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"myopic" poems
She is equipped with sensitive ******* and those other secret places that ladies give out as prizes to deserving guys as long as they adopt the right disguises of gods, gurus, intellectual giants, goats, children, father figures, macho brutes, sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels, house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects, handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems, sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types who can also pay the bills, tall dark and handsome total strangers, toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires, wood choppers, ******* removers, bottomless reservoirs of reassurance or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right. In fact, anything but woffly wimps. Oh God, no.  Anything but woffly wimps. Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS, you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys who won’t face-shift for a **** Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now. I think that the woman is dripping with a brimming reservoir of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for   the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope   of swirling dreams and desires, which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent. Although please don't be confused. Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome, aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio, who are students, who appear to be intellectuals, who are not nerds, and who can **** it in the kitchen, who  can be oh, so cool, who can convince a maiden that she is in distress, and is in need of rescuing, while he has a swaggering hard-on will do, too. Oooh. You devil. And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic, well, I’ve been around and by now, well, I really should be panoptic because I’ve seen all the fads, and really, it’s sadly too bad about those poor old earnest SNAGS. But you know what? I don't think I understand anything, because I'm really a victim of worshiping women. I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and yes, I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.
0
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
mike-t-minehan
The Woman
She is equipped with sensitive ******* and those other secret places that ladies give out as prizes to deserving guys as long as they adopt the right disguises of gods, gurus, intellectual giants, goats, children, father figures, macho brutes, sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels, house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects, handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems, sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types who can also pay the bills, tall dark and handsome total strangers, toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires, wood choppers, ******* removers, bottomless reservoirs of reassurance or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right. In fact, anything but woffly wimps. Oh God, no.  Anything but woffly wimps. Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS, you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys who won’t face-shift for a **** Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now. I think that the woman is dripping with a brimming reservoir of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for   the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope   of swirling dreams and desires, which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent. Although please don't be confused. Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome, aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio, who are students, who appear to be intellectuals, who are not nerds, and who can **** it in the kitchen, who  can be oh, so cool, who can convince a maiden that she is in distress, and is in need of rescuing, while he has a swaggering hard-on will do, too. Oooh. You devil. And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic, well, I’ve been around and by now, well, I really should be panoptic because I’ve seen all the fads, and really, it’s sadly too bad about those poor old earnest SNAGS. But you know what? I don't think I understand anything, because I'm really a victim of worshiping women. I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and yes, I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.
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52
running deliquescing into nature i am engulfed in stillness i encounter a deer as i round a corner its chestnut eyes intensely sense something wild within me transfixed we meld palpably whispering our essence myopic views warp into acute focus golden flowers stretch and arch and yawning into the sun swell with bursts of luster whilst violets polka dot the path with lilac luminescence dead tree trunks mutating into masterpieces yearn for new life drawing in the squirrels yellow-bellied birds hover sensing my motions whilst woodland winds undulate pine scented waves of sea salt oceans my ears enchantingly enhanced by bristling leaves caressing trees as scintillating amber butterflies dance in synch with the clock tower’s ancient chiming a gust of wind catches a patch of sand and sends it quivering fusing high in summer air then falling soft as feathers hidden fairies prance about answering unheard questions problems dissolve in emerald meadows without a hint of striving essays write themselves upon my mind poetry flows through me wings of meadowlarks trace my face with nuances interlaced with connotations rushing home i write it down then bowing i take credit for what was etched upon my soul by a sunbeam in the forest ©2016janetaylor
0
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
jane-taylor
running
running deliquescing into nature i am engulfed in stillness i encounter a deer as i round a corner its chestnut eyes intensely sense something wild within me transfixed we meld palpably whispering our essence myopic views warp into acute focus golden flowers stretch and arch and yawning into the sun swell with bursts of luster whilst violets polka dot the path with lilac luminescence dead tree trunks mutating into masterpieces yearn for new life drawing in the squirrels yellow-bellied birds hover sensing my motions whilst woodland winds undulate pine scented waves of sea salt oceans my ears enchantingly enhanced by bristling leaves caressing trees as scintillating amber butterflies dance in synch with the clock tower’s ancient chiming a gust of wind catches a patch of sand and sends it quivering fusing high in summer air then falling soft as feathers hidden fairies prance about answering unheard questions problems dissolve in emerald meadows without a hint of striving essays write themselves upon my mind poetry flows through me wings of meadowlarks trace my face with nuances interlaced with connotations rushing home i write it down then bowing i take credit for what was etched upon my soul by a sunbeam in the forest ©2016janetaylor
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51
Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no! Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know. Searching through the pages’ mist And imagined deeds Of poets’ needs… I found my favourite word, As asked, Neither sacred nor profane That describes the Venetian rain In my beloved’s eyes And the Florentine sun upon her hair: “Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”. Oh, it is not fair, To liken an object Of my lust and love To anything as mortal as autumn air! Nor “October’s orchard Haze”; She had her own Inscrutable, premeditated ways! Rather let me say that she was perfect, Though her eyes, pale and myopic, Her shuffling gait and Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends Fey charm, the power to mend My suffering and Delusions of a poet’s end As anything but pathetic, (Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics) And I left softly hanging, On a girl’s new taste, A tang of russet apples on her face, But no, not that, the sum Of my love, My Lo! Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand That none of you brutes could understand; The pure love, So sadly consummated, Between a lover And the one she hated Yet loved once with inexplicable delight, On one stolen, frightened night… In which the two of us agreed To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need, And then depart… But I could not, You see; She was my life, My love, my heart. Humbert Humbert 1950 Sharon Talbot ca. 2005
0
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
sharon-talbot
October’s Orchard Haze
Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no! Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know. Searching through the pages’ mist And imagined deeds Of poets’ needs… I found my favourite word, As asked, Neither sacred nor profane That describes the Venetian rain In my beloved’s eyes And the Florentine sun upon her hair: “Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”. Oh, it is not fair, To liken an object Of my lust and love To anything as mortal as autumn air! Nor “October’s orchard Haze”; She had her own Inscrutable, premeditated ways! Rather let me say that she was perfect, Though her eyes, pale and myopic, Her shuffling gait and Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends Fey charm, the power to mend My suffering and Delusions of a poet’s end As anything but pathetic, (Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics) And I left softly hanging, On a girl’s new taste, A tang of russet apples on her face, But no, not that, the sum Of my love, My Lo! Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand That none of you brutes could understand; The pure love, So sadly consummated, Between a lover And the one she hated Yet loved once with inexplicable delight, On one stolen, frightened night… In which the two of us agreed To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need, And then depart… But I could not, You see; She was my life, My love, my heart. Humbert Humbert 1950 Sharon Talbot ca. 2005
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50
Perhaps, We have a worldview, that has turned a bit myopic. Perhaps, We need a checkup from a doctor for Our optics, Perhaps, We need for them to write Us out a new prescription, then Perhaps, We'd see the truth in life that's written in inscription, Perhaps, the Earth is weeping somberly, but We don't care to listen, Perhaps, it warns us of Our doom when global profits are our mission Perhaps, the World is run by men, whose only drive is for themselves Perhaps, the few will **** the many, just for monetary wealth, Perhaps, We're all too blind to understand the implications, Perhaps, a future fraught with poverty and war is what We're facing Perhaps, a different train of thought, is faintly running by adjacent, Perhaps, it's one that wrests its life from the stagnation of complacence Perhaps, We're living forms of life that have been cast inside a mold Perhaps, estrangement from each other causes Our Hearts to grow cold Perhaps, all concentrated power's an illusion, We behold, Perhaps, We all could take it back, if We'd stop doing what We're told Perhaps, Our Being is unique, and isn't something predefined, Perhaps, Our priorities in life should they themselves be redefined, Perhaps, Our voices are of import, and should not be undermined, Perhaps, We all should organize, and build a world of new design Perhaps, it is the Media that keeps Us all divided, Perhaps, We should act neighborly and strive to be united, Perhaps, in living as a People, We would find Ourselves delighted, and Perhaps, We'd change the status quo, if We would only try to fight it.
0
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
iliveinyourhead
Perhaps
Perhaps, We have a worldview, that has turned a bit myopic. Perhaps, We need a checkup from a doctor for Our optics, Perhaps, We need for them to write Us out a new prescription, then Perhaps, We'd see the truth in life that's written in inscription, Perhaps, the Earth is weeping somberly, but We don't care to listen, Perhaps, it warns us of Our doom when global profits are our mission Perhaps, the World is run by men, whose only drive is for themselves Perhaps, the few will **** the many, just for monetary wealth, Perhaps, We're all too blind to understand the implications, Perhaps, a future fraught with poverty and war is what We're facing Perhaps, a different train of thought, is faintly running by adjacent, Perhaps, it's one that wrests its life from the stagnation of complacence Perhaps, We're living forms of life that have been cast inside a mold Perhaps, estrangement from each other causes Our Hearts to grow cold Perhaps, all concentrated power's an illusion, We behold, Perhaps, We all could take it back, if We'd stop doing what We're told Perhaps, Our Being is unique, and isn't something predefined, Perhaps, Our priorities in life should they themselves be redefined, Perhaps, Our voices are of import, and should not be undermined, Perhaps, We all should organize, and build a world of new design Perhaps, it is the Media that keeps Us all divided, Perhaps, We should act neighborly and strive to be united, Perhaps, in living as a People, We would find Ourselves delighted, and Perhaps, We'd change the status quo, if We would only try to fight it.
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24
myopic frames on a stern temple remind me that once he too wandered recklessly and felt ardent empowered by time on his sleeve there was nothing he couldn't conquer and nothing standing between the open air and breathing it in i suppose the difference here is i grab the breath of air and hold it in my pocket for when i stop being so nervous marshmallow heart the road only goes one way and the streetlights hover and coil eternally, you can never meet the epilogue a drive-thru drink in one hand while you feel your hair tangling into a mess of a beehive, the one that likes to unwind in soft tendrils on a weak pillow heart racing for the constant fueling of a near empty tank telling you to go further this time, this time time isn't yours holding in a cough i too have tried to drown waterbugs my cheek pressed against the tiles of a kitchen floor, hand perched languidly as my fingers make circles in the tiny swamp i made in the middle of the room but i forget laying there until i hear my own soul walk in with bare feet addressing the elephant in the room, the one that hasn't left since i was sick with bronchitis that winter years ago and i want to tell her to come here, to come back inside myself so it doesn't feel so cold this season of frost but she brushes me off with the temperament of a child "i don't exist, i never did" the words dawdle back and forth from her back molars to her incisors   and i remember when i felt like i was dying when i hopped from one state to the next but realizing a little to late that if i were to go back my dread would jump on the back of my shoulders and force me to look it into it's shiny face and show me the mild nuisance of what it means to be alive so my soul closes the door and i hear the keys rattle and i myself sink into the warm arms of someone i spent my entire life with
0
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
nosebleedbaby
dream milk
myopic frames on a stern temple remind me that once he too wandered recklessly and felt ardent empowered by time on his sleeve there was nothing he couldn't conquer and nothing standing between the open air and breathing it in i suppose the difference here is i grab the breath of air and hold it in my pocket for when i stop being so nervous marshmallow heart the road only goes one way and the streetlights hover and coil eternally, you can never meet the epilogue a drive-thru drink in one hand while you feel your hair tangling into a mess of a beehive, the one that likes to unwind in soft tendrils on a weak pillow heart racing for the constant fueling of a near empty tank telling you to go further this time, this time time isn't yours holding in a cough i too have tried to drown waterbugs my cheek pressed against the tiles of a kitchen floor, hand perched languidly as my fingers make circles in the tiny swamp i made in the middle of the room but i forget laying there until i hear my own soul walk in with bare feet addressing the elephant in the room, the one that hasn't left since i was sick with bronchitis that winter years ago and i want to tell her to come here, to come back inside myself so it doesn't feel so cold this season of frost but she brushes me off with the temperament of a child "i don't exist, i never did" the words dawdle back and forth from her back molars to her incisors   and i remember when i felt like i was dying when i hopped from one state to the next but realizing a little to late that if i were to go back my dread would jump on the back of my shoulders and force me to look it into it's shiny face and show me the mild nuisance of what it means to be alive so my soul closes the door and i hear the keys rattle and i myself sink into the warm arms of someone i spent my entire life with
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17
avenue sounds are never agreeable, ignore the drift, ignore the hum, ignore the suburban neophytes in the city lights (I never did care much for hipsters). ignore rapid eye movements, the flush red face, ignore the snapshots of you that adorn my semi-sleep state I stare at my ceiling and see the cobblestone summer streets you once graced, long ago in the eternal occident, I want to ignore but I’m so very boozed, in a blue lucid slumber::: eyes closed::: my head spins and sleep begins with the tidal delirium of dopamine drips, your legs, your hips, I’m drowning a bit, doused in a sanguine sweat inside a fantasy **** I’m dreaming of you**) Synaptic friction she is a pleasant fiction   flash/sparks segue a dormant memory , the two of us riding familiar highways::: she gazes at me with her usual emerald encased ocular torment, those limbal rings cast aspersions at the last vestiges of my will power, until, I’m done, done in by the divinity of her lips::: There is no end to (your) energy It even finds me here::: in my dystopian  dream (eternal) now an inescapable, **myopic curse (nocturnal)**::: the nightmare of not having you near Awake, I roll over to clutch for the pacifier of your comfort (violent midnight) I find only a fragrance, i flail, searching, when those flashbacks fall short isolated into the banality of bedsheets and pillows pleats (the retrograde nature of my reality, now readily apparent) cdh
0
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
clark-davis-hitchens
Philadelphia Night (Europa Celluloid)
avenue sounds are never agreeable, ignore the drift, ignore the hum, ignore the suburban neophytes in the city lights (I never did care much for hipsters). ignore rapid eye movements, the flush red face, ignore the snapshots of you that adorn my semi-sleep state I stare at my ceiling and see the cobblestone summer streets you once graced, long ago in the eternal occident, I want to ignore but I’m so very boozed, in a blue lucid slumber::: eyes closed::: my head spins and sleep begins with the tidal delirium of dopamine drips, your legs, your hips, I’m drowning a bit, doused in a sanguine sweat inside a fantasy **** I’m dreaming of you**) Synaptic friction she is a pleasant fiction   flash/sparks segue a dormant memory , the two of us riding familiar highways::: she gazes at me with her usual emerald encased ocular torment, those limbal rings cast aspersions at the last vestiges of my will power, until, I’m done, done in by the divinity of her lips::: There is no end to (your) energy It even finds me here::: in my dystopian  dream (eternal) now an inescapable, **myopic curse (nocturnal)**::: the nightmare of not having you near Awake, I roll over to clutch for the pacifier of your comfort (violent midnight) I find only a fragrance, i flail, searching, when those flashbacks fall short isolated into the banality of bedsheets and pillows pleats (the retrograde nature of my reality, now readily apparent) cdh
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22
Burns Creek Climbing Chimney Rock. Dad and David Scoville In their mid 30s, Two men out to prove Their bravery, Their derring-do. Nervous, My Mother, My brother and I, Five and six, Necks craning, Wait and watch; Dad moves up and up Clings to the top. Inept and six, I stand below, Admiring my Father's Fearlessness. I am nearly blind, The myopic, thick-lensed gawker, Peering upward. The men climb down, Victorious, The day’s challenges Vanquished. Heading home, Choking dust. Old land, Deep ravines, Rattle snake domain. My father's old Ford Bumps over red scoria, Billows burning dust. Ancient land, Cindered clay, Open grazing land, Dry and hot. Memories churn From sixty years ago.
0
Feb 2, 2022
Feb 2, 2022 at 9:08 AM UTC
don-bouchard
Chimney Rock 1966
Burns Creek Climbing Chimney Rock. Dad and David Scoville In their mid 30s, Two men out to prove Their bravery, Their derring-do. Nervous, My Mother, My brother and I, Five and six, Necks craning, Wait and watch; Dad moves up and up Clings to the top. Inept and six, I stand below, Admiring my Father's Fearlessness. I am nearly blind, The myopic, thick-lensed gawker, Peering upward. The men climb down, Victorious, The day’s challenges Vanquished. Heading home, Choking dust. Old land, Deep ravines, Rattle snake domain. My father's old Ford Bumps over red scoria, Billows burning dust. Ancient land, Cindered clay, Open grazing land, Dry and hot. Memories churn From sixty years ago.
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40
before i go to sleep i look at you in a myopic view, thanking a higher power that i'm seeing someone so beautiful i never want to lose looking at you always feels like the first time when i never had an inkling of how gentle the light of this love could be and waking up next to you would be something that i'd look forward to i belong to you, even after yelling i belong to you, even after crying i belong to your chest as i sleep and my hands belong to yours as i weep and honey, your soft skin your stubby fingers and your tiny eyes will forever be my home
0
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
thelovelyfork
i belong to you
before i go to sleep i look at you in a myopic view, thanking a higher power that i'm seeing someone so beautiful i never want to lose looking at you always feels like the first time when i never had an inkling of how gentle the light of this love could be and waking up next to you would be something that i'd look forward to i belong to you, even after yelling i belong to you, even after crying i belong to your chest as i sleep and my hands belong to yours as i weep and honey, your soft skin your stubby fingers and your tiny eyes will forever be my home
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18
Through a tunnel I walk. Stumbling upon the demons I stalk. Straining to understand their words. Yet afraid of what their message may hold. The walls and path are all ablur. As further along I do blunder. Stumbling and falling, To rise once more. Searching for a magical door. To release me from this caliginous gambit. Then the goblins and trepidation omit, To deliver me anew to the suns bright glare. And release me once more from the captivity of despair
0
May 11, 2023
May 11, 2023 at 9:07 PM UTC
coleman-m-lowe
Myopic Tunnel
Through a tunnel I walk. Stumbling upon the demons I stalk. Straining to understand their words. Yet afraid of what their message may hold. The walls and path are all ablur. As further along I do blunder. Stumbling and falling, To rise once more. Searching for a magical door. To release me from this caliginous gambit. Then the goblins and trepidation omit, To deliver me anew to the suns bright glare. And release me once more from the captivity of despair
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13
*A river flowing against its course As if to floss Its rare peculiar uncanny ingenuity A notable case study of ambiguity. An estranged lover unceremoniously Literally butchering his offspring mercilessly In cold blood For having been dragged through the mud. The undercurrents of change overriding Entrenched seemingly myopic tendencies which aren’t binding Causing irrevocably reversible state of affairs Care not to be caught in the crosshairs. A hopelessly optimistic romantic Head over heel in love with the mystique Aura of eccentricity effortlessly effused by Her, she indeed worth a try. Myriad circumstantial conundrums That is cause of the inevitable humdrum So characteristic of life Answers a trifle few and the lackluster enthusiasm rife.*
0
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
enigma-1
Simple complexities.
*A river flowing against its course As if to floss Its rare peculiar uncanny ingenuity A notable case study of ambiguity. An estranged lover unceremoniously Literally butchering his offspring mercilessly In cold blood For having been dragged through the mud. The undercurrents of change overriding Entrenched seemingly myopic tendencies which aren’t binding Causing irrevocably reversible state of affairs Care not to be caught in the crosshairs. A hopelessly optimistic romantic Head over heel in love with the mystique Aura of eccentricity effortlessly effused by Her, she indeed worth a try. Myriad circumstantial conundrums That is cause of the inevitable humdrum So characteristic of life Answers a trifle few and the lackluster enthusiasm rife.*
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20
All I smell's Hawaiian Tropic My vision seems very myopic Bikini girls my visions topic It's time to hit the surf Lime and salty margaritas Hot and **** senoritas Bikini girls my visions greeters It's time to hit the surf Sitting here upon the beach These women are just out of reach In my mind I'd love to teach But...you're the one I love Tanned, long limbed and in the water There's one beauty, I wish I'd caught her Still, I think she's someone's daughter I wish that you were here Sitting here was all unplanned Where all I see is surf and sand It's heaven in this tropic land I wish that you were here Sitting here upon the beach These women are just out of reach In my mind I'd love to teach But...you're the one I love Ray Bans cover up my eyes As I stare upon their oiled up thighs I hear them yell and hear their cries Youthful beauty at it's best A boat drink full of Cuban *** Brings me back to why I'd come It leaves me feeling rather numb I'm glad I'm here alone Sitting here upon the beach These women are just out of reach In my mind I'd love to teach Now I know why we split up.
0
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
roger-turner
Beach Song
All I smell's Hawaiian Tropic My vision seems very myopic Bikini girls my visions topic It's time to hit the surf Lime and salty margaritas Hot and **** senoritas Bikini girls my visions greeters It's time to hit the surf Sitting here upon the beach These women are just out of reach In my mind I'd love to teach But...you're the one I love Tanned, long limbed and in the water There's one beauty, I wish I'd caught her Still, I think she's someone's daughter I wish that you were here Sitting here was all unplanned Where all I see is surf and sand It's heaven in this tropic land I wish that you were here Sitting here upon the beach These women are just out of reach In my mind I'd love to teach But...you're the one I love Ray Bans cover up my eyes As I stare upon their oiled up thighs I hear them yell and hear their cries Youthful beauty at it's best A boat drink full of Cuban *** Brings me back to why I'd come It leaves me feeling rather numb I'm glad I'm here alone Sitting here upon the beach These women are just out of reach In my mind I'd love to teach Now I know why we split up.
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36
I want to learn everything; everything comprises of everything, be it the knowledge of the nature or the horizons of the cosmos I want to canvas over the universe, multiverses; to paint my reality with a brush of joy. But, it's tough for me, because I'm dementic If I decline it while inclining towards a book Dyslexia obliterates my desires and hurt me badly If I ignore all this, ADHD comes forward to poke me with a stick of astounds and pains of eventide If I cut down the roots of ADHD, S.A.D greets me and enter to my dark world and enhance its darkness I'm confused, shattered; directionless in a myopic way Highly myopic, no direction, but I do have vision I want to crisscross my myopia to an extent where it diminishes. Meningitis, shut up, you ******* Please have mercy on me, I don't deserve U at least, But do I really need someone to have mercy on me? I guess no, I can build my own world where Dementia strengthens my spirits by saying, Why just Embryology, what secrets do you want to find Ova is not dependent on a ****** ***** it is a complete YOU.
0
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
fizza-abbas
Dementia
I want to learn everything; everything comprises of everything, be it the knowledge of the nature or the horizons of the cosmos I want to canvas over the universe, multiverses; to paint my reality with a brush of joy. But, it's tough for me, because I'm dementic If I decline it while inclining towards a book Dyslexia obliterates my desires and hurt me badly If I ignore all this, ADHD comes forward to poke me with a stick of astounds and pains of eventide If I cut down the roots of ADHD, S.A.D greets me and enter to my dark world and enhance its darkness I'm confused, shattered; directionless in a myopic way Highly myopic, no direction, but I do have vision I want to crisscross my myopia to an extent where it diminishes. Meningitis, shut up, you ******* Please have mercy on me, I don't deserve U at least, But do I really need someone to have mercy on me? I guess no, I can build my own world where Dementia strengthens my spirits by saying, Why just Embryology, what secrets do you want to find Ova is not dependent on a ****** ***** it is a complete YOU.
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23
You came like wildfire Indistinguishably incendiary Struck my butane skin With phosphorus fingertips Clouded myopic eyes Saw the ashes to ashes Flushed lackluster lips Whispered dust to dust What you left me with: A collection of burnt bridges A drawer of regrets A heart of hieroglyphics
0
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
chloe-k
Incendiary
You came like wildfire Indistinguishably incendiary Struck my butane skin With phosphorus fingertips Clouded myopic eyes Saw the ashes to ashes Flushed lackluster lips Whispered dust to dust What you left me with: A collection of burnt bridges A drawer of regrets A heart of hieroglyphics
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12
They don't speak, all the long, winding bus journey.  They are strangers, with nothing in common besides the No 50 route and the free travel passes afforded to them on account of their quietly advancing years. She sits in the seat in front of him. Their eyes never lock.  His myopic gaze through thick NHS lenses rests neutral on the back of her head, her softly blue-rinsed curls and the collar of an eminently sensible overcoat. They sit, both silent, as - outside the foggy bus windows - winter has one last chew on time's bony old carcass. She has a slight stoop which she's doing her best to hide, and his shaking hands make his liver spots blur. They stand - the bus stopping at their mutual destination - shuffling sideways into the aisle, and something unexpected happens. The bus jolts suddenly forwards, then lurches to a startled halt, and she falls backwards into his arms and he catches her. For a second, strange gravities assume control. There's a moment, governed by different laws of physics and chemistry and half-forgotten, half-remembered biology. She flushes, infused with something warm and thirst-whettingly girlish, and he surges with a newfound potency, standing taller, the woman he's supporting somehow lessening the burden of his age. Her spine straightens, and she laughs.  His face, smiling, youthens. His hands hold her unstooped shoulders and don't tremble. Sun breaks through cloud outside the window. They remember it's spring out there somewhere.
0
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
nico-reznick
Winter Romance
They don't speak, all the long, winding bus journey.  They are strangers, with nothing in common besides the No 50 route and the free travel passes afforded to them on account of their quietly advancing years. She sits in the seat in front of him. Their eyes never lock.  His myopic gaze through thick NHS lenses rests neutral on the back of her head, her softly blue-rinsed curls and the collar of an eminently sensible overcoat. They sit, both silent, as - outside the foggy bus windows - winter has one last chew on time's bony old carcass. She has a slight stoop which she's doing her best to hide, and his shaking hands make his liver spots blur. They stand - the bus stopping at their mutual destination - shuffling sideways into the aisle, and something unexpected happens. The bus jolts suddenly forwards, then lurches to a startled halt, and she falls backwards into his arms and he catches her. For a second, strange gravities assume control. There's a moment, governed by different laws of physics and chemistry and half-forgotten, half-remembered biology. She flushes, infused with something warm and thirst-whettingly girlish, and he surges with a newfound potency, standing taller, the woman he's supporting somehow lessening the burden of his age. Her spine straightens, and she laughs.  His face, smiling, youthens. His hands hold her unstooped shoulders and don't tremble. Sun breaks through cloud outside the window. They remember it's spring out there somewhere.
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48
While introspecting I came closer, to myself Being distanced I forgot the language In which scripts were written Became myopic And veered farther Enjoying being away Lost in the din Never realizing I was being swept away From myself While my soul yearned For a rendezvous I was oblivious Seduced by the glib talkers Became gullible And yielded to the manipulations Was a hallucinating ride In the scariest roller coasters Mind in a jumble Entangled in the web of lies Now, I have come back From the brink of oblivion To myself Once more to listen To my soul and heart A union After a struggle
0
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
amitav
Introspection
While introspecting I came closer, to myself Being distanced I forgot the language In which scripts were written Became myopic And veered farther Enjoying being away Lost in the din Never realizing I was being swept away From myself While my soul yearned For a rendezvous I was oblivious Seduced by the glib talkers Became gullible And yielded to the manipulations Was a hallucinating ride In the scariest roller coasters Mind in a jumble Entangled in the web of lies Now, I have come back From the brink of oblivion To myself Once more to listen To my soul and heart A union After a struggle
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29
Honorable politician, Truthful and without ambition, Found behind bars his own place. Such a lucky mental case! Her eyes are truly not hypnotic Although her smile is mystery, Each man by nature too myopic Is guilty of adultery. Because she had an empty purse, Yet smiling strange like La Joconde, He drove his Jaguar in reverse Thinking she was another blonde. She had a few coins for grissini, Wearing her old and too short skirt. With mercy, dressed in white silk shirt, He bought for her pretty bikini. A young woman said: “My love is like sunshine”. An old woman whined: “My rheumatism foretells rain”. I stood silent between them, under cloudy skies, Believing the weather report lies. Sigmund Freud, Before others find the steroid, Dived his nose under the *** drive, But ******* kept him alive. Schizophrenia survey: Doctor: Have you ever had hallucinations? Patient: No, have you ever seen a schizophrenic? D: Are you a ****** P: No, until I meet the right man. D: Have you heard strange voices around? P: No, my parrot doesn't speak. D: Do you think you are a great woman? P: No, I killed only a few cockroaches, with too much spray. D: Do you think you are a martyr? P: No, martyrs are killed in a short time and everyone is happy afterwards. D: Do you think you should die? P: No, it is better on the floor than below. D: Can you forgive others' sins? P: No, Jesus Christ was better than me. D: Do you think you have enemies? P: No, I don't have a hammer drill. D: Do you love your mother? P: No, only our feelings are the same. D: Did you try to **** yourself? P: Yes, because whatever I asked, others said NO. Patient: Doctor, what are you thinking now? Doctor: That you never think.
0
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
cristina-monica-moldoveanu
My kind of humor
Honorable politician, Truthful and without ambition, Found behind bars his own place. Such a lucky mental case! Her eyes are truly not hypnotic Although her smile is mystery, Each man by nature too myopic Is guilty of adultery. Because she had an empty purse, Yet smiling strange like La Joconde, He drove his Jaguar in reverse Thinking she was another blonde. She had a few coins for grissini, Wearing her old and too short skirt. With mercy, dressed in white silk shirt, He bought for her pretty bikini. A young woman said: “My love is like sunshine”. An old woman whined: “My rheumatism foretells rain”. I stood silent between them, under cloudy skies, Believing the weather report lies. Sigmund Freud, Before others find the steroid, Dived his nose under the *** drive, But ******* kept him alive. Schizophrenia survey: Doctor: Have you ever had hallucinations? Patient: No, have you ever seen a schizophrenic? D: Are you a ****** P: No, until I meet the right man. D: Have you heard strange voices around? P: No, my parrot doesn't speak. D: Do you think you are a great woman? P: No, I killed only a few cockroaches, with too much spray. D: Do you think you are a martyr? P: No, martyrs are killed in a short time and everyone is happy afterwards. D: Do you think you should die? P: No, it is better on the floor than below. D: Can you forgive others' sins? P: No, Jesus Christ was better than me. D: Do you think you have enemies? P: No, I don't have a hammer drill. D: Do you love your mother? P: No, only our feelings are the same. D: Did you try to **** yourself? P: Yes, because whatever I asked, others said NO. Patient: Doctor, what are you thinking now? Doctor: That you never think.
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47
It has been many moons since these translucent eyes set forth the bellowing cries of a whispered hymn. The cries of those long since forgotten, briefly heard, myopic, blind to the background sound of our nestled unruly world. The white noise that paints the landscape continually resetting itself in a desperate attempt to regain its foothold in our lives. It is this fight for free reign that forever brings me here. Brings me to each infinitesimal moment in life where we as the white noise fight for dominance over our subconscious realm. Leery of what we experience with our senses and what we experience with the extensions of. Touching everything with our nothing making sure that the existence that we live is not just a state of mind but an actuality. We are self-altruistic, in this i am sure, for we care about the well being of ourselves. No state of mind left behind this is our status quo. Let it be that no mirror binds you to your own failures nor to those that look onto from a distance. Let you be your own shadow let your own shadow not be a former representation of what is but what's to come. Let your shadow be effectively that of which you strive. Let the shovels of ill will be fated to bury themselves hand in hand with those that foster it. Stand firm in your position overcome only by the mountains of your own design. These peaks scream out echoes of your hate and shame not for you, nay. Not for I, nay. but for those that challenge what you stand for because the earth beneath our feet stands for everyone. stands stained with bloodied tears that rained down from our glorified manufactured heaven. This epoch marks the second coming of our custom, individualized, patent-pending, rights reserved, copyrighted Christ; our self-proclaimed god. self-proclaimed because we are the gods we seek, we ignore, and we pray for. the effervescent pool of life reads no running so we segue our way on this Segway to take advantage of the loopholes we ourselves placed as if only to cheat our fabricated reality because rebellion is refreshing and different but only when no one else is looking.
0
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
blind-aesthetic
Stream Of Consciousness
It has been many moons since these translucent eyes set forth the bellowing cries of a whispered hymn. The cries of those long since forgotten, briefly heard, myopic, blind to the background sound of our nestled unruly world. The white noise that paints the landscape continually resetting itself in a desperate attempt to regain its foothold in our lives. It is this fight for free reign that forever brings me here. Brings me to each infinitesimal moment in life where we as the white noise fight for dominance over our subconscious realm. Leery of what we experience with our senses and what we experience with the extensions of. Touching everything with our nothing making sure that the existence that we live is not just a state of mind but an actuality. We are self-altruistic, in this i am sure, for we care about the well being of ourselves. No state of mind left behind this is our status quo. Let it be that no mirror binds you to your own failures nor to those that look onto from a distance. Let you be your own shadow let your own shadow not be a former representation of what is but what's to come. Let your shadow be effectively that of which you strive. Let the shovels of ill will be fated to bury themselves hand in hand with those that foster it. Stand firm in your position overcome only by the mountains of your own design. These peaks scream out echoes of your hate and shame not for you, nay. Not for I, nay. but for those that challenge what you stand for because the earth beneath our feet stands for everyone. stands stained with bloodied tears that rained down from our glorified manufactured heaven. This epoch marks the second coming of our custom, individualized, patent-pending, rights reserved, copyrighted Christ; our self-proclaimed god. self-proclaimed because we are the gods we seek, we ignore, and we pray for. the effervescent pool of life reads no running so we segue our way on this Segway to take advantage of the loopholes we ourselves placed as if only to cheat our fabricated reality because rebellion is refreshing and different but only when no one else is looking.
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3
Oh how I'd love that and from a San Francisco organization no less a month in the Santa Cruz mountains, no less the most liberal city in America no less and last year's winner has his picture displayed and it is not innovative or interesting or shocking but all too predictable Like something I saw how long now has it been?  twenty five years ago... how many times have I seen this picture a white guy, looking very much the suffering, creating artiste handsome, like an actor, but not an actor, a creator of meaning of art, and he can't smile, but looks away from the camera mimicking an ad for J. Crew it's amazing how only white men can write about the important things in the world and the background, how many times before have I seen it a graffiti sprinkled nowhere in an urban jungle somewhere where preppy white guys never go street art, street communication created by people who don't see this concrete as an exotic backdrop for their egoistic posing but as a part of their lives, as part of their meaning, their world and he stands there, in front of it, Mr. Screenwriter, the gulf of culture separating him from that background spans the entire country, or an entire universe but the implication of the picture is: he is home here this is who he is and he can emcompass everything, since white men as we know, have a magic ability to understand and synthesize everyone all genders, all races, all religions the rest of us are merely stuck in our own myopic little worlds of gender, race, socio-economic status but these spanner of time and space and human difference, they can be anyone they can understand and represent anyone So I look at the picture and think, I could apply, but I'm busy during the blissful month of the residency but how dissapointing, that I feel looking at this picture, now online of course that it is the same picture that I looked at over twenty five years ago pinned to a film school wall in Los Angeles, in New York, in those edgy more conservative places and it is the same guy.  the white screenwriter artist who will write about me and others and it will be a lie and we are excluded.  all the rest of the human race. but what he writes will be exalted as truth when I know, that no matter how time he spends wandering the foriegn worlds of ghettos and genders the one thing he knows, the only thing he knows how to write about is white guys, because he is no superhuman he is like us.  He will write about white guys and there will be more films about white guys, who are supposed to represent all of us but they don't, because they are only human, and can only represent themselves.
0
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
zulu-samperfas
Screenwriting Residency
Oh how I'd love that and from a San Francisco organization no less a month in the Santa Cruz mountains, no less the most liberal city in America no less and last year's winner has his picture displayed and it is not innovative or interesting or shocking but all too predictable Like something I saw how long now has it been?  twenty five years ago... how many times have I seen this picture a white guy, looking very much the suffering, creating artiste handsome, like an actor, but not an actor, a creator of meaning of art, and he can't smile, but looks away from the camera mimicking an ad for J. Crew it's amazing how only white men can write about the important things in the world and the background, how many times before have I seen it a graffiti sprinkled nowhere in an urban jungle somewhere where preppy white guys never go street art, street communication created by people who don't see this concrete as an exotic backdrop for their egoistic posing but as a part of their lives, as part of their meaning, their world and he stands there, in front of it, Mr. Screenwriter, the gulf of culture separating him from that background spans the entire country, or an entire universe but the implication of the picture is: he is home here this is who he is and he can emcompass everything, since white men as we know, have a magic ability to understand and synthesize everyone all genders, all races, all religions the rest of us are merely stuck in our own myopic little worlds of gender, race, socio-economic status but these spanner of time and space and human difference, they can be anyone they can understand and represent anyone So I look at the picture and think, I could apply, but I'm busy during the blissful month of the residency but how dissapointing, that I feel looking at this picture, now online of course that it is the same picture that I looked at over twenty five years ago pinned to a film school wall in Los Angeles, in New York, in those edgy more conservative places and it is the same guy.  the white screenwriter artist who will write about me and others and it will be a lie and we are excluded.  all the rest of the human race. but what he writes will be exalted as truth when I know, that no matter how time he spends wandering the foriegn worlds of ghettos and genders the one thing he knows, the only thing he knows how to write about is white guys, because he is no superhuman he is like us.  He will write about white guys and there will be more films about white guys, who are supposed to represent all of us but they don't, because they are only human, and can only represent themselves.
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48
Ignorant are the people, who brush off the most sincerest of hellos or the genuine gratitude of someone else. Apathetic are the people, who has seen yet have not done. Witnessing so much yet reluctant to take action. Cowardly are the people, who inundate their catharsis on the well being of someone else. A life so useless they find joy only in the torturing of others; spending futile days living as sad, pathetic sadists. And myopic are the kind, for they are clearly aware of what’s bad for them yet they are too blind to listen to their heads only to follow their hearts. stupid hearts.
0
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC
dreamerforever
The People.
Ignorant are the people, who brush off the most sincerest of hellos or the genuine gratitude of someone else. Apathetic are the people, who has seen yet have not done. Witnessing so much yet reluctant to take action. Cowardly are the people, who inundate their catharsis on the well being of someone else. A life so useless they find joy only in the torturing of others; spending futile days living as sad, pathetic sadists. And myopic are the kind, for they are clearly aware of what’s bad for them yet they are too blind to listen to their heads only to follow their hearts. stupid hearts.
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19
for mine own Yocum <> a strange parting shot, that we are are the refuse upon this island Earth, the very last item on some being's weekly grocery list, a list composed 'illions of years ago, of things that could be worthy of "creating" this thought sticks to my soul, like a rosé pink colored NYC street'd, well chewed, gum piece adheres to my sole the musical companion to this ecrivez, a sinfonia for strings politely begs to differ, while a hard covered book dances me over to Texas, Dudamel conducts Barber, all making the question of man as an afterthought in a divine master plan for a planet, seems almost recklessly absurdly nonsensical then my cell buzzes me back to this ******** hell earth seven more cops shot, three dead down in the bayou of Baton Rouge, on a sabbath Sunday morning rouge red now assumes, takes on a different notation colorations, to my bleeding eyes, delivering importations of  headaches confusion rampage, red rage the amplification of the worst of we, afterthought creatures surely, why "create a destroyer," an absurd contradictory term, so we are gift wrapped   beneath the misleading approbation - human there is no nobility in our savagery, or dare I sneer and say, in our humanity you cannot seal a wound with music you cannot revive the dead with a poem ear-whispered sitting beneath the tree shade of my privileged place, my surrounding world is bay blue and grass green, my vision myopic, I am a self-centered, microscopic collection of red cells conceding to you Sargeant, this designer of the human form, who wrought it from soiled earth and excess rib bone, had a peculiar sense of humor, a comedian full of malice aforethought, for are we not the final joke, for someone's bemusement we must have come last, because you always want to leave them laughing
0
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
man was but a minor afterthought (you cannot seal a wound with a poem)
for mine own Yocum <> a strange parting shot, that we are are the refuse upon this island Earth, the very last item on some being's weekly grocery list, a list composed 'illions of years ago, of things that could be worthy of "creating" this thought sticks to my soul, like a rosé pink colored NYC street'd, well chewed, gum piece adheres to my sole the musical companion to this ecrivez, a sinfonia for strings politely begs to differ, while a hard covered book dances me over to Texas, Dudamel conducts Barber, all making the question of man as an afterthought in a divine master plan for a planet, seems almost recklessly absurdly nonsensical then my cell buzzes me back to this ******** hell earth seven more cops shot, three dead down in the bayou of Baton Rouge, on a sabbath Sunday morning rouge red now assumes, takes on a different notation colorations, to my bleeding eyes, delivering importations of  headaches confusion rampage, red rage the amplification of the worst of we, afterthought creatures surely, why "create a destroyer," an absurd contradictory term, so we are gift wrapped   beneath the misleading approbation - human there is no nobility in our savagery, or dare I sneer and say, in our humanity you cannot seal a wound with music you cannot revive the dead with a poem ear-whispered sitting beneath the tree shade of my privileged place, my surrounding world is bay blue and grass green, my vision myopic, I am a self-centered, microscopic collection of red cells conceding to you Sargeant, this designer of the human form, who wrought it from soiled earth and excess rib bone, had a peculiar sense of humor, a comedian full of malice aforethought, for are we not the final joke, for someone's bemusement we must have come last, because you always want to leave them laughing
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70
I don’t have the kind of time It takes to iron out the blanket Covering the world Captured inside this tenuous dream The light slides through too easily As the sun does to a white summer dress That’s been weakened By too many turns in the dryer Trying to discover you Is parallel to discovering The soft side of a rabid bear That’s lost its taste for honey The world sighs deeply From time to time If you take the time To lay your ear on its chest Feel it coughing inside Like a skeleton water slide If only you knew The world has the oldest (Largest) broken heart Ever recorded in the measurable universe It cries backwards Outside in Yeah, you guessed it … The rain Nothing but liquid pain Being coughed out as clouds Then pulled back in By the gravity of aching Pulsating at the core A myopic glare back at the stars Tip toeing around up there Trying not to wake the broken one below If only they had known There is no sleep For the truly burdened of heart Only daydreaming (even at night)
0
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
jack-piatt
Unanswered Letters to the Moon
I don’t have the kind of time It takes to iron out the blanket Covering the world Captured inside this tenuous dream The light slides through too easily As the sun does to a white summer dress That’s been weakened By too many turns in the dryer Trying to discover you Is parallel to discovering The soft side of a rabid bear That’s lost its taste for honey The world sighs deeply From time to time If you take the time To lay your ear on its chest Feel it coughing inside Like a skeleton water slide If only you knew The world has the oldest (Largest) broken heart Ever recorded in the measurable universe It cries backwards Outside in Yeah, you guessed it … The rain Nothing but liquid pain Being coughed out as clouds Then pulled back in By the gravity of aching Pulsating at the core A myopic glare back at the stars Tip toeing around up there Trying not to wake the broken one below If only they had known There is no sleep For the truly burdened of heart Only daydreaming (even at night)
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39
Just picked up my thirtieth pair of glasses (perhaps you call them eye glasses). Progressive, photo-chromatic, temples with wrap around cables. Same round frames since I was sixteen (first saw them in How I Won the War). I don’t mess with what works. We fit. No need to look further. Had my eye on the prize. They give me perfect sight. And I waited years to get perfect sight. Always needed glasses. Finally got them when I was eleven. Big family. Immigrants. No health coverage. So, no glasses. Couldn’t see the forest or the trees. A genetic thing too. Several sisters and brothers are as myopic as moles. Mammy and Daddy never wore glasses (which is not to say they didn’t need them). All granny glasses are wire rims with a golden finish. All of mine were. These ones are round black wire rims. I’m being so adventurous. I remove them (singular is a monocle) to shower and go to bed. I never ask to try on someone’s frames, and I never loan mine for a second (Period) I also have a face that has grown so accustomed to glasses, that my eyes have surely deepened into my skull. I don’t recognize myself on my driver’s license, health card or passport (Why do they insist on that? I’m never asked to remove my glasses upon surrender of any document for visual verification). I’ve yet to regret the wealth I’ve spent. Their cost could pay the rent For a third world family for years. It would feed and clothe a village, I’m sure. I'm not blinded by how good I've got it here.
0
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 11:35 AM UTC
francie-lynch
Glasses
Just picked up my thirtieth pair of glasses (perhaps you call them eye glasses). Progressive, photo-chromatic, temples with wrap around cables. Same round frames since I was sixteen (first saw them in How I Won the War). I don’t mess with what works. We fit. No need to look further. Had my eye on the prize. They give me perfect sight. And I waited years to get perfect sight. Always needed glasses. Finally got them when I was eleven. Big family. Immigrants. No health coverage. So, no glasses. Couldn’t see the forest or the trees. A genetic thing too. Several sisters and brothers are as myopic as moles. Mammy and Daddy never wore glasses (which is not to say they didn’t need them). All granny glasses are wire rims with a golden finish. All of mine were. These ones are round black wire rims. I’m being so adventurous. I remove them (singular is a monocle) to shower and go to bed. I never ask to try on someone’s frames, and I never loan mine for a second (Period) I also have a face that has grown so accustomed to glasses, that my eyes have surely deepened into my skull. I don’t recognize myself on my driver’s license, health card or passport (Why do they insist on that? I’m never asked to remove my glasses upon surrender of any document for visual verification). I’ve yet to regret the wealth I’ve spent. Their cost could pay the rent For a third world family for years. It would feed and clothe a village, I’m sure. I'm not blinded by how good I've got it here.
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21
Sometimes I feel like those who Aren’t overwhelmed Aren’t tired and broken down Aren’t hunched and encumbered Those who can breathe without Feeling a tightness that strangles An immensity that fills the heart With shadowy, sorrowful tangles They must not be listening Must have sheathed their eyes Within the blackest, sight-denying blinders Or else resigned to a myopic gaze Yes, they must have made Some unconscious decision to don The enduring armor of ignorance Deftly designed to repel the obvious Forged in the fires of whimsied romance Of furtive fairy tales in which The protagonist, hero, heroine, the revered The beautiful, the admired, And all their supporting characters Are agents of nothing Sometimes I feel that in the stories of the free In the mythology of respiting privilege There is only one antagonist Against which said armor does protect He is truth He is compassion She is courage and love She is feeling and thought He is meaning and substance and matter itself So, take heart, my armored many For, it seems to me, your villain Is nearly dead I have the utmost faith That each of you will do your parts Will walk with your heads down To your dramatic destinations Will ignore the journey, the repercussions, And every longing bystander Yes, you will merrily spend, and sell, And buy, and sell and sell You will straightforwardly tread Over the downtrodden with your feeling-less feet Your blind eyes will roll about Inside their numbing sockets Your deafened ears will placidly bypass The rhythms of opportunity and intuition Your made-up mouths and raised noses Will vivaciously avoid The fruits of feeling, the pains of principle, And the arduous trials of belief In one’s fellow man Upon the hour of final victory I will write of epitaph and eulogy.
0
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
devin-weaver
Your Hero
Sometimes I feel like those who Aren’t overwhelmed Aren’t tired and broken down Aren’t hunched and encumbered Those who can breathe without Feeling a tightness that strangles An immensity that fills the heart With shadowy, sorrowful tangles They must not be listening Must have sheathed their eyes Within the blackest, sight-denying blinders Or else resigned to a myopic gaze Yes, they must have made Some unconscious decision to don The enduring armor of ignorance Deftly designed to repel the obvious Forged in the fires of whimsied romance Of furtive fairy tales in which The protagonist, hero, heroine, the revered The beautiful, the admired, And all their supporting characters Are agents of nothing Sometimes I feel that in the stories of the free In the mythology of respiting privilege There is only one antagonist Against which said armor does protect He is truth He is compassion She is courage and love She is feeling and thought He is meaning and substance and matter itself So, take heart, my armored many For, it seems to me, your villain Is nearly dead I have the utmost faith That each of you will do your parts Will walk with your heads down To your dramatic destinations Will ignore the journey, the repercussions, And every longing bystander Yes, you will merrily spend, and sell, And buy, and sell and sell You will straightforwardly tread Over the downtrodden with your feeling-less feet Your blind eyes will roll about Inside their numbing sockets Your deafened ears will placidly bypass The rhythms of opportunity and intuition Your made-up mouths and raised noses Will vivaciously avoid The fruits of feeling, the pains of principle, And the arduous trials of belief In one’s fellow man Upon the hour of final victory I will write of epitaph and eulogy.
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55