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Amanda Kyara May 2014
I can never find the right words to describe how I feel,
the words never seem to make sense,

everything I say sounds like a contradiction,
but they say opposites attract

But when I'm around you,
all my feelings just go away,

and all the negatives become positive,
and it doesn't make sense at all
eli Aug 2014
ever since i was young,
my gaze was drawn skyward.
i could tell you the story of orion,
and how to brush bernice's hair,
before i could tell you that two plus two equals four.
i know more about our vast universe,
than i know about many of my friends.

if you are not well acquainted with a pisces,
let me give you a bit of an introduction:
we are compassionate, imaginative,
we adapt to whatever is thrown at us,
and my personal favourite,
we are unfalteringly loyal.

however...
we are full of self-hate,
prone to laziness,
we are escapists
and horrendously easy to manipulate.

i believe my horoscope today is complete *******.
i do not feel utterly lovely,
i know i will not score a date
because no one feels for me romantically.
i've nothing to flaunt.
the horoscopes are saccharine lies,
but, those traits? those are me.

my soul is ancient,
i feel the pain of struggles i have not faced,
or rather, have not YET faced;
i will split my soul in two
i will break my bones
i will give every drop of my blood
i will breathe my last breath
for those that i love.

i spent two years of my life giving my heart and soul to a sagittarius.
philosophical, adventurous.
i admired him so.
but his negatives--
inconsistent. overconfident.
careless.
he was a burning house.

my mother, also a pisces, when all was said and done,
told me to stay away from those sagittarius boys.
they're dangerous for wary, fretful fish like us,
who ask 'from what bridge?' when we are told to jump.
i am the textbook example of a pisces.
She introduced herself, as
Sunset.
Batted her lashes not to be flirtatious ,
But to hide that her eyes were wet.
All around me were blurred, but beautiful faces.
Yet, my eyes only focused on hers
The first that I noticed.

When I bought my first camera,
From that sales-man down in Alabama.
And he taught me how to use it,
He said, "see here son, if I was to take your picture I'd set this camera here on portrait.
But if I took a picture of that pretty little girl 'cross the road"
he said with a smirk
"I'd have to set this here camera on Firework"


It's funny how memories work.
I think of that man now, of his coffee colored skin and straw hat.
I never thought I'd need to know any of that.
but right here and now I set that camera to sunset.
raise it to my eye
And take a picture of
Sunset.
As if she were a colorful sky.
and that's it.
some people deserve more than a portrait.

And I know, I'm going to take her to a dark room.
And see what develops, of her negatives.
But first, I want to hear all about her crazy relatives.
Who gives her, her beauty?
where's she take her dog to groom?
The poodle on her leash is a cutie.
and what does she doodle on her notebooks?
stars or hearts or sugar skulls....
Does she know she's caught me on her fishin' hook?
What's she think of me, I'm sure I look dull.
Why are her teary eyes so full, About to overflow.
There were so many things I wanted to know....
before I took her to a dark room.
But it happened
And all I found in the picture that developed was gloom.
I realized I was her first.
And the best night of my life became my worst.
because I took something from her she didn't want to give.
But I just didn't know that she wouldn't want to live.
Keep reading, this ends beautifully.
beautifully like a sunset ends a day.
But, you have to believe me when I say that's not nearly as beautifully
As Sunset ends my hopes and dreams.
How she ended her own life
With pretty little pink pills.
One....Two....Three
gripped in her hand they found a picture of me.
And now I know, Sunsets are all about Beautiful Endings.
It's funny how memories work

© copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn
Melody Nov 2012
twelves tables run amok
and still we swore that silent oath.

the elders (wise, all-knowing)
eyed our childish glee, clasped hands

in wonder or perhaps resolute dignity
we traipsed down to the meat factory of old

eyes yearning to take in the negatives,
refracting the light of our shackles

and drones of silenced shrieks became
the purest tapestry of days forgotten

timeless still are the tables
offering these courses of carnivorous delight.
©MW
Quentin Briscoe Apr 2015
We are Hurt....
We are Fed Up....
We are proud...
We are Beautiful....
We are Not The Negatives...

We are Baltimore....

We matter....
Phoebe Seraphine Jan 2015
On Saturday,
I bloom with the moon.

Flowing through foreign flowers,
rose petals stain my *******.
My garden grows for three
or five days during its monthly mignonette.

The first day, a thorny presence
cuts my guts. Raspberries rupture
the ache in my bloated belly.
I eat bushels.
Sighing on my side,
I wait for the pain to cease.
Grateful these aren’t actual contractions.

The second day, it subsides.
My **** are ripe and I remember how heavy  
these *******
hang.

The third day, at work
I’m asked for a ******. Cheeks flush.
I say I’ve quit using. She wants answers.

My Moon Cup collects my blood with ease.
A furtive funnel, just for me.
This silicone gymnast is flexible,
naturally balancing between veiled crevices.

One size absorbs all.
No super or ultra variety,
no matter how often my hose leaks.
It contains no bleach.
No money is paid to male C.E.O.’s
who make money from what the female body can’t control.
These negatives are positive, I say.
Yet, she calls me absurd for touching myself so deeply.
Horrified by my own
intimacy.

Women’s woes muddle our brilliance.

They say it’s a curse by Creation,
using the sin from Adam’s rib as a hiding place.
It’s true
of its inconvenience and forty-year pit of pain,
but I’m done.
Exasperated too long!
Embarrassed or ******* too often!
Ill-prepared too too too many times!

I’m kinder to my body. I praise each month of normalcy.
No Midol involved. No bulky cotton wads
that make me feel like I’m a toddler.
No dismal thoughts. I accept my fate.
My cramps ease, days decrease.
I go with the flow, instead of crawling inside.

The fourth day, I’m done.
My bags are packed until next time.
And there’s always a next time.

Until there isn’t.
jennifer wayland May 2014
step number one: read the book wintergirls.
tuck away every detail like you're cramming for a test.
dog-ear the pages and carry it with you like a travel guide.
decide that with your fingers and toes always icy cold for as long as you can remember,
you were destined to be a wintergirl.
reread it periodically, for inspirational purposes.

step two: download the myfitnesspal app.
use it to track every calorie you put into your body.
memorize that an oreo has seventy calories, an apple has one hundred, a cup of hot chocolate has eighty,
a bagel has two hundred seventy (a number that terrifies you),
and on and on and on.
let numbers float behind your eyes just before you go to bed,
and let them stay there as you throw off the covers to do guilty pushups and situps in your room
for twenty minutes (burning one hundred and twenty calories).
ignore the warnings shouted at you in red text
when you eat less than twelve hundred calories per day.
look at the projections it gives you for five weeks from now
with weights that seem both too small and too large at the same time.
when your net for the day hits the negatives after weeks of trying,
feel the slightest pang of satisfaction.

step three: find your "thinspiration".
make a tumblr just to look at pictures of jutting-out spines and thigh gaps and ribs.
hold your phone up next to your reflection in the mirror
and pick out everywhere your body differs from hers.
when the girls on the fitness blogs start looking too heavy for your goal,
find the eating-disorder blogs.
obsess over their bodies almost as much as you obsess over yours,
but not quite as much.

step four: begin losing weight.
imagine yourself floating away, feather-light.
imagine yourself becoming skin and bones.
imagine this as you drag your heavy body from class to class,
as your muscles waste from malnutrition.
imagine this as you have to clean your hairbrush out
three times while you work tangles from your hair.
imagine this as you snap at anyone and everyone,
as you spend hours locked in your room.

step five: become a poet and write about yourself.
romanticize your own demons, just by calling them demons.
use as many metaphors as you can,
to avoid the harsh language of the truth.
and especially avoid writing about the crippling guilt
that hits you when you eat too much,
you're fat you're worthless you'll never be anything,
and hits you when you don't eat enough,
what's wrong with you how did you let it get to this point
voices in your head never abating.
avoid writing about your lack of motivation and constant exhaustion and always,
always, use words that imply mystery.
describe your mind as foggy, call your body diminishing.
never say it how it is, because you could convince yourself to quit.
never say that it's torture and you're in pain
and you just wish you were eight again, never considering this path.
never say that you need help but you don't want help.

if you have the urge to say these things,
say only that this disorder is not one you would willingly give up,
because you finally have something to control.
because it is the truth,
but it is also the romanticized truth.
trigger warning, obviously. this just came out of nowhere the other day. apologies for how harsh/offensive it may be.
Pierson Pflieger Apr 2012
A bright light annoys my eyes.    I can’t get away from it- I don’t like it.  
Tired and overwhelmed with obligations and requirements,
I’d rather not complete or even think of-
I’d rather they did not exist.  

What do they prove?  

I am comfortable and lazy.  
I would like to sleep, but the smallest agitations are an unbearable annoyance.  
Obnoxious voices speaking a tongue I don’t know, laughing at my condition-
I’d rather be asleep-
quiet and asleep.  

I want a cigarette.  I hate cigarettes.  
I don’t hate cigarettes; I rather like them, especially with coffee,
but I hate how they manipulate me.  
I want one, but I’d rather sleep.  
I wish I could smoke in bed.  
I should have showered before bed.

Self-confidence comes and goes.  
Sometimes I don’t care what people think; other times it’s all I think about.  
It’s judgmental; it’s worry of acceptance, worry of not belonging, worry of standing out.  
People- including me- want to be individuals, but are not brave enough.  
Society does not accept true individuals, it kills them.  
How can I be unique or allow true self to be and true identity to exist when there is fear?

When I see her, I wonder what might have been.  
There was a connection, or maybe just an attraction.  
We lead different lives.  
She is pure and good in the church sense; I am pure and good in my own way.  
But, these two lifestyles could never intertwine.  
I must admire what she is from a far.  
I should not dwell on it too much because it is unfair to the present.  
We always want to know.  
We want to know the future, but I will get there at my own pace.

Lying in bed, I don’t remember most days.  
I only remember lying in bed the prior night, trying to remember the previous day.  
Sometimes I hate my body- not enough muscle, skinny legs, blah hair.  
Against society's standards I am mediocre.  
They know what a man should look like; I am not him.  
We are all not the portrayed he or she.  
Those people only exist on screens.  

This is the last place I want to be.  
Stuck in a class I couldn’t give a **** about,
listening to a Professor I can’t understand drone on and on in his sing-song,
marbled-mouth accent.  
Occasionally trying my patience with a drawn out, “You noh wah I main?”  
No.
I don’t know what you mean.  
I can’t understand what’s coming out of your mouth.

Apparently, the only way to be a good teacher is to jump through hoops and
dance for the cloudy heads of a department.  
If I play their games, I will have blisters on my lips from having to kiss too much ***.  
I do not need to be validated, approved, passed, accepted, or liked by them to be a good teacher.  
I know I will be a good teacher- they have no influence on that.  
They only have the ability to stall me and help steal my money.

The worst is when the pain sinks into your eyes, dull and deep.  
The pressure tunnels around your temples and tries to bore a whole through your forehead.  
Six Advil cover up the pain- only for an hour.  
Everything within your skull pushes out like a balloon on the brink of bursting.

The worst is the restless anxiety experienced lying in bed right before sleep.  
It is the empty churning of stomach, half shots of adrenaline that tickle your veins,
while the mind races like prey trying to evade predatory jaws.  
Your heart flits, skips, and stops,
as your mind obsesses about the seemingly infinite list of things you have to get done.  
That only adds to the stress- since you’re not sleeping, something could be accomplished.  
The worry heightens, the obsession increases until- sleep.

An instant of eye contact can be rare and intriguing.  
Instants too small to have time, can convey so much.  
Eye line meets eyes, eyes lock- message of vast information conveyed.  
A minute moment, an insignificant second, so monumental.  
This blip exchange ignites an internal fire of emotion or ruins your day.  
The messages that can be exchanged in the smallest,
feasible time frame are vastly unique to each experience.  
Polar and extreme: Love me - I nothing you.  
Eye contact conveys an incredible amount of information, but perhaps to be keen to it-
is to be vulnerable.  

What if it were acceptable to give into every desire or want?  
What would the world be?  
Would it be that much different or would the internal, human morale still enforce invisible boundaries?  
What would we do?  
Would the private become public?  
Would others see our lowest animal drive?  
Humans are the only being capable of acting above or below their nature.  
Rough.
Raw.  
Human animals.

It is ironic when something is built up to high expectations, but turns out anticlimactic.  
Was that it?  
That is what we waited for?  
When something does not meet expectations, it creates hollowness, an emptiness, or unfilled hole.
  
What do you do?  
What can you do?  
You can learn from it or you can let it bring you down.  
It is better to look for the positives
than dwell on and become disheartened by the negatives.  
Learn and Grow.

I am a poor student.  
I have been loaned money I will never be able to pay back.  
I am paying for a degree, to get a job that will never return the favor.  
I am strangling myself financially for a “higher education”, but am I getting it?  
Perhaps it is not the institution’s fault; perhaps, it’s my own?  

so much depends
upon

a green dollar
bill

glazed with American
greed

beside the fabricated
dream

I am poor and will be poor, but I will be happy.  
Everything costs.  Everything has a price.  Life is expensive.  
How can I save?  What can I afford to put away?  
When forty dollars in your bank account is a pleasant surprise-
surprises are cheap.
This is a piece I wrote for a class while in school.  The goal of the assignment was to capture "agitated consciousness" (write the moment you wake up, experience high or low emotions, right before falling asleep).  First thought, best thought.  I recently found this and have only made minor changes.  It is not my favorite piece I have ever written, but there are moments I enjoy.  If you have never tried to write like this, I would encourage it.  It's challenging, fun, frustrating, and revealing.  Thanks for reading.
Nina O'Donovan Apr 2016
Here she is with soulful eyes telling me
I'm ancient, I'm precious, but she's wrong;
I'm pale, sickly lithium
and she's gold, she's the sweat of the sun.
It turns out every word I think I have
is foreign to her. Hammered out,
inscribed with triple negatives. Each
leaves its meaning to be moulded.

It's not a way to be forgotten;
always thought freckles would be red, a spark
not soot, not post holes on a new land.
A discovery, not something
I'd feel so wrong for noticing.
There was no red in her. I'd stripped it out
like thread through teeth, solid ache;
not like how you’d expect.

I am not careful, while she pretends
not to need any care. Until now,
never exposed to each other;
we’re left with this red in our hands, too
mudded like closing eyes to the sun.
Seeing ourselves stretched thin,
buried bronze in the river, an offer to what?
To make it hold deeper, the very start of us.
BlueAliceOasis May 2015
Pain, pain.
Shame, shame.
Why can't we all be friends?
Sorrow, sorrow.
Fear, fear.
Why am I so afraid?
A people hating its own
So much hate, pain, fear.
Why?
Why can't we just be at peace?
You can never truly win.
Your negatives will always outweigh
The positives.
True happiness is nonexistent.
Why? Why?
Why can't  we reason together?
Sit and drink tea together?
Why all the schisms and hypocrisy
And hatred? Bias?
Why am I here?
What is my purpose?
What is my existence?
Do I mean anything to anyone?
What?
Why?
Wolf Irwin Jul 2014
Pray for the strength to be positive through the negatives,
If you want to catch a break well first something has to give,
So give your heart and mind to everything you do,
As souls we perform wonders I just wish we only knew,
Unknowing is true wisdom accepting what we can't grasp,
It's ok we have today and it could be our last,
In a way it is because it will never come again,
And all the before and afters are really just pretend,
This moment is peaceful if you recognize it as such,
Life is a blank canvas and you hold the paint brush,
Attachment is derailment for the peaceful train of thought,
If you always want more you'll never be happy with what you've got,
Loving what you have gives you everything you need,
I am as I am this is the true meaning of to be.
alice Jun 2014
I'll never forget
my first one.

The tree was
aglow;
branches
blazing
with enormous,
yellow and orange,
halcyon sunflowers.

A glorious heat
pulsated
up my back,
their magnificence
radiating
through all
my senses.

My eyes:
wide,
taking-in
every iota
of this visual
majesty.

Transfixed,
in a state of
awe,
my photographic
memory
came into
play.
Snapshots
of
those giant suns
forever imprinted;
negatives pressed,
into my mind.

A night to remember;
when halcyon sunflowers
danced
on the limbs
of trees and
the branches
of my mind.
Many thanks to the sacred mushroom. Inspired by my very first experience with magic mushrooms - June 2005 **
simone May 2016
i am forever trapped in a never ending cycle of complete density
i can no longer fit into one of these tiny boxes
and i am on the verge of either
panic
or
empathy

i am tired of the opposite ***
not the literal opposite ***
but the phrase in itself
the opposite
the thought of an "opposing team"

i see hospital beds but the walls are like mine
i see whispering rain showers and the
pursuit of comfort
then it all comes crashing down by the sun
by the heat and the melting of it all

these fears are generic
these feelings are currents washing over me
and though i do not know the cause
i do know the cure
or do i?

the sweetest sound is my own voice not trembling with anger
it is impossible to never not feel as though i need to yell at the top of my lungs
double negatives are something ive become good at
because i am not only negative
but that times two

im tired of people being loud
and the girls who
want me to yield
and the boys who
can but won't

im not your puppet
and im not your friend
i can't wait until you take your head out of the sand and realize
the world is meaningless when you're mean
i can see the venom dripping from your pretty teeth


it's okay to be jealous
just don't let it consume you
KKM May 2014
We are born free people, yet there are always restrictions.
We choose if we want to break them, whether with facts or through fiction.
Whether on walls using diction,
Or any crawl through confliction.
And no amount of chains and barriers
Will restrain us, no contradiction.
We understand we’re not on ice,
That there’s always going to be friction.
As expressers, fighters, artists, world changers
It comes from an Italian word, meaning scratch.
Look at it again and a whole new world
Has hatched.
The term graffiti, referred to the inscriptions, figure drawings, and such, found on the walls of ancient graves or ruins, as in the Catacombs of Rome or at Pompeii. Use of the word has evolved to include any graphics applied to surfaces in a manner that constitutes vandalism.
75% of people think its vandalism.
Toronto spends one million a year on graffiti removal.
When artists get back in the game, they haven’t given their approval.
Why don’t you use that money to feed the thousands of poor in society?
Instead of worrying about the art that the citizens need to see.

I never got A’s in elementary school art.
Getting marked on art still sounds like you need to be smart.
But graffiti doesn’t have to mean anything,
Not every letter is a symbol.
There are complications too but it can also be simple.
Almost every kind that I saw on the streets
Took a soft place in my heart, eventually turned concrete.
Let me reel back to grade 10 when I actually took art courses
In the media arts classroom I was taught people as my sources
Banksy, JR, Sofles, Katsu, Kidult, Shepard Fairey.
After my first graffiti assignment I understood clearly
What would happen if you brought a spray paint can near me.
The reason for graffiti is a simple one,
Not always about rebelling, or having fun.
Every artist craves to paint in his or her own way.
And all of us have messages that need to be portrayed.
Like, I was here, I’m alive, let me leave my mark.
This city is mine too, and I want to give it my spark
I belong, I have a voice, and I crave to make a change
These walls are too voiceless when it comes to the speaking range
My love for social justice brings in political ties
Through graffiti one can tell what country thrives with lies
It gives any surface a story, makes it come alive.
Change the system if you strive, until justice is revived.
To try to help the oppressed,
The shapes and lines were mine,
But they’re the ones on the line,
And to sit and do nothing would be an even bigger crime.
I even changed my initials to KKB
The B is for Banksy, its everywhere you see me.
My email has a Banksy, my Twitter did too.
Graffiti is my life, though you already knew.
Humanity is lost within the walls that we made
Graffiti brought it back to me,
And like the ocean did I wade.
Inside the political aspect that structures our brains
And the society that gives us money to drain
All the false information and the things we don’t need
Gives me hope to find these messages written on the streets
Sometimes freedom of speech isn’t so free at all.
But if Facebook deletes posts, documentaries have biased calls,
There’s another way of speaking, even if we fall,
I love how it’s not typical; no tag is the same.
Its breathing life on the walls, not stuck in a frame.
It stands out.
Stands outside of a museum where you always have to pay.
To see something that may or may not catch your attention right away.
That makes your head sway,
Give you some kind of reaction, moves you to action.
Not something you have to think hard about,
There’s little analysis needed, a splash merrily seeded.
Its urgent, its in the moment, for realization.
Once the message has been received, it’s an artist’s confirmation.
I integrated graffiti as a part of my every day life, including school
Drew it in math projects, French presentations, writer’s craft essays, it was my arts night welcome sign tool.
I will carry this with me through university
And it’ll take me further in the arts industry.
When you walk by graffiti in the street, do you ever take the time to notice it? Like, really notice it? Do you ever think about the person behind the spray paint can? Writers are not only being underappreciated for their talents, but they’re being harassed, looked down on, all for no reason. Do you know any of their stories? Do you know what thoughts and feelings sprayed out of the can when the paint hit the wall? Do you ever think about the history behind the art? To breakdown the styles of graffiti, here’s a simple introduction. There are tags, the simplest forms of graffiti. A signature. There are stencils. There are stickers, also known as slaps. Wildstyles are also used, and they’re more intricate, more colourful, and harder to read. It’s a particular style of writing developed in New York City. A piece is one that takes time an effort, and requires more than three colours. A blockbuster is used to cover the most space in the least amount of time. And a heaven is a piece that’s put in a hard to reach area, like the tops of tall buildings or on freeway signs. There’s the style bubble, old school, brush, abstract, bombings, whole car, ignorant, landscape, realistic, billboard, cartoon and sharp as well.
A sense of tranquility seeps into my veins every time my marker hits the paper, full of energy, full of hope. Starting graffiti was a way to combine my passion for speaking out against oppression and my love for the arts. Even though my work is not displayed on the streets, it has the same style, and it may not have the same effect but it counts as an escape for me. It doesn’t make me a graffiti artist, and some would even argue that doing canvas work kills the purpose of graffiti but I always want my work to make an impact on people no matter which way I do it. It’s something I love to do, and anyone can take that any way they desire. There are stereotypes that I’ve had to battle, but in the end, I know my true intentions. I don’t need to make a name for myself. I don’t need to create a reputation for myself either. True, this is not real graffiti, but that’s as far as I choose to take my fascination. I do it because of the escape it provides for me, the sense of freedom, and the sense of power in my markers.
These are the little movements of writers, all of us trying to get at revolution. Art is not supposed to be limited in frames. That’s why to me, the streets are some of the biggest forms of freedom – do as much as you like, however you like, all free. The poor and rich all have to see it. No one can avoid the message. It is not only artistic expression; it’s a protest. A scream of anger and emotion aimed towards public spaces. Graffiti artists did not start the war, they just respond to defend our vision of what graffiti and society should be: free. A battle against commercialism and a way of saying ‘no’ to materialism and society’s over consumption.  To the government, you are not the only ones who own these cities. What about the rest of us that do not exist until we leave a mark of our own? This is a game of action and reaction, if you will.
Taking care of our society is our obligation. That means changing anything harmful to us with every mean possible. Graffiti seems to offend a majority of society but if we took the time to appreciate and understand, a lot of good can be done if we turned the negatives into positives. So if we aimed for change and acted on it, especially with art, we’d be much less stressed. More often, we’d just remember, to stay blessed.
an assignment for a writers class. i made a video, but this is the word version (:
Higgs Oct 2012
A pair of English teachers.
They work in local schools,
Both sticklers for grammar,
They're strict about its rules.

But when the day is over,
And marking has been done,
They behave a different way,
And start to have some fun.

He says things that he shouldn't,
A big turn on for her,
He shouts out double negatives,
Says "was" instead of "were".

He splits all his infinitives,
His pronouns are not right,
He knows that he'll be punished,
They do this every night.

She beckons him to come to her,
He bends across her lap,
She tells him he's been naughty,
And gives his **** a slap.
Kyle John Somer Oct 2012
We are all so very fragile.
Our sun kissed porcelain faces
are freckled with Achilles heel fault lines and chipped paint.
Shining through to our nervous nervous system and our tendency to over think things.
We hide so much inside of us.
Behind dance less masquerades
Our bodies held together only by cages of ivory bones
cages that cradle the thin winged heart beats of our chest
nervous moths stumbling around inside
knocking books off of shelves and
eating the sweaters that we use to keep our hearts from freezing over.

The autumn wind is cold like sad glaciers
and it's easy to break down at times like these.
Our bones ache and shriek like boiling tea kettles.
Making it hard not to shatter.

We are all so fragile.
Burnt out light bulb fragile.
Frozen lake fragile.
Defibrillated heartbeat fragile.
We are broken branch fragile
chronic alcoholics sobriety fragile.
The middles school girls reaction to the word “fat” fragile
We are the kind of fragile that set off big bangs.
We are, paranoid breakable.
And its got to the point where
we have begun taping up our light leak vulnerabilities
with perceptions of perfection and thoughts of rejection
spending our time in dark rooms as our minds just keep reeling
and trying to shut off feelings and unwind
but we have been over exposed to such ****.
To slides and slides of negative negatives

we used to burst apart with so much light.

but the sun isn't shining honest, the night sky is black
and its raining in all the wrong ways.
We're out of season.
sewing up the holes in our personality
with floods of insecurities and droughts of identity.
damning what matters.

****, its hard to know what matters.

But I am still trying to figure that one out
And the moths are still here
as the pendulum clocks keep ticking
eating the sweaters that we used
to keep our hearts from freezing over.

But we are freezing to the core.
The atoms inside of us splinting into half lives;
we haven't even lived half of our lives
yet we feel so ancient.
The dust piles growing on our slanted bookshelves shoulders
Our bright idea light bulbs flickering,
getting covered up by snowdrifts.

We are gas giants wrapping ourselves into open space darkness
hiding from the bright side of the moon.
Like a black cat superstition we are running from our own precondition
of lying about being ourselves
We pull dark black-hole hoods over our eyes
wincing at the light trails of shooting stars
though we, too, want to be brilliant.
We try to orbit the sun hoping that humanity is a symphony;
that being popular and having the most friends is what matters.
and we can be where the grass is always greener by fitting in and by being mirrors
Even though not being yourself is nauseating.

We can be nauseating, we can be mirrors.

Because we are scared that if we don't
hide who we really are
we may end up like Pluto.
Ostracized for existing.
floating around in space having stare downs with wormholes
A shivering rock entity with a complete loss of identity.

We already are so lost.
Our souls waning and waxing
Rocking back and forth
on wood beams and porches.
like an ADD moonbeam rocking chair.

But now its time to stop in one place and readjust our backbones.

Because I know that we are fragile, I know that.
I know that its hard filling in the cracks that have found their way down our back-stabbed spines
we all have our histories with being dropped and rejected.
But we weren't made to be cardboard box people,
packing tape and labels wrapped in all of the wrong places.
we are boxes full of wormholes into other dimensions
we are full of life and blood and bones,
full of oceans and stardust and daggers
There is so much more to us than our brown paper complexions.
So climb out of those kangaroo pouch caves that you have called home for the last few years
There's no need hiding anymore.
You can be safe in your own skin.
You can climb the Himalayas and scream out as many lightning rods as you want
we will all be listening as you burst apart into thunder claps.
As you bleed yourself into infinity

So, dim the lights

Throw your self at the world
and crash like waves into existence
you are perfect when you are yourself.
Grab that porcelain off of your face
and let your smile super nova fracture into a cosmic grin of constellations.

People will look up to you and be inspired.
A cardboard box rookie sprawled out in the stars.
Lighting up all of our faces with E.T. fingertips.
No longer hiding being reflective eclipses
There's only one person who can tell you who you are.
Only you can speak for yourself.

I know that your fragile
I know that.

We all are..,
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
life more abundant calls forth an expandable reality primo,
thus wisdom, the principal thing when-ce all other
things may be made

machine level codifiers ifying
meaning back into idle words.

Keep the secret. Answer the call,
who will help the widow's son?

You, Templar, what message bear ye to my child?,
asked the widow.
Fi-del-e-tus. with a squeeze and a tap,
wink and grin

Poet, who named the prophet?
who named the teller to tales?
who gave thee hearing ear and seeing eye?

Some mind imagined those as yet unformed in forever past.
You agree. You experienced living, so far.

So good, we move on, figurative re re re al-it if-ity
Haps apt to appear be fore your veri variety of being even
hapt as a thing thought, imagined made for a function, as yet

undone. Conserve the NULL set, that whole idea is dangerously
close to fading…

Have you seen those videos of soap bubbles filled with H
and no O?
You should see those, to recall the phenomenonal pre-dictatorial
image, see the bubble, invisible but
for reflection of ambient ambits in our epigenetic radiosphere,

bubbles collapse, and for a flash, flame orange shaped
as the bubble was.
No ex-plo sion it-a-tivity, mere dis cipation,
loss of grip on the shape of things that were, now
con forms to re per ceive,

try again, get a good grip, swing and a miss, go again
take a Mulligan, I think, some game has such a rule,

We can use it here. We can scroll back up,
like a rope lift on the bunny hill at Big Bear, back when…

wheels in wheels, bubbles in bubbles, forms in forms

this is the information age I was informed. Adamkind, those
qubitical, ambitical little images of

Who, who? would a name comfort-you worth more than a breath?
Fresh air after a minuted moment twixt out and in again,

Power, create ific power haps twixt out an in again,
the cipitation, the d was missed, what if it were not?

re-read, religion once meant that, re-connect, too,
religion meant that state of having re-read the map,
re-tied the worth carrying,
stacked the worthless by the trail so
some hapless stranger may see
the treasure it was and is, to any who care to

receive, or con ceive it for the
truth I found in it and kept, which I leave to you
here:
Both treasure and truth are where ye find them,
and shall be for ever, when ever starts for you.

Ezekial, judge my riddle, please. The fool missed the
point of conception…
No, no no no

A fool's dance in a Phrygian cap with useless, symbolic wings…
gee, Phrygian, means nothing to you? Google it, you live in the future.
Later,
A time upon which a Mercury dime would comfort
a rich American Tyrant, son of the Flim-flam man,
no lie, this is mythic, you can't make this stuff up
its history. Hysterical, right
John D. Standard-for-Petropower-manifestation,
the dead's carbon footprints bubbling up
to fire and fridgin' ice, whoa, who broke the world,

I was distracted. Did you know the planet is
as self healing as those scabs on my grandkids knees?

ah, caper, eh? Capere, to grasp, to take,
ceive means accept by taking,
be liefing an idea ceived ex nihilo, is likened unto

Drinking from a still pond in a distant land. Sults,
results. may result in,
Dear Rhea revenging Montezuma, at a gut level.

However, a sort of how in an open mind facing forever,
a sort of omni-directional saliency
seeing further,
--Bomb, Jesus-bomb--

At least two reasons for thinking Jesus is objective, out side
you or inside you. You aren't Jesus. Jesus is a friend of mine,
in my mind, object-if-I-try
to pray, listen pray hopes
happen
shapes form
forever from ever point, every point, not of, in buy

a why..
why does a y on the end of every mean any thing?

That's the y-factor. You will learn why wise men still seek those.
As treasure, they are light, and the taste is beyond

the grasp of tongue to tell

that whole class of moded-ever words weave wards
whenever, forever, however, whatever
used proper, everafter,
that will save Dresden, some time, we think.

However, now, Rhea by name has entered the game.

Who is this named femofame? What game is she good in?
Or does she just knock the **** out of lying spirits?
Cool.

Ah, mother of all the gods, I recall, I mean
I meant to say
I remember, then I for got the power words hold here
exactly heare in eleven metrixed mentions,

this point, in time, not of time.
In the world, not of the world, you've heard the pharse?
The allusion is not lost on you, you know the phrase,

In the world, not of the world, holier men than I have
claimed to be, while I follow a few fine words,
linguistic kief, sprinkled fairy dust, like the stuff
captured in the gleaming film on your
microscopic-outer eye

see a salient point in time.

A pin point 'pon which one,
no more,
one story begins for ever, a gain in good net
value, if

we have tasted that word, chewed the gristle,
indigestible ligaments and sin-yews and such,
which once anchored meat to bone,

value is first good. Good e nough, nough
Gut genug, okeh,
maybe not my best, my best is yet to come, they say.

sufficient for today
------

enough (adj.)
c. 1300, from Old English genog "sufficient in quantity or number,"
from Proto-Germanic compound *ganog "sufficient"
(source also of Old Saxon ginog,
Old Frisian enoch, Dutch genoeg,
Old High German ginuog, German genug,
Old Norse gnogr, Gothic ganohs).
First element is Old English ge- "with, together"
(also a participial, collective, intensive, or perfective prefix),
making this word the most prominent surviving example
of the Old English prefix,
the equivalent of Latin com- and Modern German ge- 
(from PIE *kom- "beside, near, by, with;" see com-).
Second element is from PIE *nok-, from root *nek- (2)
"to reach, attain"
(source also of Sanskrit asnoti "to reach,"
Hittite ninikzi "lifts, raises,"
Lithuanian nešti "to bear, carry," Latin nancisci "to obtain").

As an adverb, "sufficiently for the purpose,"
in Old English; meaning
"moderately, fairly, tolerably" (good enough) was in Middle English. Understated sense, as in have had enough "have had too much" was in Old English (which relied heavily on double negatives and understatement).

As a noun in Old English,
"a quantity or number sufficient for the purpose." As an interjection, "that is enough," from c. 1600. Colloquial 'nough said is attested from 1839.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/enough#etymonlinev8703>
Godliness with contentment is great gain, a precept I was chewing on following a ritual holy day of gratitude to goodness for goodness sake in my cultural gut genug state of mind.
Brent Aug 2016
P's
a fair warning for you
if you are planning to
to fall in love with me
you fall in love with P's

if you fall in love with me
you fall in love with a pessimist
who believes that every single thing will fall apart
every bad thing is bound to happen
so please i ask
help me find the positives
in a world
where negatives are all i see

if you fall in love with me
you fall in love with a paranoid
who breaks almost every night
thinking about how wrong i could be
every choice
every decision
will be the worst one
so please i ask
to accept me
and convince me
that the world is not yet over.

if you fall in love with me
you fall in love with a p-ssy.
a coward
who's afraid to make the first move
who's ashamed to fail.
so please i ask
to wait for me
to be able to overcome my fears.

and lastly,
if you fall in love with me
you fall in love with a poet.
a writer
who's prepared to write everything
and anything
because sadly, that's all i'm good at.
so please i ask
to accept my love
in the form of words
and i will change myself.
i love you so ******* much yet i think you don't feel the same. at least, anymore.
Effy Royle Nov 2015
Aries-
oh what have you done to deserve this?
so much hate in your heart for yourself
yet you were living a lie
I hope you're happy now

Taurus-
sweet child, what a pity that people can't help
but leave you
how many tears did you shed when he said
he didn't love you back?
I hope you find peace within yourself

Gemini-
I'm sorry he doesn't see you're the one
you're both stuck in this never ending
paradox where no one wins
don't change yourself just to please
the unpleasable
I hope you're whole again one day

Cancer-
you poor, tired soul. take a seat and look in the mirror for a change.
you are nothing if not beautiful.
please be kind to yourself
I hope you find happiness one day

Leo-
oh what a warrior you are. wartorn land and heart.
you're much more than your mistakes.
take a look at everyone around you.
I hope you realize you're not alone

Virgo-
my honey bear, my sweetie pie
your hands still shake when they call your name.
stop pretending you're okay.
there's nothing to be afraid of
I hope one day you find clarity

Libra-
you beautiful creature, how many times has someone failed to compliment you?
that number is in the negatives now and you're still on your high horse
get off for a second and ground yourself. it's only a matter of time.
I hope you forgive and forget

Scorpio-
my light, my dark, my everything in between
stop and smell the roses
can't you hear them singing for you?
your eyes always did make my heart stop
I hope you forget why you're hurting

Sagittarius-
baby bear cub, you sweet little thing
how many days have you been at sea? enough to not love them back
just remember where you came from
I hope your dreams come true

Capricorn-
my one true love affair, you're mighty small for someone who loves to talk
your nose freckles never seemed so prominent
I love your laugh, I love your cry
I hope you realize what you've done to me

Aquarius-
my life and my wannabe lover, you're drowning in regret
I can smell the whiskey on your breath
yet you're too drunk to see straight
I hope you remember who you are

Pisces-
my soulmate and best friend
I know you're still hurting
but open up for a change and let them know the real you
you can't sweep it under the rug forever
I hope you can be yourself
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
it's the 50th anniversary edition of william burrough's naked lunch, with the original cover, looking at all the annexes is like watching modern history with Russian annexing Crimea, anyway...

indeed the nature of addiction, i chose mine to
cure my insomnia - i *chose
mine -
the less nasty less mythical name for it is indeed
metabolism - any hard-craft alcoholic walks into
a bar - drunk ******* and egoistically gluttonous
idiots come out like giraffes - vomiting into
the gutters, more Marilyn Monroe moments
showing off knickers even without the metro gust -
you drink enough and watch people drinking
for the psychoactive ingredient for dis-inhibiting
effects (buttered up talk, smooth there, quasi
Don Juan wannabes) - as Burroughs said: PLAN
YOUR ADDICTION - become addicted if some other
weakness is beating you - amtitriptyline doesn't
work without alcohol to what's desired as the lullaby
effect prior to K.O. - don't measure up to a veteran,
he'll beat you with experience, given it works -
i can imagine why hallucinogenics aren't metabolically
affecting - too much implants concerning the
world beyond, and god, and the secret of the universe -
you can't get addicted to these things - because there's
the bad trip, and you're off the hook - no more spiritual
trips looking for answers - repetition of the everyday
kills it off like flicking off a light switch - but, years
after the Beat movement, the Beats really did underestimate
the addiction of marijuana - they thought it was
the ****** drunk... oddly enough marijuana is linked to
alcohol and ****** addiction, it too is metabolic -
i'm not a medical expert... but i have heard of stoners
and their munchies - anything relating to food,
to metabolism is included, marijuana is the middle-guy
between the standards and Disney -
you heard of being monged, right? marijuana is as addictive
as alcohol - originally a giggly drug, a conversation
starter - marijuana - ends up being
an Jason Segel and Ed Helms film Jeff, who lives at Home,
it's this uncontrollable effect that proper intentions of
marijuana have: supreme thoughtlessness - or
the present vogue concerning "mindfulness" -
Jeff basically overthought himself on the high - he didn't
detach himself from thinking, now he's paying the price -
he's making completely random associations -
and why do stoners always waste their time in front
of t.v. or television - marijuana is a purely auditory drug -
******* to the park, pretend to be a fake Buddha imitation
and create the void in yourself to make your mind
the M25 at 3 a.m. - but this innocence with the Beat
movement associating itself with marijuana is partly
why it was legalised - the government wants rejects and,
to be frank? retards - that's why they legalised it -
they knew with the munchies jokes that marijuana had
the same metabolic addiction components as alcohol and
***** - you're metabolic dude! once addiction sets in
you're no longer in control of brain-freeze - you didn't
think it up on the psychoactive Everest - when the nice
sensation was still there, marijuana realised you zombie much
later - all the in-jokes of stoner culture suddenly passed you,
simulation dementia ensued - i'm way past the psychoactive
asset of alcohol, no slurred speech, no nothing -
but i retain the psychoactive point of metabolising excess
alcohol: if i didn't, i would sleep! i wouldn't sleep!
don't get me wrong, i get the point that i can't really
experience the negatives of reaching the psychoactive purpose
of alcohol and ***** in a street or join the football hooligans -
and surgeons drink to calm the nerves and calm the hand -
but alcohol is more cool headed and less phantasmagorical
than ***** addiction, for one thing your palette improves -
you find the most boring tasks liberating -
but the nights are the real nights, esp. if slumped on the sofa
watching t.v., unless you don't have a backlog of un-watched
Versailles or Billions episodes, you really need to go for
a 4 mile walk and breath the air - then half-sleep for
about an 2 hours (because you have limited money and
sometimes you pass a day without Auburn Whitney) -
you become rigorous - the prime solipsism - no time for
girlfriends, doesn't matter, my genitals weren't mutilated
as a child, no one forced a ****-*******-marriage-ring
on my finger - i can actually enjoy addiction - i end up
eating one meal a day - of course my face looks candyfloss
puffed up - but my soul is partly helium pubescent -
alcohol addiction is not ***** addiction even both
are primes of metabolism takeovers - no hung-overs too,
no blackouts - no fake "i can't remember" stories
when something ****** up happened - and certainly no
innocent look at the fact that marijuana is also a metabolic
addiction - unless of course you limit psychic ingestion
(excluding music, music is great to arrive at thoughtlessness),
but as most stoners (the next alcoholics) prove,
garbage the mind with American Dad and then get hungry -
binge eat - the stomach can drag the brain right down
into the acid pit and fry it - zombies galore - you won't be
able to catch yourself stopping thinking, the stomach
will do that for you, and you'll enter the zombie apocalypse:
just like my neighbour - there's a rat-like ritual involved,
for example, most people get sleepy from marijuana -
so it's not an addiction standing at a bus stop
pretending to be waiting for a bus and smoking?
that's addiction - the metabolic Gargantua has already caught-up,
addiction is primarily a solitary affair - it just depends
what you do with it... i'd be ashamed with my alcoholism
if i didn't write poems - the counter-effect is that i feel
some sort of social-inclusion when the day finishes -
i feed the cats, write invoices for my father (40% of
18 - 35 year olds live with their parents, because all
the foreigners bought all the houses intended as: buy to let -
is my money going down my drain, or is this
a post-Freud Oedipus stigmata killing familial relations
altogether?), cook, clean the house once a week,
cut the cats' nail and brush them - and to counter
what i don't do? can you imagine listening to a symphony
with only violins playing? not so genius hearing that
sort of Hollywood story with only cameo characters speaking.
Matalie Niller Aug 2012
Tropic and toxic
glasses full of Soviet enterprise
very expensive
blood diamonds and muddy bricks
thrown into the street
raining jujubees and tongue twisters
oh mister, let me tell you
a story
that time
it was true, I do not kid
and the knights of the feudal manor had no manners
at all
heads of tin
bellies of yummy, gummy
gruel
their disgust spread like the plague
all a mind sickness
slithery what-you-have-its
all up in their
phases of the moons,
too many to properly attest to
not very good questions,
unfair
studying never helps the potential
obscurity in life's energy
pouring through airducts
blocking chances of survival
Matthew O'Reilly Feb 2015
Look at life as a half full glass of water, not half empty
Look at life like a pin, at points life will poke you but at others its soft and solid,
Look at life like a dove, its not large but you can soar high,
Look at life like its your partner, there will be ups and downs but you must never give up,
Life will always throw negatives at you but make sure to always see the positives of life and you will stand out with a smile
Carter Ginter Nov 2016
Get the **** out of my head
Why is it so hard to forget you
Yet all the negatives try to vanish
In an attempt to make me miss you

You were a horrible person
And I can look past what you did to me
But you hurt her too, your best friend
Who does that?
How can one guy convince you to drop your best friend
When I couldn't even get you to ignore the toxic ones

I hear he's controlling now
That's cute
I hope you enjoy how he ***** you
Cause that's all you care about you heartless *****

You left me cause I refused to beat you in bed
Cause I couldn't satisfy your fantasies
Well I hope you realize that
Your addiction will destroy your life
If somehow it hasn't already

You dropped out of college and now you're living on your own
I knew you wouldn't go back if you left
But you had your own plans
Your own agenda to live your life
Trying to get whatever you want
From anyone

You didn't stay because I didn't put up with your ****
I stood up to you when no one else would
And luckily it got me out of a toxic relationship that
I didn't even realize was that bad

First love never dies
Here I am trying to justify
Why I can't get you out of my mind
No matter how hard I try
When I genuinely do not want you
Who I'm with now is so much better
She and I, we build together
Instead of me building for you
Leaving nothing to nurture myself
And you still seem to remove pieces from my wall
Threatening my progress without you
Because why would you do anything different

And I try to remind myself that
You cheated on me
And at least I can sleep
Without the raging guilt
That I hope fills your lungs
And chokes you in your sleep
Cold hearted people are a cancer to our species
That should be wiped away and flushed like feces
They've divided our minds into little pieces
I'll greet the cold hearted boy who tries to date my nieces,
with Hot lead...
A cold hearted person was once a person who cared to much
Once a person turns cold it's hard to change back into who they used to be.
They have to let go of the past, and learn how to trust again.
Most people who act heartless have a sweet heart.
They just act heartless to protect themselves from getting hurt again.
Life is like a camera...
Focus on whats important,
Capture the good times,        
Develop from the negatives,
And if things don't work out,
Take another shot.
Rose L Jul 2016
I came home - alone - because I finally realized your soul is stone.
Thing is, it's kinda hard to get rid of that rigid smell of cologne -
It's easier to get you off my phone.
I think I had the chance to leave, and I didn't
I stayed and now I wish I hadn't
Because now I'm at a party, waiting for you to talk to me, and you haven't -
Nights are cold, and boring, and I tried to call you, but I couldn't -
I keep applying and reapplying lipstick like you care but you do not.
You don't.
I implore you, to bore me more - Id've come round that night I knew it was so important...but I didn't
And now every boy and girl looks through me.
I saw someone Wednesday.... and I thought it was you ...but it wasn't.
I mightn't of met you in the first place if the universe would give me a chance but it won't
And now I'm stuck in this poetic trance
Your face no longer traces inspiration and I've lost the information that lead me to believe in you.
I used to believe in us, but now I don't.
And now I can't write poetry, mostly .
If you look at me closely, my muse is almost ghostly
That's what you've done to me.
I'm sickly, grossly.
Evidently ghostly, if I stay a few more months maybe you can have my bones as a trophy.
I'm not in love.
I'm just... hesitating  
And while your descent into frustrating is captivating
This month has been devastating.
it was warm
for a winters eve
unusually warm
but damp very damp
birthing a persistent
midnight mist that
crawled over everything

avenging
halogen angels
flitted down from
streetlight perches
skidding through
bare limb bars
of broken trees
roped in by sagging
telephone wires

skulking
seraphs
joined
ebullient
neon auroras
laughingly
brake dancing,
jittering away on the
pock marked rims
of hip hop streets

the fine drizzle
descending from the
black urban heavens
splayed holy water
over the bodies
of anything
that moved; and
layered mounds
of transparent beads
on all inert things
chiding those yolked
to weighty burdens
to seek relief of
a much needed
breaking point

our
slouching city
mired in a cycle
of a prolonged
historical rut
beavers away
to lift the lid
on tomorrows
tipping point
in a desperate
labor to stop
tripping over
itself...

a dinged up
Sentra’s
flashing spinners
twisted round
our dark corner
nearly clipping
our troop

inside the
yakking low-riders
scuttled along,
their hidden ***** eyes
cruising the stoops
and cyclone alleys
scoping opportunities
for the next
jolly hustle
to feed
a growing
angry fix

tonight
Mother Nature was
running a *****
to the wall third shift,
manufacturing a
stationary low
of gagging precip
churning volumes
of Vulcan smoke
conjuring
convective spirits
from all the
dim places

emanations lit
the balmy January air
rising from
stubborn gray patches
of despoiled snow
and rancid ponds
organic gutter water
composting
in distilled pools
awaiting leakage
through flotsam
clogged sewage grids

Paterson’s
litter police
could close the
city’s budget deficit
if all infractions
were properly cited
and paid in this
neighborhood

this queer elixir of
rising vapors from
evaporating snow
escaping the cracks
lining the bowels of
mordant streets
joining descending
screens of billowing mists
blurs boundaries of light,
diffusing temporal time

people and things
lose precise definition
reducing sentient beings
to moving silhouettes of gray
photographic negatives
framed in dribbling palettes
of pastel hues

our
5th Ward mission
planted in the
hub of a neighborhood
still holding on...

Old WASP’s
of St. Paul’s
long ago
winged away
from this
princely
Episcopate
principality

the abandoned
conical nest, its
chambers filled with
the mud of 50 dead rectors
precariously clings
to its shivering
boulevard corner

its endowment depleted
its earthly treasure rusting
grandiose Tiffany windows
remain the last legacy of an
opulent faith now
shamefully rattling away
in moth eaten frames

once icons of
adulatory reverence
the final sparkling asset
of a distressed religion
begs to be monetized
by flummoxed vestrymen
yearning to extend
a stewardship
over a dissipating
ESL flock

distress in the hood
parades down Broadway
in all directions

a few blocks east
a shuttered
Barnert Hospital
transfigured into an
urban enterprise zone
for health-care privateers
working overtime to
extract federal
corporate welfare
rent subsidies
dutifully fulfilling
fine print obligations of
Obamacare legislation

Old Mayor Barnert’s
namesake synagogue
once hard by
City Hall
is long gone
its absent footprint
now centered by
a thriving
White Castle

near Broadway’s end
on the outskirts
of Eastside Park
Art Deco Emanuel Temple
the last anchor
for the city’s Judaism
lies vacant
awaiting a renewed
purpose

fraught with irony
a thriving Islamic Center
stands juxtaposed
across the street
from the old
Hebrew Temple

we wonder what
will emerge
from the
hallowed chrysalis
of decommissioned
Emanuel?

rumors of a
Great Falls Art Center
trickle like a leaking faucet
failure to secure a mortgage
in the post credit
bubble pop economy
dams the possibly
of a new centers
coming to fruition

will
the city’s
changing
demography of
reverent Muslim’s
genuflecting
across the street
take time away
from prayer to
patronize a venue
offering decadent
bourgeois jazz and
risqué reviews
of retro Borscht Belt
vaudeville?

when Constantinople
became Istanbul they
converted the Christian
churches into mosques

when the Inquisitioners
drove the Moors from
Granada they converted
the Grand Mosque to
the Cathedral of the
Incarnation

what incarnations
will this city’s
twilight bring?

As Byzantine
begets
Constantinople
begets
Istanbul
the links
in the Silk Road
spanned west
to the new world
of mechanized looms
powered by
Great Falls
raceway water
and a distribution
and procurement
chain anchored
by the Morris Canal

Capitalist
modernity
begets
our Silk City
it also bespeaks
its demise

in the courtyard
of St. Paul’s
a muffled chorus
trawls the thick air

a posse of pimps
done wrangling
their stables
of $5 ******
sing reveries to
the evening haul

midnight lullabies
of corner crooners
lift a Capella hosannas
from the dark armpit
of an alley behind
the Autozone

“i said
you say
what can make
me feel this way
my girl”

juiced pimps
cashin in
livin large on
a skanks
50 cent haul

the trade in flesh
of distressed
human capital
remains a
growth industry

Music Selection:  
Temptations, My Girl

jbm
3/1/13
Oakland
Part 1 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Paterson NJ is nick named The Silk City.
Sacrelicious May 2012
All the
money a blank check
is worth for,
could never compare to
the true value,
of an
individual.
There's always
something
special
for everyone.
Cause everyone
is
something
special.
The world just
doesn't
want you
to know,
that you matter.
Cause they're afraid you're
going to
change
a
cycle,
that's been orbiting'
the earth,
since before we were here.


A circle-cycle, in it's simplicity is a double negative.
Like the Devil getting cozy
on a Demon's shoulder.
Double whammy.
Stop.
**** this.

I'm just cashed.
Today.
Tomorrow,
will
be
BETTER.
Äŧül Apr 2014
Be the Dumbledore of your own life,
Let poetry be there for your mornings.
Write happier poetry in gloomy days,
Do not let the gloom get your better.
Aggressive poetry in frustrated days,
Would surely help drown frustrations.
Leave no space for sadness as a poet,
Create a space for happiness in life.
I showed the back door to negatives,
Now all is so positive except for *
***!
Ehe he he ha ha ha!
My HP Poem #612
©Atul Kaushal
Hazeltoon Dec 2014
As your reflection stares back at you, through the misty window pane,
Against the glass the silver rain comes tapping, only weak,
It masks your woe and sorrow -- perhaps it's just the rain?
And not the ballerina tears, that flow and dance upon your cheek.

You feel you live a loveless life, alone, with no one by your side,
A lonely loner, ever scared, no hand to hold or arm to grip,
With nothing to be late for, no ear in which you can confide,
You stand upon an icy peak, but no longer take care not to slip.

Suddenly the image stirs, it blinks and shows it's gentle eyes,
Life has many sides, it says, try looking from a different place,
Sad feelings can't be fought alone -- find happiness and sadness dies,
Stare into my eyes -- look your flaws and demons in the face.

You feel you're not quite normal, you've been different from the start,
Self-conscious of your looks, perhaps you dislike who you are,
But to focus on the negatives is an insult to your heart,
The depth of which is limitless, a loving, glowing, beating star.

You do yourself injustice; desire love, but can't love yourself?
Remember that your differences, are not a flaw or fault,
You're custom made, a work of art, not picked out from the shelf,
Embrace the fact that you're unique, a trait that can't be taught.

Suddenly the image shakes, another face replaces yours,
This person likes you as you are - who'll love you and embrace your fate,
Hold your hand through pain and storms, and follow you to distant shores,
I'll meet you in the future -  forever yours, your one soul mate.
DeeDeeK Feb 2012
waking with joyful exuberance
choosing what attitude to wear with the day
grey skies call for a sunny disposition
determined to keep negatives away
light streams gently from fingertips
delicately touching others with warmth
surprising them with smiles
unfurling calm in your wake
L B Jun 2017
Waiting for the storm
to lower its head and charge

In ozone incense of unstable air
Eons of ions ago
horned and heavy negatives
lock prey within vortical-eye
Angelic flutter of electrons struggling on--
in yellowish friction above...

“...Did I tell you?”

Love is lightning hotter than the sun!

Schism--

resolving in the only way it can
a design that cannot save itself!

Clouds roar away--
For a minute-- I think that I will too
-- along with all these words and rain

*“...and did I tell you...

how thunderstorms remind me
...of love...the way it should be

and the worship after?”
Published in the April 2017 edition of SWITCH magazine
If I were a cup of black coffee you take me just the way I am.
If this were a thanksgiving dinner you'd be the turkey and I'd be the ham.

I'm the water and you're the sea
I'm the sailor and what I really mean is; you complete me. 

If this were a battery you'd be the positives and I'd be the negatives.
If I were a holiday you'd be the festive's.

If this were space you'd be the stars that form my galaxy.
If I were a driver in New York, you'd be my taxi.
If I a flower and you the bee, then it's clear to see that what I really mean is; you complete me.

One ways, u-turns, dead ends and yields, green lights, left lane merge and a squashed bug on my windshields.

If I were a Bic ballpoint pen then you would write out every sin.
If this were it, it would be the greatest love there has ever been.

Road signs and paper, fantasies and nature cannot help to say in such a little way that all I try to convey that what I really mean is; you complete me.

If I were a song you'd memorize my lyrics 
If this were February 1990 it would be Hold On by Wilson Phillips

If I were a comic book, you'd be my nerd.
If you were a photographer I'd be your bird. 

If I a cold night and you the book by a fire, then I'd be the Hobbit and you'd be my Shire.
If I a cup and you the tea then all there is left to say is...
Nazreen Nawi Feb 2016
Such confidence,
To stand as you
Repeling all the cursing
Enduring all the negatives
To be you,
To be different,
Not afraid of the monochrome communities,
Giving opinion that differs from others,
To not bow to the majority,
Just be you.
Have confidence in youself. Be brave and stay firm in what you believe
Abby Carpenter Feb 2017
When I was in the fourth grade I didn’t understand magnets.
You told me that they were like a boy and a girl,
that the positives and negatives stuck together,
but with two girls they would just repel.
Repel,
as if the idea of two girls being together was so awful that mother nature herself would come down to pull them apart.
I think about that a lot.

And now I’m standing here in front of you,
the words dancing behind my tongue,
and I am fighting to keep them down.
I want to tell you that I’m finally happy,
that I found someone,
that when I hold her hand I don't want to run.
I want you to know that I love her,
and that I didn't actually know what love was until now.
I want you to know that with her everything is brighter,
and that I take back my feminist rants because if she were my wife I’d always cook dinner.
the love songs I listen to finally make sense,
and hell,
maybe Romeo and Juliet weren't crazy after all.

I know this might be confusing.
But before her I was soil,
And now I’m a bed of roses.
I’m sorry for hiding this for so long.
and now it seems like a college phase,
but if we’re being honest I always knew.
I knew at junior prom when my date’s hand made me recoil.
I knew when I never really hit that boy crazy phase.
and I knew when I saw her,
When we watched a movie on the grass and I laid my head on her shoulder,
and I felt like I was home.

And I’ve tried to change,
if I knew how I would.
When Mom died you said you would always love me.
I hope you meant it,
because I’ve tried to pick between you.
Take you, leave her.
Take her, leave you.
But I can’t.
So please don’t make me.
Bunhead17 Nov 2013
Cold hearted people are a cancer to our species
That should be wiped away and flushed like feces
They've divided our minds into little pieces
I'll greet the cold hearted boy who tried to date my nieces, with Hot lead...
A cold hearted person was once a person who cared to much
Once a person turns cold it's hard to change back into who they used to be. They have to let go of the past, and learn how to trust again.
Most people who act heartless have a sweet heart. They just act heartless to protect themselves from getting hurt again.
Life is like a camera...
Focus on whats important,
Capture the good times,        
Develop from the negatives,
And if things don't work out,
Take another shot.
Copyright © 2013, Falen Acon and Chevy... I hope tht u enjoy it.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial.  On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.

Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising

A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.

Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days

So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:

We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.

Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.

Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques

Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock

Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,  
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Written August 2013

— The End —