"modus" poems
death mourns a life
that succumbs to suicide...
classical lawless-ness?
calls the jyst...
a thieving;
a stolen death,
a suicide....
bride riddled to a bridge...
baking...
left half awake and half baked...
you count with the number of
blinding equations...
your 80+ segments?
i want nothing to be part of,
whether polymath,
bilingual, or polymath...
you resd yourself into "it"....
fuck you, and...
**** off...
in terms of .gif ***** files...
no... the part where
we don't parrot?
for no worthwhile surprise!
death is alal b & w...
memory?
all invigorating sepia...
life?
the blooming of color...
you take shrooms,
to invigorate the colors?!
oh look...
you're as loony as me...
and why would i
give a **** about your
tall-tales of subversive religiosity?!
you're right!
like you have been with me
to begin with...
there aren't any!
now?!
suffer!
you're in good hands...
turns out?!
i'm a sadist...
i somehow tested the pain on myself...
i enjoy...
the pain, of others,
having, prior, teased the pain
on, myself!
i forgot teasing the pain...
i taste it...
i welcome it...
i've become welcoming
in allowing it,
a stature abbreviating a transcendence
of victim-hood!
i need pain,
to craft an erasure of ever having
the capacity to instruct
a modus operandi for pleasure!
death contra suicide...
a fact contra a premature contest
of pleasure...
suicide is what
death calls thief...
there is no moral artifact
of a "question"...
suicide is the thief,
when death is the executioner...
what moral question is
to be entertained?
non!
i can't blame the mortality
arsonist...
less Tartarus and more Gehenna...
less S.S. and more khaki
S.A. night of the broken windows
and less...
hyper-Hindu
reincarnation,
hue hue grey...
woo woo the ashen pillage...
no... i'm not here for the
cinder and the ********
it's enough that i drink
the sort of excuse,
that sober people could hardly make
excuses about...
and that's enough...
and enough, is, where i'll stick to.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
o melanin
'tis of thee
sweet land.
what's your modus operandi?
i am ageing.
my muscles ossify
and i become stiff.
the bullet grazes the hair on my bicep
and my heart fires a lightning bolt.
i made it this time.
undo.
unison.
undo.
and leave me be.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
Violin sonatas of gloom
Acoustics of desire
Play all at once
A peculiar compilation
An elegy of sorts
For yours truly
Welcome to life
Soak up the unrealised potential
Inflamed with rage
To this day
You walk this earth
With a strong conviction
You owe yourself something
You cannot deliver
Extreme self-expectations
Coupled with perfectionism
The fatal modus operandi
You continue adhering to
Goodluck with standing in the way
Of your own happiness
Thrive in your concentrated negativity
While seeking solace in one-liners
Of absolute ********
You maybe a joke
But you are hilarious
Oh, wait.. the joke wore thin
A dozen punchlines ago
You died 12 summers ago
It’s whatever
One day bitter and wilted
As you sit in a cold impersonal office
You will dream about the ocean
And mourn wasted youth
Today will be yesterday
Today is ruined
Tomorrow is dead.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
You broke my heart
And threw it in a pile of dirt
I have no enemies
However, worse are you, than an enemy
Because, betrayal leaves scars
Which are even bigger than cars
And take as much time to heal
As it does, to complete a CA course
Which is of course, a huge deal!
You broke my heart
And caused me a lot of hurt
Truly did I care for you, you know
Thus, was it a massive blow
When we came to know the truth
Which destroyed the earth
On which my love was built
Since, loyal was I, to a fault
You broke my heart
And turned it into a shopping cart
You took advantage of my compassion
And used it as ammunition
For your deceitful modus operandi
However, thanks to the rescue operations
Led by my best friend and my sister
We put an end to the matter
However, rather protracted and tedious
Was the divorce process
And ultimately richer did you get, by a frigging four lakhs
For absolutely no fault of ours!!
You broke my heart
And ensured I nearly fell apart
However, healing am I
Slowly but surely
Thanks to my dear family
As well as my circle of friends
Not to mention, a few close cousins
All of whom ensure, I suffer not, for your sins
Our relationship may have had a bitter end
However, I am now free
And no longer, will I carry
The burden of a relationship
Which, in hindsight, was always going to be doomed
Even without all the cheating and manipulation
Of course, I may have to apply some caution
When it cometh to future relationships
However, I now understand the value of friendship
Better than ever!!
You broke my heart
However, I am making a conscious effort
To put all this behind
With the help of family, cousins and friends
As well as therapy
Of course, not always am I happy
But I am healing for sure
This experience having ensured
That I am working harder than ever
And allowing myself to be bored, never
I repeat, you broke my heart
However, you have made me more alert
I am now stronger than ever
And will allow myself to be cheated, never
What you did proved to be a blessing in disguise
Because, it has made me wise
And just a matter of time is it
Before my broken heart eventually heals!!
Feb 11, 2024
Feb 11, 2024 at 11:30 AM UTC
There is a tendency among
those poets who may be very young
frequently to put in verse
those foreign phrases, or much worse
the now dead words of oh so ****** Latin
to boast of classrooms that they’ve sat in.
And just in case you’ve never heard ‘em,
Let’s reduce a few to ad absurdum.
It was amore a prima vista
until he left her for her younger sister
for, after all, who could resist her,
so moving on to secunda vista
he took that step and boldly kissed her,
behaviour that is hardly utopista.
The trouble with modus vivendi
is that it sometime rhymes with eye
but there are those who don’t agree
and think that it must rhyme with tea.
Who cares? It’s all the same to I.
Or should that be the same to me?
You may say it is not de rigueur
that I defend with so much vigour
what surely is no more than hubris
that I attribute to Confucius
for he surely ha detto tutto
albeit un po convoluto.
And everyone’s heard of carpe diem.
If not, then I have yet to see ‘em.
But I prefer to seize a waist
which may be thought somewhat unchaste
though far more likely to have shocked ‘em
would be to carpe in the noctem.
Perhaps you think it’s ipso facto
that I’m intolerant of lacto
unless it comes directly from the breast.
I think it’s better that the rest
of this is left to your own opinatus
for which I offer no blank cartus.
Then there’s the modus of my own vivendi
that I indulge in cacoethes scribendi
the itch to write for which I daily
scratch myself or play my ukulele
which is my form of modus operandi
before I pour myself a king-size brandy.
And thus we leave this boring dull citare,
by this time you have certainly grown quite weary
of any further venture into tedium
Or as ***** Harry might say, fac ut gaudeam
For after all a day senza sunlight
Might altrettante facilmente be night
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
They wanted a curriculum vitae
In absentia
I decided to ad lib
Ad nauseum
Ipso facto, lie and deceive
Exaggerate, mislead et cetera
Hardly a bona fide
Modus operandi
They caught me in flagrante delicto
Requiescat in pace, (RIP) my chances
Now I'm persona non grata
Mea culpa
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
[Verse 1:]
Sharp like an edge of a samurai sword
The mental blade cut through flesh and bone
Though my mind's at peace, the world out of order
Missing the inner heat, life gets colder
Oh yes, I have to find my path
No less, walk on earth, water, and fire
The elements compose a magnum opus
My modus is operandi is amalgam
Steel packed tight in microchip
On my arm a sign of all-pro
The ultimate reward is honor, not awards
At odds with the times in wars with no lords
A freelancer
A battle cry of a hawk make a dove fly and a tear dry
Wonder why a lone wolf don't run with a ****
Only trust your instincts and be one with the plan
[Hook]
Some days, some nights
Some live, some die
In the way of the samurai
Some fight, some bleed
Sun up to sun down
The sons of a battlecry
Some days, some nights
Some live, some die
In the way of the samurai
Some fight, some bleed
Sun up to sun down
The sons of a battlecry
[Verse 2]
Look, just the air around him
An aura surrounding the heir apparent
He might be a peasant but shine like grand royalty
He to the people and land, loyalty
We witness above all to hear this
Sea sickness in the ocean of wickedness
Set sail to the sun set no second guessing
Far east style with the spirit of wild west
The "quote-unquote" code stands the test of
Time for the chosen ones to find the best of
Noble minds that ever graced the face of
A hemisphere with no fear, fly over
[Bridge]
The blue yonder where
The sky meets the sea
And eye meets no eye
And boy meets world
And became a man to serve the world
To save the day, the night, and the girl too
[Hook]
Some days, some nights
Some live, some die
In the way of the samurai
Some fight, some bleed
Sun up to sun down
The sons of a battlecry
Some days, some nights
Some live, some die
In the way of the samurai
Some fight, some bleed
Sun up to sun down
The sons of a battlecry
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
I've looked at star filled skies
At life in microscopes
I've stared at hills and oceans
To find connectivity
But I have found
I see You clearest
Not looking past this skin
For You're the best in me
When I see gentleness
Like giving of myself
Being kind to others
Helping weaker ones I see
Caring for older beings
Showing youth the paths
And scorning selfishness
I see that love must be
His modus operandi
That is what I recognize
When everything is said and done
He is the grains on sandy beaches
He is the fish beneath the sea
He is the galaxy afar
The very tiny microbe
Everything I see
And finally
Whatever else
God is love in me
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
I’m indebted to the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, 4th Edition 1996
**Ab Imo Pectore
A**b imo pectore,
Blandae mendacia linguae,
Cadit quaestio,
Desunt cetera.
E*st modus in rebus.
Faber est quisque fortunae suae,
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
Hic finis fandi,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
Jacta interdum est alea,
Labuntur et imputantur.
Magni nominis umbra,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Res ipsa loquitur.
Solvitur ambulando…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
Urbi et orbi,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.*
From The Bottom Of The Heart
From the bottom of the heart, the falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
The question drops, the rest is wanting.
There is a balance in all things, every man is the creator of his own fate.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.
Let there be an end to talking, for who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
The die is sometimes already cast,
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
No one can claim to know all things,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor and rich men’s houses;
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
It’s so obvious, it speaks for itself.
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
And to all the world,
There’s no turning back.
Ab Imo Pectore / From The Bottom Of The Heart
Ab imo pectore,
From the bottom of the heart,
Blandae mendacia linguae,
The falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
Cadit quaestio,
The question drops,
Desunt cetera.
The rest is found wanting.
Est modus in rebus,
There is a balance in all things,
Faber est quisque fortunae suae.
Every man is the creator of his own fate.
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.
Hic finis fandi,
Let there be an end to talking,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
For who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
Jacta interdum est alea.
The die is sometimes already cast,
Labuntur et imputantur.
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
Magni nominis umbra,
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
No one can claim to know all things,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor man and rich men’s houses;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
Res ipsa loquitur.
It’s so obvious, that it speaks for itself.
Solvitur ambulando…
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
Urbi et orbi,
And to all the world,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.
There’s no turning back.
r10.1
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
1, 2, 3, jump to conclusions
Before a thing is said
Wrong or right, we pick a side
There's not a lie we haven't met
From that point we justify
All we think we see
Blind leading blind most of the time
We tend to find we're not that deep
1,2,3, jump to conclusions
Is what we mostly do
With the meter that we're using
You blame me while I blame you
Everything these days it seems
We take it to extremes
From a slight rage to full blown hate
Our Modus Operandi if you ask me
1,2,3, jump to conclusions
Before we even know the facts
The conclusion I've come up with is
I find it all rather sad
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 12:31 PM UTC
1
Dear Poet Friend at HP
(I don't know your name, as the name you use at HP is in a typo I can't decipher.)
* I welcome your question and comment as it gives me an opportunity to explore this issue of plagiarism. It will indeed be useful for everyone.
* This is my modus operandi: I take a joke from online and I convert it to poetry. The language is mine; I give the joke a context, even alter its spirit, create characters and by the time I'm finished with it, it is a new and original product.
If I took the words exactly as they are and passed them off as my own, then that is plagiarism. I never do that.
Plagiarism is taking another person's words and phrases and work and passing them off as one's own. That is not what my work is about.
* Take the example of Shakespeare. His "Julius Caesar" is actually based on various sources. So is his "Romeo and Juliet" and other plays like "Othello". Do we charge him with plagiarism ? No, as he has used his own language and puts each material from various sources into his own style. I have taken many jokes and I have put them in poetry, in my own style, in my own narrative. It shows a great lack of understanding of Literature to call that plagiarism.
* You might ask why I do not have a note at the end to indicate the poem is based on a joke found online. I used to do that (see my older poems) and decided for purely aesthetic reasons to keep notes to a minimum.
Kind regards
Raj Arumugam
2
Would it be fine with you if I posted your comment along with my reply as a separate post on my page? It will benefit everyone to consider this issue.
If you are not agreeable to my including your view in such a post, then I will simply post my reply possibly entitled "Reply on being charged with plagiarism".
Thank you
Kind regards
Raj Arumugam
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
*** for tat only means that another generation seeks vengeance and war
Evening the score only means yet another must even the score
Just ask the palestinians and the israelis, just ask the tutsis and the hutus
Ask the protestants and the catholics, and the crips and the bloods
The hatfields and mccoys, too, were all about grudge
And what has it gotten us, where does it end?
Who is the enemy and who the friend?
I ask this because it seems clear to me
“Either you’re with us or against us” denies diversity
One man’s terrorist is another man’s hero
But you **** mine, I **** yours leaves a net gain of zero
And what about the children in whose faces war is fought?
What parentless future — or present — have they got?
And who stands to gain from perpetuating violence?
Who profits from the pain ... ... and the deafening silence?
Typically a handful of white men do, that’s who
It’s that top one percent, not you
A few families control the likes of halliburton, bechtel and g.e.
It’s their balance sheets that gain from the misery we see
Divide and conquer is their modus operandi, their mode of operation today,
Keep us fighting amongst ourselves and all blame ... is diverted away.
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
Good taste is very difficult to define:
Some people like to kiss pigs' bottoms
And some people like to eat snails
And some snail-eaters prefer their snails dead.
But my definition of good taste is this:
If a man takes a woman to his bed
Only to discover she is a hunchback,
He abstains from playing Alsatians.
For the uninformed, "playing Alsatians"
(or German Shepherd Dogs if you prefer)
Refers to ********** ***********
A popular and sophisticated modus copulandi
Favoured by people of upmarket ****** tastes,
Only bettered by doing it "up the *******
As we scholars and learned academics
Tend to express it at moments of stress,
Especially when in full diarrhoeic flow.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
Our God is really excellent
At death and genocide.
How we love to celebrate
How many folks have died.
We always feel better about life
And the wonderful heavenly joy
When we’ve murdered some foreigner's wife.
Or when we put to death girls and boys.
It is so commendable of humans
To execute those who are different
Or if they commit the cardinal sin
Of being some kind of sick dissident
Who refuses to do what we want
Like maybe lying down and acquiescing
Or refusing to shut up and play along with
Our political posturing and window dressing.
And is is all sacred and very holy;
Every bit of it is hidden by claims
That all genocide and bigotry
Is committed in our God’s name,
Unless the genocide and prejudice
Is directed anywhere near us.
The we whip out our Bibles and cry
And make a self-righteous fuss.
The Golden Rule applies to all
Except heathens and non-Caucasians.
And then it’s a noose, SWAT team or
At least an *** for every occasion.
Because killing people is terrible;
It is simply not the proper way
To deal with all of life’s issues,
Unless we want to, then it’s okay.
And all of it is by The Good Book
If the right verses are selected.
The American Bible is written to insure
The right people are not neglected.
And everyone should worship
And join the Living God’s legions
And be exactly like he lived life:
A blond-haired, blue eyed Norwegian.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 6:42 AM UTC
I have no MO....
No particular methodology
I just dream things up
Add a sprinkle of psychology
Season with similis
Macerate with metaphors
Emulsify with emotion
Then get baked... Real high
Let the words cool
while my soul
starts to drool
then I present it
to the night.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 6:11 AM UTC
I listen to the sound of my fate as it pours out of the bottle. At last the pressure can escape. Breathing a sigh of relief that would meet the clouds with gentle licks. I am seated at the edge of my own precipice and at the bottom is a river. Ready to carry me down a tumultuous pass to the sandy peroxide foamy waves that exfoliate my sins.
Scout the bottom of the ocean for my heart,
You will find it throbbing like your eardrums in the auricle of a conch shell
You will hear the sound of my voice
And feel the grit of sand as you clench down your teeth
The water dries around my knees as I float atop the surface. Exposing my holy flesh to the contenders of will power. Will power my will to engage the mighty rock. And burst and bleed and eviscerate to form, to mold, to sculpt the golden stool of my consciousness.
Feast your eyes upon my crown
Adorned with the corpses of my victory
And collateral damage
Feel its weight as heavy as mercy
The blood pours into the ink as I dig these verses from my soul. The goal, my raison d'être, ikki *** and my modus opernadi is to excuse the agenda pushing glitterti when they tell me what my life should be. I should be, cruising the milky ways and the galaxies that my being exists in. Infinite space, infinite time leaves way for infinite possibilities to truly be free. So don’t mind me.
Standing as the revolution
The testament
Revolving around your disillusion
Thicker than cement
My empire was built on dreams, schemes occupy my reality and place you next to me. And the rest of me I will give to you as I pull you inside of me. So that when my eyes close you sleep and when you are sad I weep, deep is the colour of our passion beyond indigo. More fierce than the might of Chaka and his legions and yet as quiet as snowfall and you are
Beautiful. A shock to the senses that
dissipates the fog.
This concludes
the prelude.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
So, you've had gonorrhoea, taken LSD, got lost in Paris and slept with your brother's wife. And now you want to write, to cannonise the unspeakable shame that taunts you. Like breaking wind in a confined space you want attention. You like the vanity of writing, leaving traces of yourself against a tree trunk, the thrill of not knowing who might sniff you out. It must take a certain guile to resurrect the lives of others with no apology or footnote. Life is too short you say. I say: sod the lot who cares what you've got to say, writing is the ***** extension you have longed for.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
Arriving like a Queen,
with ego so solid,
her gravity dwarfed mine;
with self-importance so momentous,
she steamrollered me.
Acting like she owned the place;
and for a minute I accidentally let her...
I was stunned by hubris so stealthy,
picking my pockets of self-esteem.
She demanded and I served,
taking what she wanted,
and leaving.
Just Like That.
before I could realize,
before she could realize,
she is an impostor, a thief.
She's rich with everything she ever wanted.
Poor Thing.
Next time I promise to recognize her m.o. in time,
so she might recognize herself as well.
She needs me to stop her in her tracks,
because I am the Queen of me.
a mirror in self-confidence to say,
may I ask who you are?
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
Hearing of a song about a place that I didn't know,
In my head an idea of a poem it did sow,
All the searches I could find of this I had no skill,
Was that people were dying there on Kinnoull Hill,
The beauty of the River Tay and of surrounding land,
The place to view is at the Tower, that's the very place to stand,
The craggy face, the steep sheer drop, if you're mentally ill,
Don't dare venture to the top, the top of Kinnoull Hill,
Of all the places that they choose, they chose this place to die,
Shouting out I love you was the last thing that they cry,
Deciding to end it all, a life that's had its fill,
Death was their last resting place, below Kinnoull Hill,
Not since the days when Jamie Foyers had once so proudly strode,
Now it's for the weary in desperation mode,
They have no need for knife or gun or even just a pill,
Their modus operandi was to climb up Kinnoull Hill,
Don't blame the victims for their death or of their state of mind,
Modern life is difficult with day to daily grind,
He was just a soldier his government trained him to ****
The killing only stopped when he stepped off Kinnoull Hill.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
Extravagance is amusing
But oh! Mother
Glamour can never out power
Thy love, so sumptuous
Thy hugs and kisses
Have brought my peccant soul
Back to the place of its origin
I beg thou to pardon me
And consummate me
With your embrace, so sweet
The svelte Modus Vivendi
In which I was occupied
Its fraudulence I have realized
Oh! Dear father
I do not care about
Those puffy cushions
And velvet blankets
All I want is thy forgiveness
That’ll spread fragrance of bliss
Across my soul
For I have returned to my home,
Come rejoice
As thy daughter salvaged
Herself from a path
Laden with sinful gold
Sailed I have the sea of redemption
But my resolve would not
Purify without thy acceptance
Save me! My Guardians
And let me end my repentance
With the touch of thy affection.
~Manu M.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 6:06 AM UTC
1
I say I'm a designer of systems, plans
Man's
Parts that stand together, set in place to serve
Trees and planets, too, which are unplanned by us
The observant, wise man
Tries to understand
Name the parts, pistil and stamen
Rocks, eskars
Elements.
Winter is shuddering to an end, mud roads
Cardinal pairs
Robin flocks return that will soon pair off
Buds
Soils swell
Will I live to smell it again, learn the lobelias
Understand and name the parts
It ought to be a great comfort to be so insignificant
Go among weeds, a wind
Thinking to myself
One's never alone
A dichotomous key is needed, a book of twigs and fruits
Accumulated over time and generations
Without it mine would be a blank mind
To be blank but knowledgeable
Without any machinery
In a perfect silence
That is the definition of death for which we have only to wait
But in my panic last night I thought death's inert
Grace requires consciousness
Hold on long to the senses
At least a century, maybe more
A boy hanging upside down from a fence at sunset, counting
clouds
2
Now we go to our daily practice
And chosen disciplines
Sustained by the satisfactions of being good men among our
fellow men
Women
Choosing to do this and not that
With the finite days allotted us that at first seemed like a lot
They're now few
But the chickadee's life to the chick and the cankerworm
moth's to the worm
Seem as long to them as ours to us
What question am I asking today
By now, past half a century, I should have chosen a discipline
And been satisfied
To be a war president one must have war
May you live in interesting times - wish or curse?
Squirrels, high in oaks,
Fiber, fat and protein in acorns
Strong runners, leapers, climbers
Should stay off the roads which some cannot avoid being
where they're born
Natural selection is occurring
Those that look for machinery in motion
Hesitate or don't as needed before crossing
Live in larger numbers than those whose modus operandi's
Guessing
The ravens eat the fur and guts of bad guesses off the roads
I impose my own small order
Having chosen mountains over plains or shore
Go to my daily discipline
And estimate the motions of the seas and stars
Measuring my satisfactions by my children's satisfactions
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
repression.
this is the block.
it comes in at 3 o'clock
in the morning when you know it is empty,
it becomes the modus vivendi
repression.
it devours you.
taints you that rouge.
quiet becomes the switch that keeps them
crying.
repression.
like a cigarette passed around
we share it, not making a sound.
the smoke rising
and the sorrow is chastising.
repression.
the words lost in the silence
yet blooming with the violets.
repression.
there is nothing to say.
it seems like it is okay.
you shut everyone away
and lock them with the words you cannot find.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
An empty glass sitting on the table
An empty matchbox with a burnt out candle
The empty paper for that forgotten essay
The empty cabinet, the cutlery's astray
That empty fridge, nothing to eat
That empty wallet, nothing is free
Your empty heart, no love to spare
Your empty eyes, your cold, dead stare
Broken life, your modus vivendi
Living is lonely, living is empty
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 1:23 PM UTC