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"moveable" poems
Two people both alike in character Of the opposite sexes Sit across a candlelit dinner In a lovely, fancy restaurant The room is incandescently lit With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth The waiter appears and asks the couple What they would like for dinner The couple order the food and drink Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive The waiter returns shortly With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir And pours the blood-red wine slowly Into each of the couple's glasses And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately The food is laid out Triumphant in its debut A vast smorgasbord of entries Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife Cutting into the once moveable limbs And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews And swallows it into her fine and precious insides The couple then split the crab legs Using their bear hands they split the shells open And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass The waiter arrives and asks how the food was The couple obliged him with their satisfaction The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it Leaving a hefty tip They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant To enjoy the night that is ahead of them
0
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
sked
A Dinner
Two people both alike in character Of the opposite sexes Sit across a candlelit dinner In a lovely, fancy restaurant The room is incandescently lit With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth The waiter appears and asks the couple What they would like for dinner The couple order the food and drink Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive The waiter returns shortly With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir And pours the blood-red wine slowly Into each of the couple's glasses And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately The food is laid out Triumphant in its debut A vast smorgasbord of entries Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife Cutting into the once moveable limbs And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews And swallows it into her fine and precious insides The couple then split the crab legs Using their bear hands they split the shells open And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass The waiter arrives and asks how the food was The couple obliged him with their satisfaction The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it Leaving a hefty tip They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant To enjoy the night that is ahead of them
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43
I can write of Manila at night like the greats do of Paris. Not Manila in the morning, for it matters then, but Manila at night where it doesn't matter if it is new or old or if you are rich or poor, because it all blends into the moonlit darkness and that is when Manila becomes like a love letter. It may be Cebu that I love, but it is Manila that captivates me. To the farmer, who left Manila for America to escape the war, and returned to see only a burned down church. To the young boy, a hundred years later, who does not see the church, but sees the romance of a concrete city. And to the ill man sitting on the corner of a street in Ermita, who has seen more of life and Manila than any of us ever will or ever can or ever want to. To the jazz bars tucked deep in Quezon where the music is sweetest, and to the congregation of poets who meet at their secret place in Makati on sacred nights to talk of the country they write for. Manila does not end. But Manila is no moveable feast- it is a grand mystery that is far too heavy to take with you. Paris was loved because it was easy to love. The same way Florence was loved because it was easy to. Manila is far too rough to make for easy loving, but the beauty is there for everyone but the blind to see, and even then it is there for the blind to feel. One just has to try hard enough. It is what Manila represents, for it represents not the American dream, but the Filipino ambition to create their own. It does not become a question of how can you. It never will. It is a question of how can you not be romantic of Manila?
0
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 11:24 PM UTC
pabygarcia
How can you not be romantic of Manila?
I can write of Manila at night like the greats do of Paris. Not Manila in the morning, for it matters then, but Manila at night where it doesn't matter if it is new or old or if you are rich or poor, because it all blends into the moonlit darkness and that is when Manila becomes like a love letter. It may be Cebu that I love, but it is Manila that captivates me. To the farmer, who left Manila for America to escape the war, and returned to see only a burned down church. To the young boy, a hundred years later, who does not see the church, but sees the romance of a concrete city. And to the ill man sitting on the corner of a street in Ermita, who has seen more of life and Manila than any of us ever will or ever can or ever want to. To the jazz bars tucked deep in Quezon where the music is sweetest, and to the congregation of poets who meet at their secret place in Makati on sacred nights to talk of the country they write for. Manila does not end. But Manila is no moveable feast- it is a grand mystery that is far too heavy to take with you. Paris was loved because it was easy to love. The same way Florence was loved because it was easy to. Manila is far too rough to make for easy loving, but the beauty is there for everyone but the blind to see, and even then it is there for the blind to feel. One just has to try hard enough. It is what Manila represents, for it represents not the American dream, but the Filipino ambition to create their own. It does not become a question of how can you. It never will. It is a question of how can you not be romantic of Manila?
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3
First Contact "How did I get here,I can't remember, my brains burning out like a dwindling ember, are those tears in my eyes?-no its pourin' rain, I'm lying on my back in the bottom of a stormdrain, hunted like an animal,but still I'm deadly, like a wounded lion,you better bet ye, will lose more men than I've already taken(taken sample), the hunter hunted? I think you're mistaken, I'm a one man army,armed or not, you didn't bring enough manpower,have you forgot?, that the sandman(badman,phantoms in the dark) has more in his bite than you do in your bark, it's getting dark now,tables turning, tyger,tyger,my eyes are burning, better keep your guard up,I've been confronted... but how can you tell who's hunter or hunted? 16. Riposte Better count your sentries,I think ones missin, when you see his blood glistenin your pants your ****** in, should have been listenin,I gave you a chance, now its time for the Sandman to do his dance, like a praying Mantis I move so swiftly, bullet's fly like locusts,but each one missed me, the Locus and Focus of my 3rd eyes movin, got your sentries rifle,but I won't even use it, taunt you haunt you,flaunt skills I honed, from a broken home,to the streets to battlezones, catch you alone,smash your skull with a hanbo, appear behind you from the mud like Rambo, bodies placed like hannibal,a deadly scene, you're a ****** housecat and I'm wolverine, told your boss you could get me now you know you fronted, cat and mouse reversed-YOU'RE the one who's hunted. Denoument Now I know who you are,and I know where you live, and in this line of work I can't forget or forgive. We were partners once now you've betrayed my trust, taught you everything you know,now it's ashes and dust your bodyguards are good,but they know I'll get ya, more ghost than man,a modern day ninja, leave you injured,begging for mercy, but you know the concept is alien to me, grabbed the bull by the horns,my hand you forced, you're a moveable object,I'm unstoppable force, force feed your limbs til you beg for death, line your family up and slowly take their heads, then I'm in the wind,gone like keyser sozey, the word is spread,don't try to **** me, you were my friend,but you crossed the line, try to hunt the Sandman,"you're all ****** dyin"
0
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
rob-sandman
Hunted.
First Contact "How did I get here,I can't remember, my brains burning out like a dwindling ember, are those tears in my eyes?-no its pourin' rain, I'm lying on my back in the bottom of a stormdrain, hunted like an animal,but still I'm deadly, like a wounded lion,you better bet ye, will lose more men than I've already taken(taken sample), the hunter hunted? I think you're mistaken, I'm a one man army,armed or not, you didn't bring enough manpower,have you forgot?, that the sandman(badman,phantoms in the dark) has more in his bite than you do in your bark, it's getting dark now,tables turning, tyger,tyger,my eyes are burning, better keep your guard up,I've been confronted... but how can you tell who's hunter or hunted? 16. Riposte Better count your sentries,I think ones missin, when you see his blood glistenin your pants your ****** in, should have been listenin,I gave you a chance, now its time for the Sandman to do his dance, like a praying Mantis I move so swiftly, bullet's fly like locusts,but each one missed me, the Locus and Focus of my 3rd eyes movin, got your sentries rifle,but I won't even use it, taunt you haunt you,flaunt skills I honed, from a broken home,to the streets to battlezones, catch you alone,smash your skull with a hanbo, appear behind you from the mud like Rambo, bodies placed like hannibal,a deadly scene, you're a ****** housecat and I'm wolverine, told your boss you could get me now you know you fronted, cat and mouse reversed-YOU'RE the one who's hunted. Denoument Now I know who you are,and I know where you live, and in this line of work I can't forget or forgive. We were partners once now you've betrayed my trust, taught you everything you know,now it's ashes and dust your bodyguards are good,but they know I'll get ya, more ghost than man,a modern day ninja, leave you injured,begging for mercy, but you know the concept is alien to me, grabbed the bull by the horns,my hand you forced, you're a moveable object,I'm unstoppable force, force feed your limbs til you beg for death, line your family up and slowly take their heads, then I'm in the wind,gone like keyser sozey, the word is spread,don't try to **** me, you were my friend,but you crossed the line, try to hunt the Sandman,"you're all ****** dyin"
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51
# The ocean's wave rolls and beats repeatedly carving a way into the soul of this precipice foaming at the mouth no, wait.... that's just your tongue coated in a miasma of a siren song you ******* liar   sunbathing on my pyre the whole town now congregates around with devil-red containers of gasoline while your devil-red lips act the fire Only the clever witches survived the trials the whole town now dances around feasting on the lotus petals that root in the palm of your hand look at them move locked in each others hands chanting "This will bring peace" while they nod and agree "Pour more gasoline" escapes between those sharp teeth happiness is a moveable feast at least your eating like a queen go ahead and **** the marrow out of these innocent bones tomorrow I will be gone once I thought of you as Ithaca now realize that these are Troy's stones it's time to sail back home. #
0
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
EvilShredder
Incantations from a Siren
# The ocean's wave rolls and beats repeatedly carving a way into the soul of this precipice foaming at the mouth no, wait.... that's just your tongue coated in a miasma of a siren song you ******* liar   sunbathing on my pyre the whole town now congregates around with devil-red containers of gasoline while your devil-red lips act the fire Only the clever witches survived the trials the whole town now dances around feasting on the lotus petals that root in the palm of your hand look at them move locked in each others hands chanting "This will bring peace" while they nod and agree "Pour more gasoline" escapes between those sharp teeth happiness is a moveable feast at least your eating like a queen go ahead and **** the marrow out of these innocent bones tomorrow I will be gone once I thought of you as Ithaca now realize that these are Troy's stones it's time to sail back home. #
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40
while chewing on the sandwich i was given i failed to notice the ruffage and the soil of my glamour only the ludicrous measure of my apathy and passion. only the girl of my memes and the maladaptive gnomes of my moveable feast. i saw through the aerosols and the Hindi. i ate nothing but net. i slept with a barstool and a comet. and asked you " Why? ". and said, Less.
0
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
third-eye-candy
chewing on the sandwich i was given
while chewing on the sandwich i was given i failed to notice the ruffage and the soil of my glamour only the ludicrous measure of my apathy and passion. only the girl of my memes and the maladaptive gnomes of my moveable feast. i saw through the aerosols and the Hindi. i ate nothing but net. i slept with a barstool and a comet. and asked you " Why? ". and said, Less.
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10
I will find my way back to you on Montmartre’s cobblestone streets. Imagine Hemingway right next to us, rambling on about his moveable feast. Like free-spirited birds, I will race you to the top of Sacré-Cœur. Before you can catch your breath, I promise the view would steal it once more. I want to see every inch of the Louvre, we would probably get lost for days; But we are smiling like fools, I bet it would put Mona Lisa to shame. We can stroll along the Seine, and haggle with bouquinistes near Notre Dame. I will find an artist to paint you, But first show me how a monsieur should love a madam. I utter a prayer at Sainte-Chapelle, as I immortalize you in stained glass. Maybe as we wander aimlessly along Champs-Elysées, Degas would teach us how to dance. I will tell you all my secrets, the way kings and queens did once. Even Rodin would call it treason not to cast these two lost souls in bronze. We can have a picnic at the Tuileries, and you can bring me flowers from Monet's backyard. I will make a wish before they wilt; Don’t we all hope for the best before we die? And right here in the in-betweens, we have love to keep us alive, As foolish and innocent as the way Picasso painted like a child. Seasons are changing, and soon we will say goodbye. The Tour Eiffel glistened in all its glory as darkness fell on the city of lights. Paris, it has been an honor to love and be loved by you. In a few years or maybe in a heartbeat— I will come home to you soon.
0
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
janellesentina
La Ville Lumiere
I will find my way back to you on Montmartre’s cobblestone streets. Imagine Hemingway right next to us, rambling on about his moveable feast. Like free-spirited birds, I will race you to the top of Sacré-Cœur. Before you can catch your breath, I promise the view would steal it once more. I want to see every inch of the Louvre, we would probably get lost for days; But we are smiling like fools, I bet it would put Mona Lisa to shame. We can stroll along the Seine, and haggle with bouquinistes near Notre Dame. I will find an artist to paint you, But first show me how a monsieur should love a madam. I utter a prayer at Sainte-Chapelle, as I immortalize you in stained glass. Maybe as we wander aimlessly along Champs-Elysées, Degas would teach us how to dance. I will tell you all my secrets, the way kings and queens did once. Even Rodin would call it treason not to cast these two lost souls in bronze. We can have a picnic at the Tuileries, and you can bring me flowers from Monet's backyard. I will make a wish before they wilt; Don’t we all hope for the best before we die? And right here in the in-betweens, we have love to keep us alive, As foolish and innocent as the way Picasso painted like a child. Seasons are changing, and soon we will say goodbye. The Tour Eiffel glistened in all its glory as darkness fell on the city of lights. Paris, it has been an honor to love and be loved by you. In a few years or maybe in a heartbeat— I will come home to you soon.
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23
I regret to inform you, That my days on this Earth, Have borught nothing new, And are as useless as my birth, I regret to inform you, That the people in my surroundings, Do not interest me with their findings, And they are not people I can turn to, I regret to inform you, That very few people have a clue, Of what they are doing, Or what they should be pursuing, I regret to inform you, That pain is not beautiful, It is only moveable, To those of you who feel blue, I regret to inform you, That most of you were aware, Of the thoughts I'm sharing with you, But most people don't care, They want to be oblivious, To what is obvious, Stop running away from the truth, Or it will just come back and haunt you
0
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
alexia-cote
The important notice
I regret to inform you, That my days on this Earth, Have borught nothing new, And are as useless as my birth, I regret to inform you, That the people in my surroundings, Do not interest me with their findings, And they are not people I can turn to, I regret to inform you, That very few people have a clue, Of what they are doing, Or what they should be pursuing, I regret to inform you, That pain is not beautiful, It is only moveable, To those of you who feel blue, I regret to inform you, That most of you were aware, Of the thoughts I'm sharing with you, But most people don't care, They want to be oblivious, To what is obvious, Stop running away from the truth, Or it will just come back and haunt you
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24
now not anymore the Island that isn’t a loneliness but Choice without being There we were sitting and The Sea was coming and We (me and you) – a gorgeous staple, Hooked, were creating and we saw him (after years and years) how he was entering like a rainbow huge unattainable and slow brown – like a beam (to hold for it) nonpoetry - the other one is breakable when the meaning they wave – a hand of an insane man before a mirror nongame – the game is dead after Joyce and like a child is screaming for the sandy tower after an adult (a cynical stone) carelessly and with no reason forded through the dolphin is a life vital and his existence aside of the genesis and whole in the sea and whole is reflected nonliterature – the literature is dead implicated into shape and ad of the language but where is here the Rapture of the dolphin – glamour oh forgive me I am entering a someone else’s territory I am not a ventriloquist too I do not practice knowledge there’s nothing new here each new is unnamed a vital place without a place in a movement moveable smooth like blue fused in a deep bare white
0
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 8:45 PM UTC
bozhidar-pangelov
Dolphin Manifesto
now not anymore the Island that isn’t a loneliness but Choice without being There we were sitting and The Sea was coming and We (me and you) – a gorgeous staple, Hooked, were creating and we saw him (after years and years) how he was entering like a rainbow huge unattainable and slow brown – like a beam (to hold for it) nonpoetry - the other one is breakable when the meaning they wave – a hand of an insane man before a mirror nongame – the game is dead after Joyce and like a child is screaming for the sandy tower after an adult (a cynical stone) carelessly and with no reason forded through the dolphin is a life vital and his existence aside of the genesis and whole in the sea and whole is reflected nonliterature – the literature is dead implicated into shape and ad of the language but where is here the Rapture of the dolphin – glamour oh forgive me I am entering a someone else’s territory I am not a ventriloquist too I do not practice knowledge there’s nothing new here each new is unnamed a vital place without a place in a movement moveable smooth like blue fused in a deep bare white
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44
complex moveable pulley systems consisting of rope had hardened his heart: that moveable block a native of rocks a kernel of nourishing corn pumping starch to starving veins. his naïve nerves reborn, new to nature where nothing is known but the trumpets of judgement. a society of contemporaries with a common condition: speak your latent conviction while avoiding exhaustion by speech (know the limit of the lungs), so we accept the same transcendent destiny of intense despair while it lasts but not for nothing. when we end up in the ground do we still dream of the sky?
0
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
jerbz
alienated majesty
complex moveable pulley systems consisting of rope had hardened his heart: that moveable block a native of rocks a kernel of nourishing corn pumping starch to starving veins. his naïve nerves reborn, new to nature where nothing is known but the trumpets of judgement. a society of contemporaries with a common condition: speak your latent conviction while avoiding exhaustion by speech (know the limit of the lungs), so we accept the same transcendent destiny of intense despair while it lasts but not for nothing. when we end up in the ground do we still dream of the sky?
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21
The idea of man has changed. We no longer build things, But have to take care of our manicures. We no longer grow a forest upon our face, But shave every inch of real estate; Such that others others buy into our facade. No more princes looking for a fight- On their perilous journey to find the princess. Now it seems all the princes are searching for another prince. I think for the sole reason, That man is trying to find a real man. Someone to him to start a fire, To swing a sword, or have unconditional love. Bottled aggression turns into feminism, Yet I’m not saying women are weak. Very much to the contrary, They can place a deep fear in any man. That’s their job: to keep us grounded. With two men or (wo)men, No balance is found and the cycle turns. A man that doesn’t fight gets left behind, And will be murdered under his bed. (His favorite hiding spot) I understand the blame mostly falls on change, But be a man, a rock, steady and un-moveable.
0
Apr 4, 2011
Apr 4, 2011 at 10:54 PM UTC
matthias
Drop the Wo Man
The idea of man has changed. We no longer build things, But have to take care of our manicures. We no longer grow a forest upon our face, But shave every inch of real estate; Such that others others buy into our facade. No more princes looking for a fight- On their perilous journey to find the princess. Now it seems all the princes are searching for another prince. I think for the sole reason, That man is trying to find a real man. Someone to him to start a fire, To swing a sword, or have unconditional love. Bottled aggression turns into feminism, Yet I’m not saying women are weak. Very much to the contrary, They can place a deep fear in any man. That’s their job: to keep us grounded. With two men or (wo)men, No balance is found and the cycle turns. A man that doesn’t fight gets left behind, And will be murdered under his bed. (His favorite hiding spot) I understand the blame mostly falls on change, But be a man, a rock, steady and un-moveable.
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25
Metaphysical Mathematiciantional Sensational Unbelievable Conceivable Reasonable to be believable Cuz I tried to get past it I mean it boggled my mind to the point I tried to find some meaning in it So I try to think positive thoughts It's like moving through layers of forestry moss I'm trying to bra boss of my own trade Gettin what I got cuz I got it made No more shade Shining in the light Constant battle not even a fight 300 men in a war Tryna make the next score Gimme gimme more So I can soar to higher heights Catch that next bite Oh yeah it's outta sight Metaphysical Cataclysmical Sociable Moveable It's all metaphysical
0
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
jasmyn-ladi-j
Metaphysical
Metaphysical Mathematiciantional Sensational Unbelievable Conceivable Reasonable to be believable Cuz I tried to get past it I mean it boggled my mind to the point I tried to find some meaning in it So I try to think positive thoughts It's like moving through layers of forestry moss I'm trying to bra boss of my own trade Gettin what I got cuz I got it made No more shade Shining in the light Constant battle not even a fight 300 men in a war Tryna make the next score Gimme gimme more So I can soar to higher heights Catch that next bite Oh yeah it's outta sight Metaphysical Cataclysmical Sociable Moveable It's all metaphysical
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26
i have spent far too much of my life building towering walls with no arches, without windows without any view to the outside world. i would much rather have liked it if i would have built fences instead. fences are moveable. you can push the rows and rows of wire or wood a foot to the north or a foot to the south or make a curve in the line. fences don't block everything out, they don't keep everything in, and they don't hurt as much when they fall. walls, on the other hand, crash and burn and take months and months to rebuild. fences? fences can be put up in a day or two depending on how difficult you want it to be to get in/get out; fences can be taken down in a day or two depending on how easy you want it to be to get out/get in.
0
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 5:29 PM UTC
nova20
ii. walls and fences
i have spent far too much of my life building towering walls with no arches, without windows without any view to the outside world. i would much rather have liked it if i would have built fences instead. fences are moveable. you can push the rows and rows of wire or wood a foot to the north or a foot to the south or make a curve in the line. fences don't block everything out, they don't keep everything in, and they don't hurt as much when they fall. walls, on the other hand, crash and burn and take months and months to rebuild. fences? fences can be put up in a day or two depending on how difficult you want it to be to get in/get out; fences can be taken down in a day or two depending on how easy you want it to be to get out/get in.
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20
If you are going to love a dreamer You can not be controlling You can not be manipulative their spirit their passion would be sacrificed because of their love for you because of their love of you it would be because of you love ultimately fermented into resent and hate dreams turned to nightmares at the very mention of your existence You can not be weak You can not be moveable Their fire their vision would juggernaut the mightiest of the weary tears shed in the quiet of the dark desires whispered in the secret of shadows would never be known to them The dreamer is Blind not deaf not dumb If you are going to love a dreamer You must be courageous You must be adventurous To love a dreamer is to bed risk To love a dreamer is to set a permanent place for gamble the acknowledgement of chance the acceptance of failure Loving a dreamer is to know the only place of honor is not with them is with the dream Loving a dreamer is to know the only pedestal is not for them is reserved for the dream Loving a dreamer is to know they will love you position their lives around you but their purpose their only purpose is the dream © Christopher F. Brown 2015
0
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
christopher-f-brown
Party of the third Part
If you are going to love a dreamer You can not be controlling You can not be manipulative their spirit their passion would be sacrificed because of their love for you because of their love of you it would be because of you love ultimately fermented into resent and hate dreams turned to nightmares at the very mention of your existence You can not be weak You can not be moveable Their fire their vision would juggernaut the mightiest of the weary tears shed in the quiet of the dark desires whispered in the secret of shadows would never be known to them The dreamer is Blind not deaf not dumb If you are going to love a dreamer You must be courageous You must be adventurous To love a dreamer is to bed risk To love a dreamer is to set a permanent place for gamble the acknowledgement of chance the acceptance of failure Loving a dreamer is to know the only place of honor is not with them is with the dream Loving a dreamer is to know the only pedestal is not for them is reserved for the dream Loving a dreamer is to know they will love you position their lives around you but their purpose their only purpose is the dream © Christopher F. Brown 2015
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44
items title - author - (read / unread) songs of war and peace - afghan women's poetry                                               edited by sayd bahodine majrouh                                               (yes) the cantos of ezra pound                                               ezra pound                                               (pending) the unbearable lightness of being                                                      milan kundera                                                (yes, albeit                                                 given to someone) the man in the high castle                                                 philip k. ****                                                 (yes, "                                                           " " ") do androids dream of electric sheep                                                                                       " men without women                                                  ernest hemingway                                                  (yes) a moveable feast                                                   ernest         "                                                   (yes) for whom the bell tolls                                                   ernest          "                                                   (partially, university                                                    assignment) a passage to india                                                    e. m. forster                                                    (no, i prefer the actual cuisine,                                                     dash of cinnamon, cumin                                                     cloves, cardamon and i just                                                     read: a short-cut to india) the outsider                                                     albert camus                                                     (yes, lost the book somewhere) frankenstein                                                     mary shelley                                                     (yes) aesop's fables                                                      aesop                                                      (yes, good enough                                                       for zeno to                                                       paradox achilles                                                       with the turtle, i.e.                                                       aesop's fables                                                       were primarily based                                                       on the behaviour of animals) dr. jeckyl & mr. hyde                                                       r. l. stevenson                                                       (no, a literary                                                        version of the beatles'                                                        yesterday, conjuring                                                        for money anyway) iron in the soul                                                         jean-paul sartre                                                         (the other two titles                                                          of the human comedy                                                          i don't remember;                                                          i have all respect for                                                          sartre the novelist -                                                          but none as a philosopher) treasure island                                                           r. l. stevenson                                                           (yes) i'm the king of the castle                                                           susan hill                                                           (yes) jane eyre                                                            charlotte brontë                                                            (yes) on the road                                                            jack kerouac                                                            (yes) the bell jar                                                            sylvia plath                                                            (yes) fiesta: the sun also rises ernest hemingway (yes) the ordeal of gilbert pinfold evelyn waugh (yes) five plays chekov (stuck to shakespeare and russian existential macabre) the existential imagination edited by frederick r. karl & leo hamalian (yes, esp. the extract about socrates)
0
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
the index of a personal library
items title - author - (read / unread) songs of war and peace - afghan women's poetry                                               edited by sayd bahodine majrouh                                               (yes) the cantos of ezra pound                                               ezra pound                                               (pending) the unbearable lightness of being                                                      milan kundera                                                (yes, albeit                                                 given to someone) the man in the high castle                                                 philip k. ****                                                 (yes, "                                                           " " ") do androids dream of electric sheep                                                                                       " men without women                                                  ernest hemingway                                                  (yes) a moveable feast                                                   ernest         "                                                   (yes) for whom the bell tolls                                                   ernest          "                                                   (partially, university                                                    assignment) a passage to india                                                    e. m. forster                                                    (no, i prefer the actual cuisine,                                                     dash of cinnamon, cumin                                                     cloves, cardamon and i just                                                     read: a short-cut to india) the outsider                                                     albert camus                                                     (yes, lost the book somewhere) frankenstein                                                     mary shelley                                                     (yes) aesop's fables                                                      aesop                                                      (yes, good enough                                                       for zeno to                                                       paradox achilles                                                       with the turtle, i.e.                                                       aesop's fables                                                       were primarily based                                                       on the behaviour of animals) dr. jeckyl & mr. hyde                                                       r. l. stevenson                                                       (no, a literary                                                        version of the beatles'                                                        yesterday, conjuring                                                        for money anyway) iron in the soul                                                         jean-paul sartre                                                         (the other two titles                                                          of the human comedy                                                          i don't remember;                                                          i have all respect for                                                          sartre the novelist -                                                          but none as a philosopher) treasure island                                                           r. l. stevenson                                                           (yes) i'm the king of the castle                                                           susan hill                                                           (yes) jane eyre                                                            charlotte brontë                                                            (yes) on the road                                                            jack kerouac                                                            (yes) the bell jar                                                            sylvia plath                                                            (yes) fiesta: the sun also rises ernest hemingway (yes) the ordeal of gilbert pinfold evelyn waugh (yes) five plays chekov (stuck to shakespeare and russian existential macabre) the existential imagination edited by frederick r. karl & leo hamalian (yes, esp. the extract about socrates)
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100
walking moveable feast talking nonsense; to bugs too small to see- under a microscope revealed captured lab specimens; just crawling around, all day eating the tasty skin of Humans hosts to a constant stream of nibbling takeaway addicts a walking moveable feast talking nonsense.
0
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
nivek
nibbling takeaway addicts
walking moveable feast talking nonsense; to bugs too small to see- under a microscope revealed captured lab specimens; just crawling around, all day eating the tasty skin of Humans hosts to a constant stream of nibbling takeaway addicts a walking moveable feast talking nonsense.
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11
In that first hardly noticed moment to which you wake, coming back to this life from the other more secret, moveable and frighteningly honest world where everything began, there is a small opening into the new day which closes the moment you begin your plans. What you can plan is too small for you to live. What you can live wholeheartedly will make plans enough for the vitality hidden in your sleep. To be human is to become visible while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others. To remember the other world in this world is to live in your true inheritance. You are not a troubled guest on this earth, you are not an accident amidst other accidents you were invited from another and greater night than the one from which you have just emerged. Now, looking through the slanting light of the morning window toward the mountain presence of everything that can be, what urgency calls you to your one love? What shape waits in the seed of you to grow and spread its branches against a future sky? Is it waiting in the fertile sea? In the trees beyond the house? In the life you can imagine for yourself? In the open and lovely white page on the waiting desk? ~ David Whyte ~
0
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
charlesc
WHAT TO REMEMBER WHEN WAKING (by David Whyte)
In that first hardly noticed moment to which you wake, coming back to this life from the other more secret, moveable and frighteningly honest world where everything began, there is a small opening into the new day which closes the moment you begin your plans. What you can plan is too small for you to live. What you can live wholeheartedly will make plans enough for the vitality hidden in your sleep. To be human is to become visible while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others. To remember the other world in this world is to live in your true inheritance. You are not a troubled guest on this earth, you are not an accident amidst other accidents you were invited from another and greater night than the one from which you have just emerged. Now, looking through the slanting light of the morning window toward the mountain presence of everything that can be, what urgency calls you to your one love? What shape waits in the seed of you to grow and spread its branches against a future sky? Is it waiting in the fertile sea? In the trees beyond the house? In the life you can imagine for yourself? In the open and lovely white page on the waiting desk? ~ David Whyte ~
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80
expertise irrelevant, a knowing recognition where & when & why, venn diagram inflection points intersect, and also confine the nirvana nexus on a line of dots in a movingly motion connected by a formula that has an equal 🟰 in its muddly middle the man’s best sole instructions to her only solve! me when in an moveable interaction the power of rushing baking cake & it’s filling is akin to trying to hold back a bucking stream that cannot both be ****** or dammed running words, making you obsessed to remember every detail, but commas only, never a period interrupting continuity no essential points of exit and entry and yet… you cold stop to breathe wondering how came you to be a container intertwining motifs and motives, desires contradictory, control contrives to be a controversy pressured pressed together, and you want to stop, go, turnings to touch, she be tablet and he the pen, and you wrack to remember each detail, the poem complete or will confusions reign supreme and all the fantastical schemes are shot to hell, ink spilled, house doused and she good naturedly laughs at you, cause she knows poet better than himself and forgives him his inspirational dazes and gazes of confusion because it is hard to give when giving birth to a dream’s obsessive demands to love one more than the other each deserves no rival, just a final fini, she wants the same, but the heart is where he keeps hid, exactly what she needs, so forgives a little, because loving a crazy man after all these years is taking the excesses costly cause that be an insanity desired, what she loves, the dusky duo inside him a constant battle re fusing resolving the man’s contradictories, that she cherishes him for more, his mired mind, more and laughs at mores, cause it is never ending; his more is feature why she loves him very best, she showers and laughs, he rushes in puzzlement featured on his face, so invites him in and as he falls to his knees in a watery embrace, while grasping her hips, she states with a finality: “‘ ”let us discuss the importance of proper endings”
0
Oct 4, 2024
Oct 4, 2024 at 4:38 PM UTC
stillcrazyafteralltheseye
recreational writing & ***
expertise irrelevant, a knowing recognition where & when & why, venn diagram inflection points intersect, and also confine the nirvana nexus on a line of dots in a movingly motion connected by a formula that has an equal 🟰 in its muddly middle the man’s best sole instructions to her only solve! me when in an moveable interaction the power of rushing baking cake & it’s filling is akin to trying to hold back a bucking stream that cannot both be ****** or dammed running words, making you obsessed to remember every detail, but commas only, never a period interrupting continuity no essential points of exit and entry and yet… you cold stop to breathe wondering how came you to be a container intertwining motifs and motives, desires contradictory, control contrives to be a controversy pressured pressed together, and you want to stop, go, turnings to touch, she be tablet and he the pen, and you wrack to remember each detail, the poem complete or will confusions reign supreme and all the fantastical schemes are shot to hell, ink spilled, house doused and she good naturedly laughs at you, cause she knows poet better than himself and forgives him his inspirational dazes and gazes of confusion because it is hard to give when giving birth to a dream’s obsessive demands to love one more than the other each deserves no rival, just a final fini, she wants the same, but the heart is where he keeps hid, exactly what she needs, so forgives a little, because loving a crazy man after all these years is taking the excesses costly cause that be an insanity desired, what she loves, the dusky duo inside him a constant battle re fusing resolving the man’s contradictories, that she cherishes him for more, his mired mind, more and laughs at mores, cause it is never ending; his more is feature why she loves him very best, she showers and laughs, he rushes in puzzlement featured on his face, so invites him in and as he falls to his knees in a watery embrace, while grasping her hips, she states with a finality: “‘ ”let us discuss the importance of proper endings”
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67
after you're satisfied with a library, the one you actually read, rather than the one you keep as a bogus volume of peacock you begin to read book reviews, it's so much easier to read book reviews than actual books when you're out  for the carnal desires being fulfilled... i just read book reviews because i don't have the time to read the actual works... centuries of illiteracy  paved the wave... or like i described william burrough's grand output:             the content of the word             is meaning,             beyond literal             of synonymousness             via the sixth of ascribed             definition lost to vectors,             of noun without verb:             like hammer without nail and hammering             a crucifix into geometry             of intersection;             the content of the word is meaning:             the context of the word is meaningless,             a word like mammoth has meaning:             sphinx cats with four moveable limbs             in elephant form of trunks and whiskers             for roots like octopuses above ground digging in,             but in terms of it being meaning anything that,             a poetic comparison... the dodo is extinct...             so are mammoth hunts... hence the word             mammoth has meaning, but given the flux             is has no context... it's a smokescreen             to practice politics... the Zeitgeist speaks of             biology being the biggest employer of spin-doctors             for political molochs.
0
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
~sober poem no. 2
after you're satisfied with a library, the one you actually read, rather than the one you keep as a bogus volume of peacock you begin to read book reviews, it's so much easier to read book reviews than actual books when you're out  for the carnal desires being fulfilled... i just read book reviews because i don't have the time to read the actual works... centuries of illiteracy  paved the wave... or like i described william burrough's grand output:             the content of the word             is meaning,             beyond literal             of synonymousness             via the sixth of ascribed             definition lost to vectors,             of noun without verb:             like hammer without nail and hammering             a crucifix into geometry             of intersection;             the content of the word is meaning:             the context of the word is meaningless,             a word like mammoth has meaning:             sphinx cats with four moveable limbs             in elephant form of trunks and whiskers             for roots like octopuses above ground digging in,             but in terms of it being meaning anything that,             a poetic comparison... the dodo is extinct...             so are mammoth hunts... hence the word             mammoth has meaning, but given the flux             is has no context... it's a smokescreen             to practice politics... the Zeitgeist speaks of             biology being the biggest employer of spin-doctors             for political molochs.
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35
Some girls are like chess pieces, pawns of the world, the gullible You can move them wherever you want Push them around like game pieces, the game pieces to Life No matter the color of the world you choose for them The square of a world Either black or white, dark or light They are like chess pieces and will remain like that Solid, moveable pieces If you meet a chess piece girl, don’t take advantage of her Some girls are like piano keys, sitting there, waiting to get played No matter the color of their skin, black or white Or the texture of their voice, their words Sharp or flat They are like piano keys and will remain like that Solid, playable keys that live to sing when their heart is broken by someone who didn’t care about them in the first place If you meet a piano key girl, don’t play her Some girls are like one way mirrors, they close themselves off to people and only allow the people they trust to look into them They’ve probably had a rough past or maybe just some trust issues But even with one way mirrors you cannot force it to be like a regular mirror, able to see from both sides into the other She may remain impassive Don’t force her to show you her secrets, her inner workings, let her remain closed off about the things she wishes not to share If you ever meet a one way mirror, let them be as they are If you meet any of these types of girls, let them be as they are They are, after all, still humans, right? For the deeper we look in ourselves The more we try to be different, extraordinary If we do not have the most important values and virtues of life within We still can resemble inanimate objects, cold and unfeeling Learn a lesson from this, And learn, especially To really Live
0
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
Xphaedos
Some Girls
Some girls are like chess pieces, pawns of the world, the gullible You can move them wherever you want Push them around like game pieces, the game pieces to Life No matter the color of the world you choose for them The square of a world Either black or white, dark or light They are like chess pieces and will remain like that Solid, moveable pieces If you meet a chess piece girl, don’t take advantage of her Some girls are like piano keys, sitting there, waiting to get played No matter the color of their skin, black or white Or the texture of their voice, their words Sharp or flat They are like piano keys and will remain like that Solid, playable keys that live to sing when their heart is broken by someone who didn’t care about them in the first place If you meet a piano key girl, don’t play her Some girls are like one way mirrors, they close themselves off to people and only allow the people they trust to look into them They’ve probably had a rough past or maybe just some trust issues But even with one way mirrors you cannot force it to be like a regular mirror, able to see from both sides into the other She may remain impassive Don’t force her to show you her secrets, her inner workings, let her remain closed off about the things she wishes not to share If you ever meet a one way mirror, let them be as they are If you meet any of these types of girls, let them be as they are They are, after all, still humans, right? For the deeper we look in ourselves The more we try to be different, extraordinary If we do not have the most important values and virtues of life within We still can resemble inanimate objects, cold and unfeeling Learn a lesson from this, And learn, especially To really Live
Continue reading...
32
only among poetry do you feel so guilty having written much and read so little; then come the chances to appreciate other genres, and having appreciated such genres, become all too willing to change the genre of your expression into something worth attention when none was required; such is poetry, an art of beatified speech where there was none to begin with; and where adequate reading was enjoyed, no other arithmetic of adequacy was expressed, given the tongue's complications of usage, i.e. no beauty ***** joining him for a scene at the opera, blah ha; no tsar that met him ever left talking about him with a feeling of jealousy - the concert of concubines and the nagging of the tsarina to keep up appearances: now watch the nagging darwin in me with a monkey's face doing the juggling act of ooh ooh oh ooh for the mouth's shaping into a protruding of lips awaiting a trumpet! blows a desire of the many sires, and hence the shipwreck of the aristocratic hearts gathered into a populace of a little city without silverware and serf hands providing the chess moves of moveable silverware for entrée, main and dessert of edibles macaroons: ah those feasting eyes and corsets... how eager the scythe in hands that sweated for the eyes to be so tearful and yet unsatiated at a table of candlelight and ahem aha manners of using napkins; i'll concern myself with courtesy when i'm able to express myself in saxon or bavarian: burping after a carbonated drink at the table drank... and indeed i'll ease out a **** on my way out from the splendour to an applause: without a necessary crescendo of my own undoing!
0
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
a guilty reader
only among poetry do you feel so guilty having written much and read so little; then come the chances to appreciate other genres, and having appreciated such genres, become all too willing to change the genre of your expression into something worth attention when none was required; such is poetry, an art of beatified speech where there was none to begin with; and where adequate reading was enjoyed, no other arithmetic of adequacy was expressed, given the tongue's complications of usage, i.e. no beauty ***** joining him for a scene at the opera, blah ha; no tsar that met him ever left talking about him with a feeling of jealousy - the concert of concubines and the nagging of the tsarina to keep up appearances: now watch the nagging darwin in me with a monkey's face doing the juggling act of ooh ooh oh ooh for the mouth's shaping into a protruding of lips awaiting a trumpet! blows a desire of the many sires, and hence the shipwreck of the aristocratic hearts gathered into a populace of a little city without silverware and serf hands providing the chess moves of moveable silverware for entrée, main and dessert of edibles macaroons: ah those feasting eyes and corsets... how eager the scythe in hands that sweated for the eyes to be so tearful and yet unsatiated at a table of candlelight and ahem aha manners of using napkins; i'll concern myself with courtesy when i'm able to express myself in saxon or bavarian: burping after a carbonated drink at the table drank... and indeed i'll ease out a **** on my way out from the splendour to an applause: without a necessary crescendo of my own undoing!
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40
Some ones party balloon Escaped from a small hand Clings to a branch outside my bedroom Window It leaving its party too soon a shimmering mylar rodent string tail caught- a runaway panting in a trap. I want to cut it down and pick up the party before all life drains out - slowly. I can’t reach though like so many plastic grocery bags drifting waste bobbing above my grasp artifacts of past communions floating by. The shine of ‘Happy’ collapses time Upside down string flaccid Winter its only breath- a shuddering in cold bursts of grey. Slowly Spring green molds over it decay I forget As it eases into waves of softer air. buds form And robins pull worms In its shade’s exhausted judgement. Summer breezes bounce it’s flaked shine briefly between The flickering Of leaves “I’m still here” it winks Until the Fall sheds its cover leaves float down in spirals revealing shimmer- gone- grey and dull. life and air No longer animate. Spreading apart into beautiful diminishing frail shards Nature takes its turn small hands fashion it into a squirrels nest the moveable Birthday Party – long over. It’s empty string dangles nothing to lift it. A boy still searching the sky to grab for its return, Sorry but, The squirrels seem to be Happy
0
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
patrick-moloney
Some ones Party Balloon
Some ones party balloon Escaped from a small hand Clings to a branch outside my bedroom Window It leaving its party too soon a shimmering mylar rodent string tail caught- a runaway panting in a trap. I want to cut it down and pick up the party before all life drains out - slowly. I can’t reach though like so many plastic grocery bags drifting waste bobbing above my grasp artifacts of past communions floating by. The shine of ‘Happy’ collapses time Upside down string flaccid Winter its only breath- a shuddering in cold bursts of grey. Slowly Spring green molds over it decay I forget As it eases into waves of softer air. buds form And robins pull worms In its shade’s exhausted judgement. Summer breezes bounce it’s flaked shine briefly between The flickering Of leaves “I’m still here” it winks Until the Fall sheds its cover leaves float down in spirals revealing shimmer- gone- grey and dull. life and air No longer animate. Spreading apart into beautiful diminishing frail shards Nature takes its turn small hands fashion it into a squirrels nest the moveable Birthday Party – long over. It’s empty string dangles nothing to lift it. A boy still searching the sky to grab for its return, Sorry but, The squirrels seem to be Happy
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82
Sitting at our distanced picnic, a moveable feast in which the scotch eggs probably have deep significance, I said to you “We’re only ever inches from the cliff. If left alone we tread steadily. It’s those other buggers you have to watch out for.” and the mist on the windows stopped us seeing more.
0
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 7:16 AM UTC
drunkenkind
Picking
Sitting at our distanced picnic, a moveable feast in which the scotch eggs probably have deep significance, I said to you “We’re only ever inches from the cliff. If left alone we tread steadily. It’s those other buggers you have to watch out for.” and the mist on the windows stopped us seeing more.
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8
sleep strewn loveliness sink in the silence of this evanescent twilight — a dream's citadel superimposed in high calligraph. shadow's monolith dancing away from a mutiny of light. there is a gathering here unknown, as the moon fathers these intimations doubling astonishment in all limpid signs and praised symbols. i see now clearly, the lighthouse belle! i feel more evidently, the charring of the clammy water! i ache more freely as the stones are put in equipoised trial - nudely manning the coasts of dread! to myself alone i sing where all fires resurrected - here now, close to dine the coruscation of the vertiginous star heady on its way towards the complete blackness of god's face trilling behind numeral starscape— small creatures standing on the shoulders of dreams mounting the dwarfed ******* of mountains and aware of the river's errant split. against all light are the many toppled dreams held together into makeshift amalgam, traced in outward light is the vestige of the unwatched now obscenely put into picture like the wind's contrapuntal waltz against the interstices of grass feasting in their moveable glee. o, dreams and what if they are curtailed to the bottomless notion of ground's innocuous stare, to crumble underneath the feet of the giant whom i once knelt in front of, ravished, keeping worlds together like a mothering tongue to day-scarred kindred, these words thrown from the gather of clouds formless shapes of inimitable rain, the bells may be out of songs, cathedrals too, wrung out of prayers, oblivion yawns waiting for its next guest— here in the dream cradled in the shoulder of it unharmed, untouched and only deeply feeling for all that is retained, walking in the Earth.
0
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
windsor-i-guadalupe-jr
Bestiolas stantes super humerum somniorum
sleep strewn loveliness sink in the silence of this evanescent twilight — a dream's citadel superimposed in high calligraph. shadow's monolith dancing away from a mutiny of light. there is a gathering here unknown, as the moon fathers these intimations doubling astonishment in all limpid signs and praised symbols. i see now clearly, the lighthouse belle! i feel more evidently, the charring of the clammy water! i ache more freely as the stones are put in equipoised trial - nudely manning the coasts of dread! to myself alone i sing where all fires resurrected - here now, close to dine the coruscation of the vertiginous star heady on its way towards the complete blackness of god's face trilling behind numeral starscape— small creatures standing on the shoulders of dreams mounting the dwarfed ******* of mountains and aware of the river's errant split. against all light are the many toppled dreams held together into makeshift amalgam, traced in outward light is the vestige of the unwatched now obscenely put into picture like the wind's contrapuntal waltz against the interstices of grass feasting in their moveable glee. o, dreams and what if they are curtailed to the bottomless notion of ground's innocuous stare, to crumble underneath the feet of the giant whom i once knelt in front of, ravished, keeping worlds together like a mothering tongue to day-scarred kindred, these words thrown from the gather of clouds formless shapes of inimitable rain, the bells may be out of songs, cathedrals too, wrung out of prayers, oblivion yawns waiting for its next guest— here in the dream cradled in the shoulder of it unharmed, untouched and only deeply feeling for all that is retained, walking in the Earth.
Continue reading...
50
The stale ring left in my ear. Walls covering eyes and memories. White as snow, dull as a knife. The constant movement of this place is unsettling. Comfort of the hurt and hurting. Bandage me up and break my spirits. Give me serenity in these broken moments. Hallways tunnel out of my sight. That bed that too many people have been through. The pain that was felt, struggles, tears, blood and fluid. This place holds history. The kind of history in that one book in the library. Furthest row from the door, tucked in a blanket of dust, top shelf. The book no one will read because of the way it makes you feel. Helplessness and earthquakes. Break trough this heart and tumble me wave. But I'll puff up my chest for you. I'll wear my steel chest plate. Arrows won't penetrate these reinforcements. I ate my wheaties this morning. Prepared mentally and set out. I stepped through these doors only to be vulnerable, shot down, weak. Defenseless like a sloth. Grabbing my own arm for comfort, while falling too many stories down. A Desolate attempt to show courage. I'll burrow back into my hole. The observed pain is too much. The false promises of health, fortitude and strength never taste so bitter. If your strength didn't prove so much this would be long over. Over and out. Under the blanket of clouds and relief. You care too much. You proved your worth with a heart of diamonds. Home is a moveable fortress. One I'll never step in again.
0
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
jwolfeb
Vespers
The stale ring left in my ear. Walls covering eyes and memories. White as snow, dull as a knife. The constant movement of this place is unsettling. Comfort of the hurt and hurting. Bandage me up and break my spirits. Give me serenity in these broken moments. Hallways tunnel out of my sight. That bed that too many people have been through. The pain that was felt, struggles, tears, blood and fluid. This place holds history. The kind of history in that one book in the library. Furthest row from the door, tucked in a blanket of dust, top shelf. The book no one will read because of the way it makes you feel. Helplessness and earthquakes. Break trough this heart and tumble me wave. But I'll puff up my chest for you. I'll wear my steel chest plate. Arrows won't penetrate these reinforcements. I ate my wheaties this morning. Prepared mentally and set out. I stepped through these doors only to be vulnerable, shot down, weak. Defenseless like a sloth. Grabbing my own arm for comfort, while falling too many stories down. A Desolate attempt to show courage. I'll burrow back into my hole. The observed pain is too much. The false promises of health, fortitude and strength never taste so bitter. If your strength didn't prove so much this would be long over. Over and out. Under the blanket of clouds and relief. You care too much. You proved your worth with a heart of diamonds. Home is a moveable fortress. One I'll never step in again.
Continue reading...
9