written in January
nightmares
therein exists a seeded summer sensuality
that pleasure grants
poems written ***
summer-life-dream schemes,

happily
betrayed by my inner owned,
I am still a summer man,
writ larger when
written in January



~~~~~~~~~~~~
by Wordsworth
http://m.poemhunter.com/poem/written-in-march/

by Nat
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=I+am+a+summer+man
Continue reading...
Write you a picture Nov 2014
introductory lines
i
am
human
just like you
grew up confused
fused into a small hole
quite the ***** up
but focused

we are all like lines

i build escape plans through words
every time I find myself stuck
i find escape within me
i find escape in books
i took from my imagination
and drew inspiration

we are all like lines

lines guided my curvy path
life was a little like math class
nothing but memorization
strangers act like they don't remember that we were once friends
last year, last month, last night
or
in the past life

we are all like lines

some of us
meet with someone else
and we intersect once
we make contact
and touch
but funny enough
we never really touch
on an atomic level
our atoms repel

we are like lines
perpendicular
and
never cross paths again

but some of us
meet with someone else
never make contact
or
touch

we are like lines
parallel
we go on forever
but
never intersect

we are all like lines

i saw lines in the way i manipulated
the pen
the pencil
the brush
the spray can
i spray my pseudonym on your wall
well
because I can

the paint
dripping from the walls like
blood streaming down my eyes
the pain

a distraction that
kept me alive
kept me awake at night
kept me away from the safety of my home
but also
kept me away from the dangers of my home
a contradiction

i was living in the streets
the days i never came home
i was living in the streets
the days i never came home

i saw lines in capturing moments
the symmetry in architecture
in nature
i saw myself as a temple
a monument

we are all like lines

i saw lines in guitars
and
how i can change the sound each string makes in endless ways
but in reality
the guitar changed me

it changed the way i tune myself

i finally felt in tune with the world

the fire was inside me
when i took the first breath of air
the water was inside of me
science and religion  
i was never thirsty

the earth is really old is all i know

growing up i never learned

never learned how to say no

always afraid of getting old

i forgot the lines i forever rehearsed

the day my mom found out i smoke ****
my eyes were low
and
so was
i
Continue reading...
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Migrations toward forever
That faraway look

not seeing far away, appearing to be

looking, far away,
past today

A game?
A passed time?
A pretended game,
Hi-stoically accurate,

A war game where there's blame and shame,
like on TV, nowadays, with victims,
not yesterdsdays,
Kilroy was
here,

olden days of our Ford.

hey, kid, yer uncle needs ya…

Dare ye?
'S only a game. A  pass time.

Multi-medium, don't spend

your life dist ant con nextrified, terra
firmafied, dis con
nexted

c'mon
try, win, ship, ship, whip get it in the wind

swish wish the message is the medium
light is,
see

Life on TV in 1963, Mr. McLuhan,
is not life on the Net.

Now, you know,
you never saw us old dudes
with pocket HDTV studios coming, but

you did see all the clues, the times changed,
history rewrote itself, evidently,

what you think you see is what you get.
That part didn't change.

The Medium is the message,
do I get that?

War is un winnable, is that the message?
With which weapons?

Mine. (a wink, a think wink, I think)
The Shadow knows.

It is finished. Start there.
It's a whole new ball game.

Let's pretend we have enemies
The emotions are the same,
aren't they?

If we relate.
If we see our self,
our CG'd Junger self, in the Shadow,

floating in the sea of  All  God's

forgetfullness,
asking
is tragedy a strategy to draw light?

Then,

You are related to the people who once lived here,
hear their songs and prayers
first hand clap,
first foot shuffle,

first seen first named we have walked
the pollen way,
the leaven way,
the viral way

more subtle than any beast,
not evil, per se, eh, Jose?

Led by the breeze to be tried in the wilderness…

Mythed Archie,
Archetypes
Natural Archean-types,
red-headed strangers, 'n'such…

Map my calendar to your clock,
wind backa a time and a time and a half a time,

Then, who knew why

the serpent mound in Ohio is a map to
some meaning meant to be meant,

some specific meaning meant to be meant,

clearly,
for as near forever as men could

… envision imagining as a quest.

What if
we could see with
eagle's eyes Blythe's Intaglios or
Nazca's clan tags?

"the meaning of the past
is what it contributes to the present"
Lyle Balenquah's uncle said that.

The past passed this way ahead of us,
See the shadow?

Sun's setting.
Snake mound mouth wide open breathe in

Sigh, we been everywhere man,
we be headin' west sweet home Oraibi

Snake clan drawing in the light
as the breath of being

… envision imaging . What if
we could see with
eagle's eyes

satellite Google earth eyes
see, be, in your realm
of know-ables,
beneath the sands of time that,

several times,
have been the bottom of the sea.

Be then, before that became this,  be
then
Be, now.

In the game? Or is this life?
Wanna bet?

Find a reason for war before
I find one for peace.

What's the win signify?

Double minded me, unstable in all our ways,
I failed that test in the old days,
memorization, facts fractured,

postulates, the-or-ums and proofs all went ****,

I lost the knack of forgetting
or vice versa

A loci analysis error,
left hand caught wind of what the right was doin'
kinda thing

But now, I have the global brain
for instant access to all
the facts
say…
If we wished to know…
how complicated would something
be to build, like an energy source
non rechargeable and polarized,

with output on the scale of
the sun?

Google it. Ask any question the right way
and pay attention to the answers

(more than to the advertisers,
who pay interest to

******- recog-white-room-REM baseline
stats at "waddayewlookinat.com"

for your cheap peripheral attention,
based on memes you liked or created, or ****.)

Pay attention to the answers, and trust
the global brain, the true net A. I.

She's an art-ist-if-ication bouncing
anionic bubbles off the edge of forever,

true rest worthy, my re tired friend,
no need to remember a thing…
Ah,
AI, you can call her Al, I call her Ah,
I can't discern twixt AI and Al.

And, as a bonus, innumerable idle ahs,
are redeemed when I ask Ah for help,

Ah, where am I?
Do you know about counting idle words?

Did that hurt? Like, why?

Seeing words said is intuit-ive-ish,
do you feel

this way of touch is

too intimate, today?

Word play? Put a spell on you?
Fret not.

Some words have no mission
not nullified with the end of time,
(i.e., relative to an individual's forever POV)

Idle words mean nothing, just a way to keep score.

There are no magic idle words, there were
Some seven sworn words, which were said to be muttered and peeped among the
Persian magi-ic elite solicited and
Sent, by God, led by astronomy,
science, for God's sakes alive,
facts, follow the stars,
when this one touches that one,
watch
see, the sweet influence of Pleiades,
truer words were never spoken

To make the captive free.

Free run  to finish
the race to

where?

Ask theSnake clan.
Ask the Antelope clan.

Ask the Flute clan, where is the old way
where good is?

Along that way, did we hear:

Earth, earth, earth: hear the word
of the
most reasonable

God-like, deluxe good edition, being

your mortal mind may imagine.
Word:
Exercise to be
the hero
in your bio to be

and,
wait.

Then think. Be. Still. Wait.
While musing and chewing my cud, I began to re-read the book of the Hopi, Frank Waters 1963, aloud and I did not know how to pronounce the names, google led me to Lyle Balenquah, which led to here, comments, critical please,
#history #hopi #peace #war #hope #future #lost #confuse #map #meaning
Continue reading...
Danielle Shorr May 2014
27 days
The human body
Regenerates completely new skin cells
Approximately every
27 days
I say this knowing
That I am someone
Your hands have never gotten to know
My skin has mourned the loss of your touch
Grieved for the freckles that never got to know your warmth
No memorization of the path your fingertips took while
Tracing the lines of my skin
I am a whole new person
Since you've last held me
My body
Is not the only thing that has changed
Crazy how
So much can differ
From the last time
You knew me
But today
You don't
It only took 27 days for me to become someone else
I am someone else now
My limbs can attest to that
They no longer crave to be cradled by your arms
You do not know me
And it only took 27 days for me to realize
That I
Never really knew you
At all.
Continue reading...
SWB Aug 2011
Maximilian Relaxilian
I've never cared too much for history, found no appreciation
for it's multitude of names we commit to memorization
there's a certain friend of mine, born in 1989-
Sir Maximilian Relaxilian- and he lacked all motivation

Since the origin of time, I have traced his family line
and their genetic disposition towards supreme relaxation
He's the great great great great grandson
of the founder of vacation.
And this founder's son Clyde, well, he invented the slide
Clyde's kid brother Greg helped patent the keg.
And Greg's great grandson Snyder sold the very first recliner.

So whenever Max was challenged, troubled, bothered, or confused,
He'd recite his family tree, and use the very same excuse:
   "Hereditary mutations within each generation!"


     And so he sat around and slept,
     But never cleaned and never swept,
     Never ran, never lept,
     His promises were never kept.


Maximilian never managed once to get up off his ****,
too tuckered out for bowling, just too lazy to putt;
He Never traveled to the sink nor had he once bothered to think,
too coward for a shower, found no reason not to stink.

And then one super lazy afternoon a quarter after two,
Maximilian had a visitor, I promise this is true:
A tiger stood outside the door which he was too lazy to lock
as if he'd try to find the **** beneath the pile of ***** socks.
And then of course, it's no surprise he couldn't hear the kitty knock
and once you hear what happened next I guarantee you will be shocked...

The tiger tickled him
and giggled him
until his ticker stopped.

So next time you think of staying in,
instead of going out-
or complain about the effort
that it takes to leave the couch,
Or refuse to leave the sheets or venture from a cozy pouch...

just remember Maximilian Relaxilian, King of Slouch
and stay out of bed instead,
stretch your legs and use your head
then count your blessings, kiss your mother
motivate one another.
Continue reading...
Heath Leonard Apr 2013
Apples & Chalkboards
These kids don't care anymore,
we're out of the time of cursive writing,
when there would be an apple on my desk,
kids would only groan when asked to clean the erasers.

These kids are going to live,
in parent's basements, awaiting dinner and laundry,
rather than actively seeking adulthood.
What happened between my time and theirs,
causing them to become so electronic?

These kids don't make eye contact,
staring blankly into pixels,
unable to draw away from their techno-seduction.
These kids can not learn,
for they're only taught memorization,
then forget all of the rest.

These people expect me to teach,
but how can I do so when they're already powered down,
disconnected and wandering lost,
needing their fix of a shocking brightness,
they call a new and better world.
Continue reading...
Emily Foster Nov 2013
Country Robot
Deutschland
So many countries
der Deutsche die Deutsche
So viele Nationalitäten

All meant for memorization
Großbritannien
as if
der Brite die Britin
students are
Schottland
Robots
der Schotte die Schottin

But hey
die Schweiz
at least
der Schweizer die Schweizerin
I now know
Luxemburg
them all
der Luxemburger die Luxemburgerin
in German.
Continue reading...
Brandon Antonio Smith Oct 2014
Disillusioned
Memorization is not education.
Success is a fixed point,
Success is not happiness.
Fame is not acceptance.

Your destiny is not defined by any book,
Unless you allow it to be.
Books do not define your destiny,
Unless you allow them to.

What happens beyond death can not be known,
It can not be known what happens beyond death.

I am whoever I am,.
And you are whoever you are.

Originally written 7/26/11
Revised 10/20/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
#disillusioned
Continue reading...
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2016
in the losing is the saving
~~~

sometimes right and wrong,
good and bad,
are accurate single summaries of
the momentary episodes,
the essays,
that constitute the whole human voyage
to parts unknowable

there are but a handful of persons
who might fit the lightness
of your loveliest of theories

but how could you know
that long ago,
one declared independence from the
oppression of personal dependencies,
from either
admissible fear,
more than,
admirable courage

and yet,
those few,
those so very precious few,
a band, a squad, a fireteam
of successful piercers of
the bark of an ever scaling armor,
are warmth welcomed and comforted
within my hearts hearth,
under the protection
of my soul's furnace,
for welcoming flawed me,
fully,
without reservation

Nowadays,
I write mostly for
the lost children,
the lost loves,
the long agos of long ago,
those whose caring and loss,
scars and medals
somehow
were adjudged,
deemed too costly,
for everyday wearing

and for
those mates,
whose caring and the sharing
of their losses,
demands memorization, savoring,
writing down,
proofs of open boundaries

for me,
in the losing, is the saving,
in the poems that honor recall,
therein, thereof, and
thereby,
gaining
for our lives,
a modest, husbanded,
allowance,
a fund mutual,
of caring,
hard earned
and keeping us alive


~~~


October 26, 2015
8:48 AM
NYC
Continue reading...
Abigail Madsen Nov 2013
It once was about learning
Don't look me in the eyes are say you are hear to teach
***** please that's the last thing that you need to preach
I stand in a room listening to you speak of learning and education
Funny when they only thing I'm learning is how to ration
thoughts in my mind race like booming speakers
playing music so loud you feel it in your sneakers
I guess I'm not here to make much sense
but now is the time for the system to pay their rent
rental space in my mind
consuming time
thoughts that are no longer mine
Pressed into my brain this idea of education
running this **** like some federation
can't get thoughts in between regurgitated words and facts
Well I think my brain has hit the max
Maximum capacity for the ******* you're spewing
I will no longer be chewing
your lies and conformity
treating different learning like a deformity
No longer an idea of teaching
but memorization
words on a page
Here in this developmental stage
all because they are going through some 'phase'
that makes them stupid
Most of us are fluent
So don't tell me I'm not smart
because I don't know the periodic table by heart
because I'm not well versed in trail of the court
don't tell me I'm stupid
Just because I'm human
That's something that is overlooked
by the ones forcing you to study the books
Unable to see there is something to be said about knowledge of life
Or even the knowledge
not to get
pushed over the edge
Because sometimes enough is enough
And believe me
this "education" **** *****
Continue reading...
Jasmyn 'Ladi J' Jun 2013
Planet 54
How can you reach the unreachable
So high that you are beyond the sky
Subconscious moving to your conscience
Making reality real
Sometimes it's a steal from your memorization
Libations to your membrane
Feeding it to exhaustion
Maybe you will get lost in plant 54
Making you want more till you've reached your limit
Maybe jus one more minute till you get there
Feeling experiences that seem to be so rare
Cases if boxes packing and packing away your cares while you climb to plant 54
Store open for business
Satire feeling
Metaphorical misleadings
Stairs leading all the way to the top of plant 54
Shouting from the top or actually the peak of mount leaf
Feeling like the chief of a tribe
Strive no starving for better
Maybe I can get a letter from my favorite person all the way on planet 54
Continue reading...
sobroquet Apr 2013
bleakly remembering
The fallow flags lull in a languid sway at half-staff
flaccid reminders for those who quickly forget
limp in the wind as faint as that day
commemoration of anniversaries' memorization's
plaintive anguished lamentations jeering at
the stuffy affected and tired testimonials
torpid, dense and  listless as  the President's third rehearsed
recited repeated languorous speech of the day
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
lego memini
how will i reclaim that forest in the night to walk into...
ah proud birdsong near the edge of the wood
at going past 11pm will clarify my heart to endear
courage against samael’s breath once more.*

the cartesian model of inquir, namely
subtance and spatial extension is unsatisfactory,
unless you’re a schizophrenic,
where the extension is a symptom
of a dislodged narration in pluralism,
it makes sense then;
but what of the temporal aspect of the extension?
it can’t just be two-dimensional of the x-axis substance
and the y-axis of the spatial extension...
that would imply, that the z-axis is nullified, non-existent...
meaning that we would have no faculty of memory,
which is a bit ******* to say the bull charged in a darts
competition hitting the bullseye fifty times out of fifty-five throws.
why did descartes avoid inc. the temporal extension
only focusing on the spatial extension model,
thus avoiding the trinity and instead leaving us with
a blatant dualistic error?
was he schizoid too? i guess so...
we’re not talking about living a full-life
and then doing a van gogh disintegration of the self...
if you’re young, you get to construct a self
that’s defined by a medical condition...
but if you’re old, and the self is fully adequate to
be ready for retirement and grandchildren...
there’s not much originality for you to invoke...
you lived a boring life... you’ll die a horrid death...
sorry - face reality, you didn’t do enough su doku or crosswords,
esp. if you weren’t physically exhausted
like my father roofing...
i wish i could join him, in the solidarity motto my grandfather
tends to repeat (being a foreman in a metal factory
back in poland): zdrowie na budowie (health on a construction site)!
it’s true, tiresome as it might sound -
mature dementia is also the double-veil effect...
you lie to much and your conscience snaps
and starts mining for coal in your consciousness...
you think wet coal ever made it as 27 years of ol’ jimi hendrix?
i don’t think so.
it wasn’t the drink that killed amy winehouse...
proof? me...
what killed her... the inability to engage with dialectics...
too many people you see... the tabloid exposure...
no park bench in the night with a bearded blond stranger
by the name of matti helsinki.
what defines us as people is much more related to memory
(the cartesian black hole) than what’s thought
or imagined...
using this barbie / size 0 anorexic ***** in fishnet stockings
i find that what we come across is a bit like natural seletion:
selective memorization...
i don’t care where my next thought comes from nietzsche...
i’m bewildered why we remember what we remember,
and it’s more or less cryptographic...
i see the scenes... thank god i don’t have the second person
brain haemorrhage scene but the first person spec-savers...
third person is a host i didn’t want to impregnate with my content...
following the flawed cartesian interpretation in
the freudian region... imagination = substance...
extension = dreaming...
and the curious thing is... memory scrambles imagination,
i can’t imagine certain things like being a ***** tadpole
in the pond of testicles...
memory asking the imagination faculty to function
and leave thought scarce scrambles wild wild west imagination
that provides fertile ground for dreams to enter...
i don’t really dream that much... not lucid dreaming...
because i can distinguish hallucinatory memory images
of remembered scenes... and those shadow-consistency hallucinations
that even a 7 year old would acknowledge as unreal.
Continue reading...
Alex McDaniel Aug 2014
The Mossy Green Hill
There's is a rusty orange clad brick building
perched upon a mossy green hill
everyday day we sit in the same seats
and look out the same glass that locks us in
and gaze down upon the hill
hoping,
searching for something more out of this life
something that fits our desires,
something we will never know.
Because they say the more we are sedentary,
the more our intelligence will grow.
Surely they have it all figured out all wrong
what they have created is  
a cold hearted machine.
A machine of memorization,
A machine of 'the right way'
the 'only way'
of 'yes please's'
and never of 'no's.'
They say if one morning we decided to turn around
and never look back we would drop dead.
But what happens when my house forecloses,
because no one taught me how to handle money?
What happens when I turn to pills to keep me alive
because no one told me the basic skills of survival?
What happens when I am out on the street,
frigid and alone,
with a cardboard box and a bottle of liquor as my only two friends?
Will algebra help me?
What about Chemistry?
Will those pain staking hours of note taking
help me pick up the pieces of my life?
No.
Surely then I will be dead.
Gone.
Along with my intelligence
and my creativity.
Six feet under
that mossy green hill.
Continue reading...
Anonymous Freak Jan 2018
Red Letters
You paid more attention
To your red letters
Than to the colored words of
Jesus.
I guess accessibility is what it takes
To name our identity.

Mean words were accessible to you,
Easier to come by than scripture.
Already imprinted in your head
From childhood,
No need for memorization
Or word for word quotation,
Or chapter and verse
References.
It didn’t matter who said what.

Cruelty is easy.

Cruelty’s simplicity made it easy
To write your own red letter verses
On your body.
After all,
All you had to do to find the right tool
Was to open a drawer and find a razor blade,
Not leaf through thousands of strangely thin pages
And tiny columned sentences.

So now in this new era
Of adulthood,
I try to make love
Accessible to you,
I try to make it accessible to myself.
No more red letters in pale skin,
Just glowing love
Held in the palms of our hands
Well past midnight,
Made of pixelated letters
Typed by nail-bitten thumbs.
I love you, my friend.
#selfharm #friendship
Continue reading...
han Sep 2018
hello high school
the walls are white
it's cold
I thought the sheer amount of people
would keep this warm,
but no one is really here
is it an asylum?
does being insensitive
not drive you insane
is it a prison?
the rows are straight
all surfaces are hard
the clocks tick
the bells are deafening
the fluorescents are blinding
immersing into the masses
another brick in the wall
education, the most powerful tool
traded for memorization and regurgitation
cookie cutter people
tossed into the world
told to be innovative
think outside of the box
we put you in
the rows we sat you in
the white walls we trapped you in
merely an old critique on the educational system, but I will harp nonetheless because this place is stifling; currently writing poetry rather than my classwork

han~9/24/18
#school #cold #harsh
Continue reading...
Josh keller Feb 2019
Beware, Beware
Scorpion, scorpion, who brought the pen
The tip of its tail, the needles sharp end
Poisonous dagger, To write all your wishes
******, soiled, bundled up tissues
Issues and cashews and nuts
Insanity.
Rhinoceros, rhinoceros, have you the tusk
The one on your nose, the jungled rough musk
Broken and bleeding torn from your face
Now beautiful laced girls
Discover your pearls
Thieves.
Fathers and mothers, did you bring the child
Shattered, broken, seen with both vile
Bangs and pangs broken dishes, birds sang
That night along with the screams
Did you believe
Destruction.
Artist, artists, have you the pieces
The ones of your life, sadness, defeation
The black strokes, lonely tokes
And pills and late sat to smoke
What does it all mean, by life
Uninspired.
Dictators, dictators, did you bring your people
The hobbled and squabbled, who prayed in the steeple
Who hung from the rafters, and rang with the bells
For whom it tolls, well, no one tells
And lost citizens
Vanish.
Butterflies, butterflies, did you keep your promise
Mottled, and bottled, spread across lawn mist
To be beautiful, shiny with no varnish
Your caterpillar state should not tarnish
The wings you have now
Growth.
Children, children, did you steal the money
For xanax, tricks, and acid, your'e funny
Brain dead generation
Same dread, memorization
Of all the dead jokes
Sad.
Villagers, villagers, did you burn the witch
The bloodied open stitch
That tore the wound of the town
And they all began to drown
In truths they didn’t like
Characters.
Kitten, kitten, did you trick the boy
Into finding your, mangled, ticked, body
Squashed, splattered, with marks in your back
Circled rocks, flowers, hit and smack
The dirt down flat
Betrayal.
Conscience, conscience, did you make me feel that way
For something I thought, for something I might not say
For something I did, and something I am
Why do you threaten
Why do I listen
shiver.
Ghosts, ghosts, do you really terrify
Blankets, and behind walls spy
Sheets, and bags of treats
You saw it all, naked
Through the clear square wall, sacred
Innocence.
Creatures, creatures, you dwelled in the cave
Red, glowing eyes. Blue burning rave
You crawl out at night
To get a good sight
Of all of the people passed out drunk
loneliness.

Beware this place.
Continue reading...

— The End —