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CJ M Oct 2015
Naivety
I put you on the back-burner one too many times, and that has influenced me in the present day. I still think about it, about us, though the intimacy I was building for you is long gone due to the busyness of my current schedule.
I can’t reminisce like I used to and can’t afford to live in the past anymore. My life has moved to a carpe-diem pace and I’ve become one of those that I had dreaded to become.
A normal.
How naïve of me to be so trusting of things I knew I couldn’t control.
How Naïve of me to believe that my decisions, all made on spur the moment emotion, would lead me in the right direction as oppose to just the direction I was facing. I’m a sucker for it now, learning languages just to express my love in a different tongue, learning dances to woo you into my arms, creating the flirtation I used to have so that I could chat us into a truce, oh, how Naïve I find myself now.
Truth is, the past still haunts me, but my ghosts are mere shadows of me, I’m not effected. I’m hunted by my formers, but I’m a tough quarry, I ***** with anything that seems to be changeable, making me a prime target of changeless society.
Naivety
What I found myself to be when I daydreamed of kissing you, our lips touching and sending tingles to my brain, sending what I would know as one step closer to the final intimacy. But now that step has been postponed, the staircase to heaven out for repair, and I’m stuck in a purgatory of my own creation, one filled with Irony and shame of idiotic past.
Naivety
What I think when I hear someone’s prayers for a soulmate, they don’t work, they just hope, and that’s unjust. Yet it be just my luck they find theirs while I stay here, sinking me deeper into my apathetic and pathetic state of being.
Naivety
The thought that runs through my mind when I think of what I’d ask you now-
Who were we?
Were we even an us, love? Because though it felt real, it was merely a half in a love that required one-fourth.
What were we?
Were we truly lovers? Sure, I loved you, but I never got to say it, never got to express it fully, and that causes an emptiness to echo in my heart. I find it as a settled score: My emptied heart in exchange for your torn and broken one.
Where were we?
Don’t be confused, baby, was your love in the past with another, or were you in the present, thinking of me, smelling my cologne as we cuddled in public, holding hands for the first time, making a display for gawking passersby that we knew? I still chuckle at that to this day, the faces peering over us as we walked, hand in hand, toward a destination to close. But I was too timid and I hadn’t opened up all that much, you were unknowingly initiating me in gradual changes that only you could’ve unlocked in me.
Can I say this to the future? My past made my future, yet my future will eventually become my past. My present isn’t the gift that I desired, but it’s a gift that I cherish regardless. It is my circumstance and my own personal Irony. And so I love it as I love you- the one with the bright smile and dark skin, the one with the chuckle but the sealed lips, the one with the shrug of shoulders but who herself wouldn’t say a word in compromise.
Naivety
Just a vent, and a well deserved one at that. I'm about ready to put the pen down, but if I do then the emptiness'll engulf me farther than it already has. So I continue to express.
traces of being Aug 2016
.
Honeybees, birds and blooms unfurl
an enchanting spell
when spring comes by here

Memories waft 'neath burled rustic trellis
where flowered tendrils grasp fleshly
like the newness a love once tenderly embraced

Songbirds in your garden sing
of swooning memories rapture.., of velvet eyes,  
the fragrant spicy nectar hidden within her walls                            

A song of honeyed bees'  sweetest stinger,
and the poignant ***** of intoxicating surrender
lingers, bemused spellbound by a thorny heirloom rose

Sharp beauty beloved like a blameless trap
caught blissfully, breathlessly inbetween
all you wish for and all your wanton needs

Desire 's wellspring an unspoken passion
coquet swollen buds adorn blossoming,
sensual, untamed carnal grace

A picture perfect natural beauty;
sunlit chassé … feathered brush, demure blush
dancing with basket of lace petal’d perfume

For to colour a heart's blank pages
rapt in the poesy a joyous ecstasy ..,
enrapture with rainbow's luscious taste

What seems lost is but a tender vestige unfound
a passing moments innocence lost
to steal away like rumors of gold

These silent reveries seep from a hole in my heart,  
as if ripe strawberries of yore, gently weeping sweetness
when pricked by a thorny rose  

The ides of spring do still bleed a timeless ache
onto the page ... sweet naivety stung
by a mesmerizing dart to the heart

Songbirds in your garden do sing
of sweetest things immersed in nature's nectar
blissful memories sleeping in the petals of a rose




Sung to the wind by a song sparrow — ♪ ♫...✩ ☼✩ ✩☺✩
If only now in dreams of yore
a sky full of stars shine brighter,
a garden of flowers fragrance more pungent,
and songbirds in your garden from yesteryear
sing tantalizingly more beautiful ...,
when you were near

.
amanda Jul 2018
love is not made of giving and taking in equal parts
it is not a favor for a favor
i owe you nothing

love is not a compromise reached after long deliberation
it is not hurting on Monday
and healing on Tuesday

love is not touching because you will leave if i do not
it is not feigning naivety
when you see me cry

love is not the untimely squandering of innocence
it is not the suffocating grip of guilt
it is not your unwelcome touch

love is not
love is not
love is not
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero
this is a work in progress
Kate Lion Jan 2013
Because he was the robin, see
I built him a birdhouse made of the fingernails I chipped from every time I was forced to button up my own flannel shirt
It was quite silly and awkward-looking
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there
It would take a lot of fake smiles and wooden blinds to tolerate a habitation such as the one I constructed for him
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there

When he told me he was making a nest I took a paring knife from the kitchen drawer
When he told me he was making a nest I gave him 10 inches of weave to (through) the twigs
When he told me there were lots of split ends and varied shades
I wasn't too hurt because it was true

And I knew he would use twisty ties from bread bags instead
Which were much more practical than 10 inches of lover's hair
I just couldn't understand why he didn't give it back

He misplaced it, he said
How can you misplace something I had (longed) for him
AvengingPoet Sep 2014
Has the available light faded?
What happened to our naivety?

Fleeting forcefully forward expecting answers for nothing
But you can not get something from nothing

Waves pushing you back and forth, back and forth
As you begin the day with hopes and despairs

Night has come and thoughts have trembled
Terrors and fears have come forcefully forward

Expecting emotional feedback but honesty has faded
Integrity has been shattered and battered

Has the available light faded?
What happened to our naivety?

Standing at the shore once again
Waves pushing you back and forth

Simply an addict with a pen
Throwing ink onto the page

But the ink has begun to fade
And you never gave it enough aid

But the words of the prophets have stolen them
For quick sized bits and easy to sell campaigns

Has the available light faded?
What happened to our naivety?

We need to find our balance in this act
Or the play shall never be fully performed

We have become dormant souls
Asking questions of why instead of why not

Mob mentality courses through our veins
When the true individual is the only one who understands true pain

Tough times
Tough times indeed

Has the available light faded?
What happened to our naivety?
blue mercury Mar 2017
you are leathered with residue
decaying the rust off your skin
with our initials crawling into
alabaster sheets that all I have really
felt while staring out at the streets
we're people fading by egotistical
lack of self confidence
even though I admit using
seducing strategies
possibly disgusted by my own
emotions
that I am placing ******
thrills on my own configuration
because it's humid and blatant
unkowling breathing ruthless sentiments
of our holy communion

I am splitting into a holy sin
drenched in blissful wartime rations
of water or passion
your cotton skin and these sheets
bold statements between white teeth
it’s all a fading mystery
you said I’m something childlike
your hands are stained cherry
and even if they were around my neck
I’d whisper your name like a vesper
simply waiting
for the day to come where it all fades
because you refuse to be a
young god
no matter how it seems to be
to me in all of my naivety
collab w the lovely Glass ((:
s y kalindara Oct 2018
I was 20 years old,
Walking down the road.
You stopped me in my tracks
To say hello.
I said it back because what's the harm?
From that moment on,
I was a victim to your charm.
You called me pretty
And reached out to hold me,
That alone should have sent me running.
You refused to let me leave,
Until you had a way of contacting me.
Gripping on to my sleeve,
I did what you asked of me.
I wasn't scared
When I should've been.
I was taught to think
That was romantic of him.
If I could turn back,
I would untell myself that.
Shed light on my naivety,
perhaps protect my virginity,
From a 35 year old man
With an abominable plan.
Yes I was of legal age
But here's the common sense,
It still gave you no right
To rob me of my innocence.
Convinced we were friends
And I would always be safe
I let my guard down
Oh god, what a mistake.
You kept wanting to meet late at night.
In your car, in a park,
Anywhere out of sight.
I always felt compelled
During those meetings of ours.
Never like my own self
In those early morning hours.
The first time you laid hands on me
Was when I called and needed company.
Vulnerable and upset,
I needed a friend.
A shoulder to cry on,
A possible distraction,
A devil-sent ravisher
Was not what I asked for.
I was not in control.
I kept coming back for more.
The night you finally ****** me
Is my reoccurring nightmare.
A force and ****** feature,
The end of an affair.
I can't leave it in the past.
You left me aghast.
I want to tear off my skin
And rid myself of your sin.
It's been a couple of months,
Still I can't bear to be clutched,
Until now, I've kept my mouth shut
About the night I was touched.

Copyright © 2018 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
I'm trying to heal.
PeatrJay Aug 2015
It's incredibly trusting.
In a way, fearless.
Intuitive.

Sometimes to the point of being impulsive.

The test to humanity as a whole is not to take advantage of such an attribute.

Folks may be naive but stepping on them for it is arrogant, ignorant and selfish.

Perhaps the lesson to be learned when naivety is a factor is acknowledging that more is to be gained for a society as a whole when its members spread the wealth and teach one another with compassion and patience when some know more than others.
being an *** to someone because "it'll toughen them up for when the next guy tries to ***** with them" is a self perpetuating farce. Developed by the egos of self important goons.
Ris Howie Feb 2013
There is a naivety in the absence of love,
the need for new affirmation in
the capability of the world to once
again hold onto your heart.

No patience within the presence of pain,
we simply cling to ephemeral half-life
traces of the real emotion we so
desire and therefore cheapen by
embracing tarnish.
deanena tierney Jul 2010
Naivety is a virtue,
Until you first get burned.
It then becomes your enemy,
A difficult lesson learned.
Omnis Atrum Aug 2012
Many artists create for approval, to translate the beauty they find in the world so that others can feel what they feel (which is second hand at best), or to try to better understand the world that they are in and communicate their findings with the rest of the world. I would stand here today and say that is all meaningless to me. If one cannot find their own truths, then they do not deserve the truths that they find. Everyone can see 'the beauty of the world' that surrounds them, and far too many people try to turn their senses into tangible words on a page. What difference does it make, better yet, what difference should it make to a person if others view the world in the same light that they do? It is for this purpose that I do not view the world in any light. When I create I view the world without light. Feeling my way through the darkness trying to find something that I can hold on to. I am a horrible and pitiful creature when I search for ideas, but when I can wrap my hands around these ideas with no light shed from an outside source there is no greater sense of accomplishment. I write not about the beauty of the world, not about fantastic imageries that could be on an inspirational poster, nothing of the heavens and angels, because when I write my demons take over. Every doubt that sits in the back of my mind unanswered. Every amount of corruption that I have seen in the world. Every hope that has been shot down to crash as a fallen spaceship. Every desire that I will never see fulfilled. These are the things that give me the passion and inspiration to create. Perhaps it is for the balance of the world that I write with such things in mind. As I watch so many writers fail to create what it is that they pictured in their creative vision simply because their minds are cluttered with preconceived notions of love, of good, and of this great being that will provide them with their every desire (deliverable on death, as I have been told); I know that most will surely continue to fail. The world does not have a perfect clockwork structure that they would have everyone else see. I hope that in controlling my demons I will be able to create something that is more authentic. More pure.

Art is struggle.
Creations are covered with our sacrifices.
Without the grotesque, beauty cannot truly be seen.
Without darkness, we cannot understand light.
My cup runneth over.

Seven great inspirations
I remember being young and thinking that there was no greater goal to seek than the goal of love. I had told myself countless times that my greatest goal in life was to find someone and make them the happiest person in the world. I know now that the naivety of that statement is enough to make even the most romantic shake their heads. It was from this naivety and hope that a young man fell in love. As all things that are destined to horribly fail, it failed horribly. The joy in this young man's eyes dissipated and he was left horribly confused. How could my greatest inspiration and the goals that I had set for myself fall apart so swiftly? It was around this time that I slowly started seeing the world for what it truly was. There was great sorrow in this time, but it was a time of more beauty than I had ever known. Years that I thought were wasted were resurrected as emotions and perceptions that slowly found their way from my hand to paper. I learned from a very young age that it was proper to hide emotion, and so many of these creations were destroyed after I had pushed them from my mind. It was not until I let a few close friends read some of what I had written that I realized the value that words held. I used these words to bring happiness to others and evoke emotion where there was none before. All of the ideals and emotions that I held in high regard for so long slowly withered away. It was in this time that I slowly learned that because there was so much good that came from something so devastating, that those things I once thought were so evil may have something good to be found in them. There were great inspirations to be found in those things I had once discarded as sinful and without worth. I found beauty and inspiration in what most would call corruption and imperfect. These things, which were taught to me as sins, gave me more inspiration than any rules or restriction would ever be able to. For the first time in my life I actually felt free. It was with this newfound freedom that I was finally able to express what I truly felt without fear of guilt or punishment. My outward appearance stayed approximately the same (as I was taught that appearances were always important and some habits were hard to break), but I realized that I was a completely different person. It is these differentiations from what I considered to be the norm that allowed me to grow as a person instead of as a machine that was built by those around me. It is this facade of normality that I will forever wear as a defense mechanism to keep those as closed minded as I once was from prying. It is the sins that I once fought so hard against that would help me realize the person that I truly was. This is not merely a documentation of the things that inspire me, this is a tribute to the realizations that allowed me to grow as a person. A great deal of my writing tends to come out as metaphors, but in what will follow I will do my best to write clearly and without riddles. These are the thoughts that bring my creations to life. This is the fuel that drives a man down a road comfortably, no longer worried about speed limits or street signs. Now I will explain how these seven deadly sins breathed life into an otherwise lonely and discarded man.

Pride
Are we all not more important than everyone else in our own universe? Is there some secret kept within the recesses of our mind that perverts this self preservation into something that is frowned upon? Are we not supposed to be proud of our accomplishments? Where are the lines between what is appropriate and a horrid vanity drawn? Would we not become Lucifer if the feeble minds trapped in these mortal shells were placed in a shell more beautiful and eternal than anything we have ever seen? Are we so quick to judge those guilty of our same crimes? Tell me that if you were given the chance you would not change places with a god, and I will never believe another word that pushes its way past your lips. We are wired to attempt to gain higher standing wherever we are. When I have created something that I believe holds truth I am proud, and I am proud that I am proud. If it were not for pride where would that sense of accomplishment come from? Should I allow my pride to turn to shame, and **** a driving force to create something even better next time? I think not. In the universe of our art, we are the gods. We manipulate every word, every pixel, every stroke of the brush. We have ultimate control of the characters, the situations, the emotions, the outcomes, and do not have to provide an explanation to anyone unless we decide to. When we are done with our creations we stand back and say that they are good. A faulty attempt to turn the artist into a god, but the intentions are thinly veiled. To create and to have others look upon your creation with wonder and awe, is that not the intentions of almost all artists? What purpose does this serve other than the creation of pride? I would say that there are none. My writing is the universe where I am god, and there are none other as powerful or that have as much say as I do.

Sloth
Call me cynical for not seeing the absolute beauty of the world around me. Sloth, the great sin of sadness and despair. I look at the world and am dissatisfied with what I see. I have always been fond of Poe, because he wrote about this more than anything else. Why should I be any different than this? The only love I have ever known was ripped from my hands, and I was left with nothing but a feeling of wanting. I watch people walk by with their masks of happiness and content, and when the day is done I see these same people left shaking and world weary. How much rain should fall from my eyes before they become as black as the clouds they do their best impressions of? With every attempt to better the world thwarted on each turn, it seems as if things are not going to change. The problem with writing on the subject of sorrow is that many view it as unhealthy or look down upon it. It is only after putting words to the things that bother me that I have control over them, and can manipulate them as I wish. Sorrow and pain are less of a threat when they can be controlled. Where is it that this sorrow and despair comes from? Perhaps I read too many fairy tales as a child. Perhaps I have yet to get to the end of the story of life where the moral will be revealed to me. Perhaps it is this surreal world that I could never persuade myself to live in. A world where I am to put on a mask of happiness and pretend that everything is going just the way that it should. A world full of everything that I could ever desire. It is because I cannot alter my senses that give my perception of the world that this demon resides within me. My writing is the realization that the world is not what I was led to believe it to be. My creations are the sorrow and despair of living in an imperfect world, and wishing that it was perfect.

Gluttony
Do not overindulge in anything, not even those things which bring pleasure and have no consequence. I think this is a flawed statement at best. In my writing I discuss extraordinary circumstances or situations that I have been involved in. Many of these situations happened only in my own mind, but a number of them occurred when I overindulged in certain things and saw the world in a completely different perspective. If we all lived in perfect moderation, would the world not be boring and uninspiring? I choose to do those things that bring pleasure, and if I do them too often then the result is simply more pleasure. Gluttony is the cause of many interesting nights that allowed me to step outside of my protective shell and experience things that I would have never experienced otherwise. How could I not pay homage to such a thing? How could I desire to cease doing something that only opened my eyes? Gluttons will be looked down upon and called drunkards and addicts, but I have never met a being that has not committed gluttony at one point or another. I was once told to overindulge in moderation. Where does the line between an altered state of mind that we can learn from and a sin stand? In my creations there is no line, because there is no sin. My writings are guilt-free and full of overindulgence of thought. My words are my minds altered vision grasping for truth.

Wrath
These **** words will not flow from my mind, through my hand, and onto this god forsaken medium. What is it that I need to do to express my emotions so that others can understand them? If my words are too abstract it is only because of the thoughts and emotions that they follow. If people cannot follow my metaphors and hidden meanings then it is of no concern to me. The fact that they will not try to stimulate their intellectual ***** in order to understand something more complex than they are used to drives me insane. My pulse quickens with each thought of the issue. It is impossible that I left my metaphors too veiled or did not give enough surrounding exposition. These creations make perfect sense. Then I step back and look at the gibberish that I have created and hurl it across the room as harshly as possible. The thoughts and ideas are all here, it all makes sense in my mind, so WHY WILL THE WORDS NOT COME OUT RIGHT? The inability to explain senses or perceptions in a concrete manner that the audience will understand creates more anger in me than I will ever understand. An anger that refuses to subside. With a clenched fist the pens and pencils are broken, the keyboard is shattered, and the words are broken down into the letters that sit in a pile on my floor. My creations inspire nothing more than they inspire my hatred for ignorance. My creations are an angry conglomeration of letters wishing that they could show the emotions that inspired them. My words are children beaten for insubordination.

Greed
Greed is the greatest inspiration that most will ever know. To bathe in golden bullion and never have another care in the world. Greed not for the sake of greed, but for the sake of freedom. I am inspired by greed of a different sort. The desire to gather every idea that I can find and horde it as my own. The greed of knowledge and experience. When I was younger it was interesting to be the most mature person my age, and now that I am older it is not knowledge that is sought, but wisdom. I horde this knowledge and wisdom in my own personal compressor and squeeze them until they are in the purest possible form. It is this ink that I dip my quill into hoping that my faulty hands can transfer such a perfect concoction onto the parchment without ruining it. Without poking a hole through the parchment. Without deciding after I am finished that the words do not hold the meaning that they carry, and having to destroy everything and start over. I would gladly give all the wealth that I have to be able to sate my greed for the expression of perceptions and knowledge. These are the pains that I have endured, and they are mine and mine alone to claim. There is no greater value on this Earth in my eyes. People can have their tubs of golden bullion, and I will help them with generous contributions when able, but if they ever decide they want my words there will be war. A war of greed. A war of necessity. My creations are my glorious mansion that holds the treasures of experience and knowledge. My words are the golden bullion that so many men have fought and died for, and I will horde them until some greater force can pry them from the hands that created them.

Lust
Love is an illusion that was created for your confusion. Those that speak of love are disillusioned into believing in some extrasensory emotion that they allow to consume them. Love is the most abstract emotion or idea that anyone could ever base a creation on. I tire of reading of love at first sight, love found upon a spring morning, or love that has been discarded. These things are boring, and as long as people persist in writing on these things I will always have kindling for my fires. Tell me about something that I know. Lust is the most pure form of the idea of love that is kept in circulation for no apparent purpose, besides creating sorrow for those that cannot find something so perfect as it has been described. Lust does not mislead and has no ulterior motives. The warmth of another being pressed tightly against you in a shared ecstasy. That is all. There are no complications, there is no confusion, there are no forced rituals that you have to fake your way through to get to another goal. Has the world become so confused that it forgets its instincts. They tell me that lust is a sin, but I know very well that it has created more pleasure than any restriction I will ever be given. I have heard many times to wait for love and it will come in time, but never have I heard anyone told to wait for lust. There is something unexplainable about finding oneself in a passionate situation that they had never even thought about before the moment that it happened. It is the same way with my writing. My writing is the beautiful girl whose name I do not know, as she is leading me across the house to a more secluded place.

Envy
I was taught never to keep up with the Joneses, and I will never attempt to. I had planned to accomplish such great deeds that the Joneses would be found as a wreck of green helplessness. In my great plan I had no intention of ever envying another person. It was not until I fell in love with words that my great plan fell apart. It was these words that would be my downfall. Writers, publishers, artists, and editors all held titles that I wanted for my own. Those that were far more lucky whose works were published. We use the same letters and words, but I could never convince people to see the appeal in truth. It was when I realized this fact that I became envious. I was not envious of the titles, or of the money
ally maková Dec 2017
my love, I think
I flourish in winter,
for while I slept
a serene dream
brushed its lips against
my cheek and for
a small moment of
naivety and frailty
I saw you and
you saw me—
your eyes spoke what
your scarlet mouth couldn't
and I listened,
your hands trembled
as did I
at the thought of
what they want to
write on my naked body—
solo mia, solo mia.

my love, I think
I flourish in winter,
for when I awoke
a snowflake sunk
into the fullness of
my lips and then
I knew I'd been
kissed by you,
so I smile
as I stand by
the window where for
a small moment of
naivety and frailty
I wallow in my joy,
for I know too
it will last not.
snow always gets me writing fr
Molly Coates Feb 2013
I used to think love was a smile, but
How could somebody like me know love?
I believed that the amount you smiled at someone
Symbolized the amount of love and affection
You felt for them.

[People would couple up so that they could smile at each other more often by spending more time together.]

I see the places where love is almost invisible.
How could somebody like me know love?
I see where people frown and yell at each other
And the ones who love are much too
Afraid to smile.

I know that I am not alone.
How could somebody like me know love?
Poets and romatics are always searching
For the words and images and songs that
Would define it.

I do not want to be called a poet
How could somebody like me know love?
I don’t weave words into beautiful textiles
That are decorated with the shapes and colors
Of the soul.

I enjoy reading poems and stories, but
How could somebody like me know love?
I have read novels about getting the girl
And poems about the cold dark empty
Unrequited love.

I don’t know what I think love is anymore.
How could somebody like me know love?
I have never felt so beautiful a thing
In my world or fear and dysfunctional
Independence.

I have felt great love, but not the romantic kind.
How could somebody like me know love?
I am willing to sacrifice anything for those close to me
But I know there is more to this concept than
Deep friendship.

I don’t even know what “like” is.
How could somebody like me know love?
On the cusp of adulthood, my lack of knowledge
Leads me to fear that I am nearly too old
For naivety.
How could I be so naïve
As to fail to realise
It's you I love
It always has been.

But could my best friend
Ever become my boy friend?
Somehow i think not
It's highly unlikely.

If I told you
That I loved you
Could you ever love me back
Or would our friendship go off track?
Nicole Arbuckle Jan 2015
Let us acknowledge
The last time
we will ever play this song
The keys are
Slowly
Breaking.

I thought I loved you,
Naive
When I spoke, it was not me I heard.
You tore me apart
Key
by
Key
And yet, I held the pieces
I dare not let them go.

You can't play the muse
When you broke the keys I play upon.
I can't lie anymore
Pretending to be happy,
Like when we were little
We're just playing house in our ruins.

How can I give you any more
in maturity I find myself loving you less?
Nothing remains unbroken
but...naivety.

Here comes the next one,
The next 'grown up'
Stay as young as you can
Naivety makes you 'strong'
Even when you're told you're wrong,
And love,
it hasn't touched you yet.

So

Keep playing while your keys still resonate
Magic.
Written in 2009
wraiths Jul 2015
i swallow my emotions like you're spoon-feeding me poison
Vicki Watson May 2014
After the rain, I see the daisies,
In their clean, white dresses,
Fresh and perfect.
Washed and bright,
Their faces lifted to the skies,
And open to the sun.

Is it their youth that makes them so fearless,
Despite their diminutive size?
A naivety of spirit or
Lack of worldly knowledge?
Or do their fleeting, precarious lives
Lead them to so embrace the now?

No, their beauty springs from a truth far older,
For they are neither flashy nor flamboyant.
A daisy knows no subterfuge,
Has no jealousies, no conceit.
Its wisdom lies deeper,
And it bends with the wind.

To value the time that we have,
To see beauty in the smallest places,
And to love without fear,
Is a talent easily lost,
And the line between happy and sad is drawn
With a thin pencil and a light touch.

In miniature perfection,
A daisy lives fully,
Its face in the sunlight.
It lives, and that is enough.

Vicki Watson © 2014
She faces the sun,

Turns her face straight to its beams,

Letting it wash over her disposition,

Bathing her in naivety,

And she shields her eyes,

With her rose-colored glasses.
Molly Coates Feb 2013
I don’t even know what “like” is.
How could somebody like me know love?
I’ve never put make up on for anybody
And I’ve never tried to give anybody
My sweetest smile.

I have never wanted to kiss anybody.
How could somebody like me know love?
I’ve only seen it in the movies
And I’m not even sure if I know
How it works.

I don’t know what a crush feels like.
How could somebody like me know love?
I’ve never thought of anybody as “hot” or “ugly”
Or known what being attracted to someone
Even feels like.

I’ve nodded along with everyone else, but
How could somebody like me know love?
I love my friends and my family even though
It’s not the same kind of love that others keep
Talking about.

My focus has always been elsewhere.
How could somebody like me know love?
I don’t think there is someone out there for me.
In my life I will very likely wander this world
On my own.

I can’t tell if I’m able be sad about it.
How could somebody like me know love?
I have spent so long – as long as I can remember - worrying
About surviving until tomorrow that maybe
I never lived.

I’m afraid of most everyone around me.
How could somebody like me know love?
It is very difficult for me to trust someone enough
Since anybody could get mad enough
To hurt me.

I don’t even know what “like” is.
How could somebody like me know love?
I see everyone around me talking about his or her love
And I wonder if my lacking is what the experienced
Call naivety.
Damian Dec 2012
A falling feather on the breeze,
lilting like the Seraphim
songs of Mephistopheles,
lured her drunkenly to him.

Lilting like the Seraphim,
she drank his iridescence. He
lured her drunkenly to him,
enraptured in naivety.

She drank his iridescence. He
befouled her virtue, was the air.
Enraptured in naivety
no more, would Eden hear her prayer?

Befouled; her virtue was the air
he stole away, a hunched-up thief.
No more would Eden hear her prayer -
the echoes howling his motif.

He stole away, a hunched-up thief,
a fallen feather on the breeze;
the echoes howling his motif -
songs of Mephistopheles.


Footnote: Passages from folk lore:
Hindu - the peacock is said to have angels' feathers, a devil's voice
and the walk of a thief
Chinese - a girl who looks at a peacock could become pregnant
Islamic: the peafowl carried Satan into the Garden of Eden after consuming him
Alice Burns May 2013
We've had a turbulent journey together
And as he pushed the bike, slowly did his hand release me
Riding the crashing waves I admit my struggle
And my childish naivety gave passage to worser threats
Yet still he stands there, waving me on my way
Even to this day, despite questionable confidences, I still turn
And still he stands there

A rebel I didn't mean to be, but I am cursed with escalating emotions
Or maybe he would say a blessing, to empathize and find strength
As memories haunt me at night, teaming with those of ill will
The sensitivity he passed on to me prevails, Innocently I am slowed
But my wheels continue turning, and my heart stays true
Though my eyes and ears remain obstructed, my heart makes a turn
And yes, he still stands there

His presence unpurposefully commands attention
And his knowledge, he gives without catch
I understand the wars he must encounter, and yet he stays calm
Giving peace to the tide, he offers nothing, but gives everything
I unconditionally love him
I honestly hold respect for him,
He indirectly teaches me
And fuels me with his love

In this moment, I turn back, not for fear of falling,
But to wave back to the man who let me go
He is no longer there, standing firm in his spot
No
My friend, my father, he rides by my side.
Nicole Rountree Apr 2017
So many memories they tend to cloud my mind
Smells of the food cooking in the kitchen
Family gathered— ready and at attention
So many memories they tend to cloud my mind
I remember when we used to play in the park
I remember when our Grandma told us to be in before dark
So many memories they tend to cloud my mind
Sounds of laughter at Christmas time
I remember when we used to wait up for Santa
We were threatened with pepper in the eyes
Remember that?
Scared into sleepiness because our young minds didn’t know any better
With the morning sun, we rise and shine to open presents together
So many memories they tend to cloud my mind
I remember these memories represented our close knit bond
People grow
People change
I guess it’s naivety to think it would forever stay the same
It’s the memories we cherish and should hold them close
Keeping the people near and dear that we love the most
Because there will come a time when the reaper must stake his claim
We never invite him, but it doesn’t matter because he already has the name
He may come in quick or take his time, but when he comes it leaves us blind
Blinded by hurt
Blinded by pain
Blinded by the fact we will never see our loved one again
Blinded by the new memories of a new type of hurt—a new type of pain
Then the memories overflow and fill the frontal lobe-the part of the brain where memories and speech are controlled
You become speechless because you become filled and overwhelmed with the loss
Family comes together to comfort each other  
You haven’t seen some in years—it’s been so long since you’ve seen them you want to burst out in tears.
Kids have grown and don’t look the same
So handsome and beautiful, but you don’t remember their names
That’s how long—how long it’s been
Again, it’s a shame.  
You ask, “Why does it take death to bring the family together again?”
Then, in an instant, tears begin to form in the wells of your eyes
You realize how things have really changed and you don’t quite understand why
So many memories they tend to cloud my mind
I remember that there is a need to change the timeline
I remember when I decided to finally say
Don’t let the family, your blood, fade away
Embrace each other
Love each other
Motivate each other
Cherish each other
Protect each other
Keep each other
Continue to make memories—no matter how old we get
Make sure the family remains close knit

Yep, so many memories they just tend to cloud my mind
Family should always be together—until the end of time.
Deb Jones Jan 2019
When I was a child

Some of the most judgmental and unkind People I ever met were on church pews
Every Sunday with a Hymnal
And a Bible in their hands

I didn’t know how some people
Were able to disassociate their own Shortcomings and cruelty
From their religious
Obligations and convictions
But many were able to do just that

But as a child I couldn’t reconcile
The child abusers
The pedophiles
The rapists
The drug traffickers
The thieves
The alcoholics
The cheaters
The liars

From the people that stood at the pulpits.
The ones I was told to emulate.
The minister
The reverends
The deacons

The word minister embodies
Loving protection

The word reverend invokes
Reverence and inspiration

Doesn’t it?

I was a young adult
Before I realized
Church is for sinners
By that time organized religion
For me?
Was black and soiled.
Repulsive

Here I am now.
I fling mantras out into the world
Of love, hope, compassion,
Good health

I recently walked into
A cathedral in Ireland and cried.
I felt the weight of time and
Countless generations of believers.

Working in the medical field
And specializing in pediatrics
Holding a one pound baby
In my hands
Months before even
The parents were allowed to touch them
I sincerely believe in miracles
I see them almost every day

My church is in my head
Buddhism is in my heart
And in the actions of my hands
The words in my mouth
What my ears hear
The soothing of my soul

The meals I help serve the homeless
The blankets I spread on their cots

I bow my head and listen to prayers
Wherever they are offered
I quietly whisper
My wishes
Into an unknown ear  

I don’t judge many people anymore
My childhood is past
I learned valuable lessons
And peace is mind at last

That doesn’t mean I trust
Easily or broadly
It just means I am an adult
And am responsible

There is some good
In almost everyone
I don’t say that out of naivety
I have danced with monsters

But that’s another tale...
Matilda.
The light of my life.
The poem of my tongue.
The fire of my chest.
The wind of my *****.
The hate I loathe.
The beauty I view.
My lady.
My dream.
My hesitant rainbow.
My fearless tears.
My coverlet and starlet;
my blanket and dainty amulet.
My distant promise and cautiousness;
but in all my darling; looking ever so stately-
yet not like yon faraway, morning dew.

Matilda.
The hands I adore;
the fingers I want to kiss.
The solitude I live in;
the fate I was born in.
A pair of eyes ever to me too divine,
A charm that loyally strikes, and glows and shines.
A lock of hair that petulantly sways and sweats.
A midday tale of love; as how it is mine,
a beauty that this world ensures,
but cannot adore.

Matilda.
Even the brisk turquoise sea
is ever less glossy than thy eyes,
for their calmness is still less harmful,
unlike unbending, thus insolent tides, at noon.
Ah, Matilda, thou art yet too graceful,
but tricky and indolent, as the puzzling moon!
Thy purity is like unseen smoke,
tearing the skies' linings like a fast rocket,
making me ever thirsty, turning my heart wet,
but still this attentive heart thou canst not provoke;
thou art a region too far from mine;
but still luck is in heart whose fate's in thine.
And as thou singeth a tone I liketh to sing
I cannot help but more admiring thee;
And as thou singeth it genuinely more,
thou capture all my breath and give it all a thrill;
for I realise then, that thou canst be stiff, as sandless shores;
but thy beauty canst so finely startle,
and whose startledness
canst ****.

Matilda.
But deadness, and ever desolation
are vividly clamouring in thy eyes;
Thou art but distinct, distinct indeed-from serenity;
for thou warble thyself, but gladly-away, from thy sullen reality.
Ah, Matilda, how canst a soul so comely
be hateful to fame, and dishonest just from its frame?
Matilda, to those merciless hearts indeed thou beareth no name;
Thou art a shame to their pride, and a stain to their bitterly fevered, sanity.
Yet still, thou art to innocent to understand which,
and in love naively, as thou just art, now-
with that feeble shadow of a pampered young fellow,
Whose stories are also mine,
for his father's money is donned,
and coined every day-by my servant's frail hands;
The sweat of my palms obey me in doing so-
I am my master's son's poor sailor,
and he his sole heir-and soon is to inherit
an indecent boat; full of roaming paths, doors, and locks
And at nights, costly drapery and jewels shall be planted in their hair-
yes, those beastly riches' necks, and skin fair,
And thou be their eternal seamstress,
weaving all those bare threads with thy hands-
ah, thy robust ****** hands,
whilst thy heart so dutifully levitating
about his false painting, and bent even more heartily, onto him.
Ah, 'tis indeed unfair, unfair, unfair-and so unfair!
For such a liar he was, and still is-
Once he was betrothed to a bitter, and uncivil Magdalene;
Uncivil so is she, prattling and bickering and prattling and bickering-
To our low-creature ears, as she once remarked,
She who basked in her own vague hilarity, and sedate glory
And so went on harshly unmolested by her vanity, and fallibility;
But sadly indeed, occupied with a great-not intellect,
As not sensible a person as she was;
At least until the winds knocked her haughty voices out-
and so then hovering stormy gales beneath,
took her out and gaily flung her deep into the raging sea.

Still he wiggled not, and seems still-in a seance every night,
whenst he but cries childishly and calls out to her name in fright.
Her but all dead, dead name;
'Till his father tears him swiftly out of his solitude
And with altogether the same worried face
but drags his disconcerted son back into his flamboyant chamber.
Ah, and I caught thee again, Matilda,
Bowed over the picture of yon young sailor;
'Twixt those sweet-patterned handkerchiefs
On thy lil' wooden table, yesterday
And curved over yon picture, I was certain;
I caught some fatigued tears in thy eyes-
for from thy love thou wert desperate,
but still unsure even, of the frayed tyings of cruel fate.
Ah, Matilda, your hair is still as black as the night
The guilty night, though nothing it may knoweth, of thy love,
and perhaps just as unknowing it seemingly is;
as th' tangled moon, and its dubious arrows
of unseen lilies, above
Shall singeth in uncertainty; and cordless dignity
And which song shall forever be left unreasoned
Until the end of our days arrive, and bereft us all
of this charismatic world-and all its dearest surge of false,
and oftentimes unholy, fakeness.
Oh Matilda, but such truest clarity was in thy eyes,
And frightened was I-upon seeing t'is;
As though never shrouded in barren lies
Like a love that this heart defines;
but never clear, as never is to be gained.
Ah, Matilda, and such frank clarity dismays me;
It threatens and stiffens and chortles me,
for I am certain I shan't be with thee-
and shall ever be without thee,
for thou detest and loathe me,
and be of no willingness at all-
to befriend, to hold, or to hear-
much less reward me with thy love,
as how I shall reward thee with mine.

Matilda, this love is too strong-but so is, too poor
And neither is my heart plainly bruised;
For it is untouched still, but feeling like it has been flawed
Ah, why does this love have to be raw-and far indeed, too raw!
I, who is thy resilient friend, and fellow-sadly never am in thy flavour;
for in his soul only-thy love is rooted;
And this love is forever never winning-and it is sour,
Like a torn, mute flower; or like a better not, laughter.
And my heart is once more filled with dead leaves-
Ah, dead, dead leaves of undelight, and unjoy;
Whose cries kick and bend and strangle themselves-
all to no avail, and cause only all its devouring to fail,
For his doorless claws are to strong,
Stealing thy eyes from me for all day,
and duly all night long.
How discourteous! Virtual, but too far, still-
corrupting me; ah, unjust, unjust, and discourteous!
Tormentingly-ah, but tormentingly, torturously, insincere!
Ah, Matilda! But soon as thou prayeth,
every single grace and loveliness thou shall delicately saith;
Thy voice is as delightful as nailed, or perhaps, cunningly deluded vice-
Which I hath always feigned to be refuting tomorrow,
but is only to bring me cleverer and cleverer sorrow
'Till hath I no power to defy its testy soul,
that for no reason is too shiny and bold,
but so dull, and bland as a hard-hearted summer glacier,
and too unyielding as hurtful, talloned wines.
Oh, but no appetite I hath, for any war
against him-for he is fair, and I am not,
He is worthier of thee, than my every word;
He who to thee is like a graceful poem,
he who is the only one to smirk at
and hush away thy daylight doom.
Matilda! For evermore thy heart is mine;
and mine only-though I canst love thee
only secretly, and admire thee from afar,
Still cannot I stand bashful, and motionless-too far,
For I wish to hath been born, for thy every sake
Though it shall put my sinless tongue at stake
And even my love is even gentler then blue snowflakes;
and more cordial than yon rapturous green lake.
Ah! Look! Upon the moors the grass is swirling,
so please go back now; and be greedy in thy running.
Still when no music is playing,
all is but too painful for thee,
which I liketh to neither witness, nor see,
for upon thee the moon of love might not be singing,
as it is upon all others a song,
But somehow to nature it not be wrong,
for he cannot still be thy charm, nor darling.
O-but I hate thinking of which affectionately,
when thou crieth and which sight, to my heart, is paining.
Ah, Matilda! For even to God thy love is but too pure;
for it is faultless as morns, and poisonless-
like those ever unborn thorns;
Of yon belated autumn melody,
But is, somehow, fraught and dejected
With sorrow, for it is him, that yesterday and now
Thou loveth softly and securely,
Two hours later and perhaps, in every minute of tomorrow.

Matilda! But still tell me, how can thou securely love a danger?
For I am sure he is but a danger to thee, indeed;
Once I witnessed how his face
grotesquely thrusted into furtive anger
As he burst into a dearth of strong holds,
of his burning temper-under the blooming red birch tree;
And as every eye canst see,
He is only soft, and perhaps meek-as a butterfly,
Whenever the world he eats and sleeps and feeds on in-
Tellest him not the least bit of a lie;
Ah, Matilda, canst I imagine thee being his not,
ah, for I shall be drowned in deflating worry, indeed-I shall be, I shall be!
I dread saying t'is to thee-but he, the heir of a ruthless kingdom,
and kingdom of our God not-within their lands and reigns of scrutiny,
His words are but a tragedy, and a pain thou ought not to bear;
O, Matilda, thou art but too holy and far too fair!
Thy soul is, so that thou knoweth, my very own violin-
To which I am keenly addicted;
I am besotted with thy red cheeks-;
As whose tunes-my violin's, are thy notes
as haunting and sunnily beautiful,
And cloudless like thy naivety,
Which stuns my whole nature,
and even the one of our very own Lord Almighty.
Ah, Matilda, even the heavens might just turn out
far too menial for thee;
and their decorum and sweet tantrums idle and unworthy;
Thou art far, far above those ladies in dense gowns,
With such terseness they shall storm away and leave him down.
But why-why still, he refuses to look at thee!
Ah, unthinking and unfeeling,
foolish and coquettish,
unwitted and full of deceit-is himself,
for loving should I be-if thy smile were what I wished,
and thy blisses and kisses were what I dreamed;
I wouldst be but warmer than him,
I wouldst be but indeed so sweet,
I wouldst be loftier than he may seem;
and but madden thee every sole day, with my gracious-
though sometimes ferocious-ah, by thy love, ever tender wit.

I hath so long crept on a broken wing,
And thro' endless cells of madness, haunts, and fear,
Just like thou hath-and as relentlessly, and lyrically, as we both hath.
But not until the shining daffodils die, and the silvery
rivers turn into gold-shall I twist my love,
and mold it into roughness-
undying, but enslaved roughness;
that thou dread, and neither I adore;
For for thee I shall remain,
and again and again stay to find
what meaningful love is-
Whilst I fight against the tremor
and menace this living love canst bring about-
To threaten my mask, and crush my deep ardor.
Ah, my mask that hath loved thee too long,
With a love so weak but at times so strong;
and witnessed thee I hath, hurt and pained
and faded and thawed by his nobility
But one of worldliness; and not godliness
For heavens yonder shall be ours, and forever
Shall bestow us our triumphs, though only far-in the hereafter;
Still I honour thee, for holding on with sincerity-
and loyalty, to such contempt too strong
For thou art as starry as forgiveness itself,
and thus is far from yon contempt-and its overbearing soul;
And perhaps friendly, too unkind not-
like its trepid blare of constant rejection, and mockery
And as I do, shall I always want thee to be with me;
For thou art the mere residue, and cordial waning age of the life that I hath left;
For thou art the only light I hath, and the innate mercy I shall ever desire to seek;
and perhaps have sought shall, within the blessed soul of my 'ture wife.
Oh, Matilda, thou art the dream t'at I, still, ought not to dream,
thou art the sweetness I ought' only charm, and keep;
As thou art the song, that I may not be right'd to sing;
but the lullaby; which in whose absence, I canst shall never sleep.
Angela Alegna May 2014
Everything I say gets turned against me
Even when I am naive, and weak
And have done everything to please,
It's somehow all for the wrong reasons,
The wrong people, the wrong time, the wrong seasons
Summer, I let him pursued me into bikini dipping,
27, middle aged man, his birthday it was and I had just celebrated 16 years
No harm, no wrong in swimming, bikini dipping with an audience,
Mommy please, yes I am naive but I have self dignity
Yes I do think, right from wrong, is sometimes a blur
But don't punish me
I am only naive
The Bible, he read to me, made me think he was a follower of Jesus
No harm, no wrong in Songs of Songs
Mommy please, yes I am naive but he spoke of the Lord and I was eager to let him preach
I am the target, when did I become the suspect?
Shelter me, protect me, all I ever did was to please
Self respect. Dignity. Self release.
My the Lord help me off my feet,
Past the world of naivety.
Jenn Dec 2018
You were my first boyfriend.
I was smitten over someone liking me.
I didn’t even care that I was your rebound.
You compared me to the blonde character in an anime because you wanted me to be perfect.
You treated me badly and broke up with me for other girls
who seemed better than I.
Then, you’d come back to me,
because no one but me had low enough self-esteem to date you.
Sure, they didn’t know the real you; like I did.
They knew the goofy nerd who was in the friendzone.
Finally, I left because I knew I deserved better.
You cried.
Lonesomeness,
is not fun after you’ve been next to someone after two years.
What could you do?
Pitiful, shameful, *** with your ex.
I always regretted it.
Whether it was right when you came over
or right after
or when you left.
One time you said that I “didn’t last long”
because when I regretted it halfway through I told you to stop.
A year goes by.
I pay a visit to your house.
I mostly miss your mom;
ya’ll were my second family.
I had nothing to do before making an hour drive to my niece’s for babysitting.
I dropped in.
I stopped by.
One of my biggest mistakes of my life on that February afternoon.
I watched TV with your mom.
You were sleeping.
She made food so I went to wake you.
We went downstairs and ate.
I asked if you wanted to come outside while I smoked.
You did.
I told you about someone I was seeing,
about how they enjoyed the way I gave head.
Big deal.
To you
because
you said that my head “*****”
I should “prove it” to you that I was good at it.
I refused because I don’t need to prove myself to anyone
especially you.    
Flash forward to your room.
Here’s the part where you can blame me if you’d like.
for going to your room.
How was I supposed to know what you wanted to take from me?
A friendly tickle fight turned into you on top of me.
Force kissing me.
I pushed you off.
Gravity was against me.
When you finally rose
I said “What the **** is wrong with you?”
Why were you doing this to me...?
Without skipping a beat.
I got my answer
that’d replay in my mind
forever.
“You can’t turn me on without turning me off.”
Shock.
Complete Shock.
You wanted my body
and according to you
I was only there for your pleasure.
That’s all I was.
An object for your enjoyment.
I immediately left your room.
You tried to stop me,
you tried to say sorry,
but the damage was done.
You marked yourself.
I had to pretend
in front of your mom
that nothing happened
until I left.
I cried many times that day.
Tears behind my eyes while watching TV right after with her
counting the minutes until I was supposed to leave.
Wailing on my way to my brother’s
Thoughts that it was my fault
that I caused it
while my niece slept peacefully.
And more tears when I told my mom
and even more when she told me to stay quiet
because your mom was already going through a lot.

I was objectified
disrespected
and silenced that day
in February before Valentine’s Day
2016.
Gangothrii Jul 2018
He struggles and ponders,
reads and re-reads,
My markers fail before his eyes,
his naivety takes over,
A fruit? he queries,
I burst out in laughter,
Can be, I agree, but I await for more,
he peruses and my ribs tickled,
amused and curious, I stayed,
at his innocence that shined.
A Mango! he exclaims!
No! I equally enthused

'A woman, a fruit,
delicious and mystical,
for a man who craves'.

'Oh'  the meek sigh, a tiny sound,
concurred or dissent, I know not,
In a flash came a verbal rebuff,
back to his annoying self.

He annoys and appeases,
A friend I have known for years,
Mine forever, I know for sure,
no matter what he says.
This is for my dearest friend, Andy, who just read my poem "Alluring..Her"  and thought it is about a fruit. I promised my next is on him, and I take those seriously (my promises, not him) :)
Aflaha Jan 2018
He was like the darkness where she could finally see everything clearly. With her mind completely free of doubt, her feet trusted her to walk with eyes closed. In that moment, she could feel the vastness of his being and the naivety of his love for her, like pearls delicately balanced on the wings of a butterfly. One flutter, they would shatter to the ground yet so perfectly beautiful in that moment, you wouldn't dare disturb it nor could you take your eyes off it
Adam Mott Dec 2013
Remember your neighbourhood in the late afternoon sun
Your body small, mind innocent
Every image a wonder, visages of beautiful naivety
The earth was a different place
All you owned were a box full of toys and a smile on your face
Love wasn't your hunt and conquest
Adventure could only quench that thirst
Wonderful, everything was
Freedom in childhood
https://www.facebook.com/consciencefalls?hc_location=timeline
For more!
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
I don't always feel you

nor do i care.

nor shall i fare

the weather of your temperament.

I am exempt of the pettiness, and of the nervous fetishes, in the indifference.

I try not to be presumptuous, in the perceived ignorance, of the plunderers of my wealth

but am more alive.

More willing to die.

More willing to try

anything but sigh

in feeling the mediocre hand of my health.

So high

doling out the breathless help, in the restless stealth, of bland demands, felt,  in the smoking stacks of hell.

I survive off the glean, provoking, glass from sand.

I act,  as though i give a ****.

Evoking ash from hands, in the defiance of no mans land.

Stamped

in the trampled giants of the black.

Sampled, the compliant hacks in backless, tackling of the stance.

Cackling

I cracked.

and cracked the cast, in blast powder, compounding the flames, of the flounder flamed, in profane name calling.

Never to dodge the calling ..

Feeling the falling of doubt.

In the Tao,  of mauling my malevolence.

Thought i bled it out, as the stalling turned to insulting rebukes, in the flukes,  of lands never lived, but shredded in repulsing lingo, with a flute, to do away with the kids, I mingle, in wait of the sedatives to kick in, than,

Bingo

Nail it to the cross, of the intended loss, singling and wringing them out.

Lost

amid, the somber slayings of bombers praying, for fire to rain from the sky.

Rid

of the calmer makings of alarming sayings, for desire to feign from the cry.

Denied.

The reciprocation of a social spy, trying his best to comply to the prize, and smile.

Its been awhile.

Been a while in exile of thine own heart.

Heart of gold in denial.

Denial of the trials where i shone the brightest, in the mightiest miles of defiled lights.

Lights igniting the nights, in my first rights of passage.

Passage granted in the damaged dues of diligence, where i pursued the villages of my virtue.

My virtues perused the innocence and matured.

Matured in the final words of old birds, dying with dimes, and bagged wine in hand.

Never to understand the last laughs from young chaps blowing off their stacks, just to collapse, in their own mess.

I confess to paying homage in the calmly delusions, of my intrusive self abuses, to the ruthless seduction of my bitterly bitten bruises of seclusion.

I try to loosen up a bit, but instead run this gambit of bankrupt belligerence and hope for the best.

******* in the blessed wishes of the test.

Tested in the vetted nutrients of an institutional bowel movement upon my chest.

My chest giving in to the stress.

I often wake in duress as tears flow through the forgotten, as i brush my teeth of the remembrance of dreams, and clean the dumb away.

Clothe my flesh, and put my gun away.

Locking the front door, I journey into my day.

Every day...

One day.

One day from the mundane

I wont strain to change it all.

I will make the call

but never answer.

Instilling the hollowed cancers

to end it all

I shall befall,  the null.

The No.

The land.

enhanced.

Seeing.

The unseeable.

In unbelievable hate.

Conceiving the inconceivable, and cleaning the slate of my faithful fate, in which i ditch the mares of my dared intention.

I concentrate on the beautiful view from the deliberate limitlessness of my vivid visions to another place, that closely resembles the one that i hate.

Consumed of blue suns, and water breathing.

I bloom

in anger activated guns, and painless beatings.

Marooned from afar

I dare to bare the battle scars of taking it too far, and fainting.

Tainting the waters of life with the ****** knife, of my,  positivity.

The imagery of my imagined city

ssscattered across the tattered remains of my naivety.

Sssteadily holding fast upon the mass of men, even though i readily hate them.

In a single flash of rash decision, i forget it all, and go to work ...

smirking in the murky fog, that marks the facade,  where i lurk in shirtless shirking from the cold.

The shaking of the folds, in time, in space, in the told, telemetry of the mold

I'm

emboldened

In the boots that birth, the same old, hold of the complaint.

Applying force in restraint

In pursuit

to unearth, and loot

the saint

in broken wings, and painted words

that twirl, in the spinning ink

on the brink, of the blur, that births,  this sleeping male

to a world, encroached, by mundane flames, poached, from the slain trail of the ordained, tales of Mikha'el.

As others entrails line, the pale comparisons, as mine, are shell shocked in monotony.

i signed with the autonomy, never talked, and marched blankly into the day.

Every day

but one day

to stray

from the mundane

and make it right.

I will get out of my head

and fly

in light.
zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

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OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
berry Sep 2013
when i was a little girl -
i believed my daddy was the smartest man in the world.
he knew everything. everything.
if i had a question, daddy had an answer, and a good one.
always.

his degree was in biology,
but he preached from a pulpit every sunday.
his friends, colleagues, congregation, all knew him as Pastor Brett.
to me he was just daddy -
and he was the smartest man in the world.

on days when i couldn't understand my own head,
(which were, and still are, very often)
and got frustrated with myself to the point of tears,
he would kiss my cheeks and promise me i wasn't stupid.
and coming from him, the smartest man i knew, that meant the world.

as years passed and i grew, my naivety remained with me,
and so i thought i was too smart to fall into life's traps.
i fell. i fell fast. i fell hard. i fell often. and i shattered.
each time, the smartest man in the world picked up my pieces
and reassured me i was still welcome in his home.

he never loved me any less, much to my bewilderment.
however, as my faults increased in frequency and severity,
he picked up my pieces now with weathered hands and weary eyes.
his smile was weaker, and a deep pain stirred in the chocolate irises behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

my deception morphed into vines that constricted and twisted and choked out the truth.
he poured out his love onto an underserving me, and said that God would still forgive.
but i, daughter of the smartest man in the world, am a fool.
and by my own two hands, i continued to sink.

he leaves me to pick up my own pieces now, not loving me any less,
but too weak, too exasperated, too heartbroken to do it himself as he always had.
he is done. he loves me and i know it. he shows it. but he is done.
my tears bore him. my half-true stories and pitiful excuses move in one ear and out the other.
he is stone-faced, no longer shocked by my confessions so i leave them unspoken.

his kisses, sear my flesh. his love burns because i know i don't deserve a single shred of it.
i wish he hated me. i wish we could fight. that would make things easier, right?
but he won't. he just won't. he loves me so much and i can't stand it.
but he is done. i broke my father, and his heart, for nothing.

he asked me why i do the things i do,
why i don't just stop it. why i keep on hurting him and my mother.
i didn't have an answer. all i had to offer the smartest man in the world,
was a dry mouth and empty hands.

m.f.
Ben Mar 2014
how foolishly we wasted those highschool nights with unspoken words and unbroken rules
pinning away for a once missed kiss on lips of best friends without a chance
how naive to think we'd have forever without a sunrise that the stars would never set on this dream
that smoke filled lungs would never burn and there would always be a better tomorrow
we wished to grow old not realizing that we'd want to grow young and never leave those carefree nights now found only in the whisper of the wind and the nostalgia in our hearts
when did I stop living in a dream
Nebuleiii Mar 2013
To my innocence, naivety, and viridity
Childish ways, high school days.
A mere three weeks, I say good bye
With a cry, a tear, a sigh.

To blue slacks, and a polo
Black shoes and white socks
To my pink skirt, and white blouse,
Pleated, soon to be folded.

To the OHS rooms of our first and second years:
The broken windows, and tantrum-kicked chairs,
The broom box behind the spider webbed chalkboard,
Messages on the wall hand printed in red and green.

The broken doorknobs, and broken floorboards,
Carved armchairs, and eaten chalks,
Missing brooms and dustpans and garbage cans and rugs
That show up in who knows where
Stolen by jani- we know who.

The witnesses and victims
To our random laughter (from some Chinese-looking girl’s corny joke).
Our random tears.
Our not so random learnings.
The pillars of our memories.

To the PF rooms of our third year:
The storage room turned gigantic garbage can and dressing room (maybe because ours keep being stolen)
The exploding socket causing sparks to fly (and us to fly away from it), and
The amazing “alambre” lock; who knows who installed (as if that could keep us away).
The earthquake resistant rooms would be missed.

To the New High School Building of our last years:
The kicked door (not our fault!), and cancerous blinds (like hairs falling after chemo),
The jigsaw floor (not sure if better than broken floorboards),
The “Halayan 2012”, and
The mind-boggling “no key needed” lockers.


The UTMT with its fair share of mango sentences,
The old guidance office now turned “tambayan”, and
The Computer lab with its fragile yellow chairs and bruised bums.

To Ibong Adarna plays, and the half cooked uncooked Teriyaki,
Generation X (and Generation NOW! and Generation Facebook),
Jai ** dances, and cheerleading,
Kalagon Kamo Namon,
And Mickey Mickey Mouse Kabit-bintana memories.

To the NikJep Tandem,
Kanlaon Boys Behind the Flowers,
D.H.A.I.N.G. (not sure if they remember this),
Fred vs Gino version
And DewBheRhieTart.

Keep the volcanoes of memories burning.

To blue paint, and blue shirts,
And Geometry teaching us
“There are a lot of solutions to a problem.
We just have to find one that suits us.”

To saying “***”,
And cooking imbutido.
And wearing (for some designing) reduced,
Reused, recycled clothing.
And dissecting.
And parrot-Filipino teachers (she gave me P30 for load though).

Keep the river of rumination flowing.

To being scared of one whole sheet of paper,
Two becoming one,
Party rocking to make up for the tears,
And knowing we should have won.

To the hand sanitizer girls,
The Cream-o-holics,
The Canterbury Crusaders,
The Valenciana eaters.

May our tree of friendship continue growing.

To our winnings!

The glow in the dark madness,
The Lakan at Mutya clutch-heart-moments,
The Sports Fest *******,
Basketball girls’ coronation!

To the fieldtrips and failed trips,
To air conditioned crammings,
And space and time bending
To comparing notes (and sometimes other things)
Copying notes, sometimes photocopying
(Not Xeroxing)
Sharing words, phrases, sentences
And giving pictures (via Bluetooth).

May you keep walking on the right direction,

To the expectations achived,
Broken, overtaken.
All the skepticism,
Constructive criticism.

All of it.

The in-your-face-we-did-it-baby-
We-are-awesome-you-can’t-bring-us-do­wn-
Coz-we-rise-back-up-attitude.

To Arielle
And Mhae

To Amica
Marie
Narzcisa
Cyan
Fred
Theo
Alvinson
Anthony
Faith
Karmil­la
Matt
Jeffson
Lourince

To Carolyn

To Makayla

To the thirty-five castaways in this room
The thirty-five castaways who struggled
The thirty-five castaways who persevered
The thirty-five castaways who fought, cried, made up, laughed, shared, gave, back-stabbed, and front-stabbed, celebrated, suffered, passed
Thirty-five
Thirty-five castaways who loved,
Thirty-five

Thirty-five castaways who made it, who did it.

To Nikki
Hazel
Alyssa
Gef
Veni
Alex
Jaykee
Bernard
Myra
Vince
Chanta­lle
Josen
Jerian
Shaira
J
Uriah
Ihra
Renz
Bless
Steffany
Angel
Fl­orey
Bernadine
Antonette
Rency
Owen
Majah
Gino
Marcelo
Ney
Keith
­Joselle
And Jessa,

We did it guys.
We really did.
TO MY CLASSMATES (IV-ILAWOD)
So many private jokes and inside thoughts. So many.
Elle Richard Sep 2019
love is not made of giving and taking in equal parts
it is not a favor for a favor
i owe you nothing

love is not a compromise reached after long deliberation
it is not hurting on Monday
and healing on Tuesday

love is not touching because you will leave if i do not
it is not feigning naivety
when you see me cry

love is not the untimely squandering of innocence
it is not the suffocating grip of guilt
it is not your unwelcome touch

love is not
jennifer Jun 2015
He came.
Wielding Neosporin. & hot chocolate, Housed in a thermos, safe
Temperature keeping of course.
Snacks too, always
Sweet.
Honeybuns maybe, or a cake, itself
Housed in plastic, the cellphane type.
Undoubtedly he had read
Somewhere that we
Love sweets, they help us
Thru the absence of what we really
Crave.
So here he came, in a
Glorious naivety, an
Ignorant hope.  He
Found me while I was distracted, busy
Inhaling summertime on a
Paper plate.
Bland burgers,  burnt hot dogs, Watered-down soda, and
Soggy chips, these the
Staples of a barbecue.
I don't know whether it's the
Charcoal or the
Vitamin D, but somehow that
Flimsy plate full of food is the best Thing you've
Ever had,
Delicious,  tasting of smiles and
Tan lines,
Green grass and flip-flops,
Fun and relaxation.
As I took it in, he
Approached,  sidekick in tow,
Of course, carrying a book,
That book, the one none of us
Wanted to see or touch, much less
Read.
I thought about running, knew I could.  But, my
Blissful escape on paper had been
Provided by the neighborhood
Church.  My
Mother had instilled enough
Manners in me to know that in
Exchange for this happy memory Inducing
Food, the
Least I could do was listen to his
Spiel.
I did listen, then I
Excused myself. He,
One more person
Met and forgotten in moments.
Except he came
Back
Again and again,
Praying and talking
With all of us,
Bringing with him snacks:
Honeybuns frosted with an icing that left the aftertaste of
Hope, hot chocolate  
Accessorized with
Faith marshmallows. Neosporin to Heal
Scars, result of
Needles and of memories.
He kept coming,
Wouldn't give up; probably he
Couldn't.
Kept trying ,
Trying to penetrate the
Fog, we've all aquire. Fog of
Protection,
Fabulous fog keeping everything at a
Distance, slightly
Blurry, too
Distorted to
Hurt.
To get thru that fog, to make it
Dissapate, would be nothing short of a
Miracle. One that he
Wouldn't be able to
Produce.
We'd all sit
Politely, listen to him,
Wishing we could
Hear him,
Knowing we
Couldn't.  Because he
Wasn't human to us.
Too perfect,  too saintly,  too
Godly.
Unreal.
The equivalent of the
Mall Santa:
Visible, touchable sure, but that didn't make him any more
Real.
Until that day,
That day we talked
Hair.  
1 self-deprecating joke & I learned he
Wanted better hair,  the
Patrick Dempsey kind,
Thick, flowing. His
Desire for that meant he was
Vain,
Insecure,
Human.
Human meant I
Heard, meant the
Fog was still there, but he was
In it,
With me,
Willing to wait for it lift.
He willing to wait, I willing to
Hear.
He came,
Wielding neosporin, hot chocolate,  
Honeybuns. And
Glorious naivety with a side of
Ignorant hope, the
Best kind of hope, really the
Only kind.
Naivety and hope. That
I inhaled, like
Summertime on a
Paper plate.

— The End —