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Leay Aug 2016
Gravity Pulls

Our forms to be

Us

Forciose things

and full of wonder
Coalesced
A singularity

Yet

Light gives  sight
To halo Rings

cast black by the unknown.

As

Matter found
in vapor  form,
gives lift
To humbled fret

For This

A contract ,

duelly met

Is thee
Unbalanced bet

Thus of this
the arch of spark

The metronomal
Mark

Are

Atoms and matter
Space and time

Those truths of ,Light and dark

With tools so crude
To flame
From spark
Creation  cold and stark

From this
Reclusive
Alcamist

A Sentient being
adrift

And


Rue and refuse the piety
To gods
of gastsly note

So
due I hail
Thee
full of spite
Destroyer
Jubilant

Respond to you
Of you
no word
Shepard
Nought of
Herd

Of countless time
With rhythms rhyme

Reiterate
Time spent


Oh creature coward
Faceless you
Our saviors son's decent

Who


gave to me a hand of sand

The
grains,
owned
by
the
******

And woe of he
The ward of space


Gate
keep

Absent

grace

Riddled with
A failing mind


Our Blessed
Heathin *****

For

Surly plans
unknown, unwind
Of what he
Has
In store

This

An empty

Formulaic

Tombe of ancient tune


speaks this  code
A wayword
 vice

Absent
paradise


In higher planes he finds abode
Neglectful father form

And

finds he
solice

As
He
Demands

Souls
For
Evermore

So faceless form
Unmask thyself

Disarm
With
Your
Descent


For us
The mortal
Masses

Ask nought
With no consent
A work in progress
link Nov 2018
The open arms to which you promised safety was falsely given from your own desperation for someone to have. You convinced me that the hostile environment and company you supplied me with was what I deserved, needed, the inevitable to how I would always be treated. Your vile lies you fed into my head haunt me to today, causing more anger and creating more animosity towards you. I will never be the girl you wanted and I will never be enough for you, and knowing this makes me feel at ease now with the knowledge of it not being my fault. I was not yours to keep, I was not yours to force to be what you wanted. Your words dripped with acid, every insult, judgement or spiteful response left scars that you will not take responsibility for. Your half hearted apologies make me more disgusted in the thought of you, the plan of using it to have me again stays incapable of working against my grudge. Your neglectful and unsupportive demeanor made my chest feel as though it had been filled with lead, the dread weighing down on me knowing I was not a person to be wanted. Having you take my love with nothing in return left me with stomach drops and sleepless nights. Your effects on me are ones you cannot fathom; your empathy not present in taking blame for how poorly you treated me. I wish luck upon those who try to be with you in the future, I will move on without me thinking back on you. I regret giving you any time out of my day to let my thoughts run wild and deep over your cold toxicity. Anger pools in my soul thinking about how you treated me, thinking that you may do that to someone again. Unfairly playing the victim card when I get the courage to leave, manipulating my anxiety into threatening to harm yourself if I wasn’t yours. Your times of purposely reading my messages yet not replying to avoid knowing why I am crying. Not caring enough about me being a human to worry about my mental health. Slowly aiding my depression, both contaminated hands of yours and mental illness pushing me to the edge. No second thoughts pass your mind as you throw another comment at me to make me feel below you. Wanting to feel superior to me and to anyone, putting others down just to feel you are right. Yet you are the one who is at the bottom when you stoop so low as to harm others for your own self-gratification. Pulling me back in with your two faced sweet words; only to kick me back down again with a contradictory insult. Using kind words if it somehow supports or benefits you in some way, using others to make yourself feel needed and important from your manipulation. Carve my heart like a cake set out to celebrate your manipulation; I want you to understand that the home you called yourself will one day burn.
I Hate You.
A long unnecessary message to my abusive ex, one he will never read nor ever care to read.
JL Davis May 2017
How,
After so much that has passed,
How am I still able to look upon
Him with any amount
Of sorrow?
Pity?
Regret?
Just how is it that I can feel
Such pain and sadness
That can bring upon me
All of these tears that I cry?
These tears that just
Aren't so very pretty?
No!
These tears, for him,
My neglectful lover,
Are not pretty!
Not even one!
Yet, foolishly, how I do
Still weep!
How, foolishly, that I do
Still toss and turn
In my restless sleep!
How, foolishly, that I can
Still feel my broken heart's cut
Real deep!
Oh, such a fool am I!
Such wishful thinking
That I still keep!
FOOL!
FOOL!
FOOL!
To ever think if only
He could have ever
Loved you!
Shannon Oct 2014
He sits on the carousel wheel,
her lover neglectful-
looks over the night as the neon illuminates the shiny people.
He sits on the carousel wheel
and loves to get stuck at the top
so he may contemplate jumping,
so to contemplate swinging with madness
from one
cart
to
another
and then
safely
to the
cart that
holds her. Hero, him.
He looks over the crowd as they swish around him-
sway around him
moving by him as if they were dancing to a song in his head
but he is not dancing.
He's looking for her.
He pops several balloons with a fiery dart
walks away from the girl with the silken stockings held to her
thigh by violet bow...a violent blow to his lustful ways, he looks firmly down
to the dirt on his boots, kicks rocks, kicks air.
Stops at the man who swallows fire from a stick,
"answer me, answer me"-
the man spits ember lies.
He's looking for her in each clown
pulling their make up down with his finger
and it looks like they're crying
so he can't really know
if it is her he has found?
Oh neglectful lover.
He busies himself by winning a prize
for his beloved, his lost
A prize- his reward for believing in true love.
He busies himself, knocks down milk bottles-
and punches the punching bags
insults the slow and disgusted carnie hags,
He moves from gate to gate
and it feels more like Hades
inside
where he's lost her
so he's been lost.
When he's lost her he's scared
that she will not feel, lost but found.
And he will not feel found-
but destroyed.
Teacups to twirl around
the dance he will swirl her around to
the day that he marries her,
if he can find her,
nay- when he can find her...
he'll put her in the teacup ride and
never let the spinning stop.
He'll fill her life with lights and sounds
and cotton candy
and he'll marry her he will
right on the tiptop
of the ferris wheel
where he sits looking round.

sahn 10/19/14
I like to think of this poor man, looking for his true love. I like to think during the search he realized how much he misses her. As always, thank you for sharing my work. I'm honored and humbled.
Verdae Geissler Jun 2013
Tuesday, July 12, 2005


I am up tonight emotions reeling.
It was my birthday yesterday, 36 years old. 36 years alive.
Three years of parents, mom and dad, 10 years of multiple dads, moms, ad totally confusion, abandonment, aching for my real father. ...Wild times of insanity with my mom, and an emotional roller coaster ride with my grandmother and her dilemas.
...Lots of moving around, losing people , starting over, and culture shock.
In those first years I learned German, I also realized that I was my mom and my mom's mom, and everyone's anchor.
When they wanted me to be, of course.
Then at 16, My 20 years of drug addition, self hate, torture and, blind running began. Frankly it lasted until about 10 months ago.
My mother died two years ago.
Most of the last two years is so terrifying that my mind can hardly wrap itself around it all.
Most importantly those times provided me the final shove toward my need for reality.
...A reality I have been avoiding for the last 33 years.
I have come to realize, the insanity which filled many years,
came from depths of my own being.
The objects of my saddness and fear, suddenly dissipated into nothingness,
while a need for truth and reality has taken its place.
I realize only now, my happiness, and I matter.
I know now, only I possess the power it takes to  either "make or break" me.
...No one and nothing else has ever held that over me. ...no man, woman, drug, attitude, nothing.
There is, and will never be any way of ME escaping me.
...Not being beaten, or abandoned...
...Not an overdose, not emotional ****, not physical ****, nothing.
None of this could ever provide that escape.
For I know, now, there is no escaping ME.
Oh the price I've paid for this realization:
In the end, only I will be standing in front of my own judgement.
I , alone, will be the target of my  anger, hurt , fear, and guilt, if I do not decide this life is worth being present for.
I have finally decided to own those years.
...Resolved, that by my actions, alone, I either made my life a happy one worth wanting to share, or one so miserible all I could see to do was end it all.  
I can no longer blame my failure on  "the guy" I was with, nor  can I blame my mother for her selfish, hurtful, and neglectful way.
It was never some other person's herion addiction. Nor was it someone's fist in my face, that, ultimately brought me down onto the floor.
... My misguided, distorted, sense of unimportance, is what took me down.
...The pain, devastation, and  lack of self worth,  provided by a childhood filled, mostly, with disappointments, and abandonment, and confusion.
From this, I bore my defect.
...My malignant tumour of self destruction.


I have since learned I only need myself to make this life a good one.
...I shall love and nourish, and be kind to myself.
I will love me first.
Only i can live this life I've been given. Only i can walk my path.
The choice is now mine, alone.  
I boldly choose laughter and sunshine.
Though I dare not forget the gloom and sorrow of years past.
The choice has been  mine from the beginning.  
I will, starting now, live for my dreams and for my well being.
Although has taken many years to understand...
THIS little girl has found her voice.  
It is a most important, intelligent, worthy, and bold voice to boot!
I have also come to believe that loving another should never lead to neglect or abuse of any kind.
And that loving someone doesn't mean tossing one's own good judgment aside, while living  in someone else's misery with, or even for them.
No one will ever love me for neglecting myself.
This behavior only leads to disrespect, and further neglect from them, as well as self hatred and loathing, from me.
One of the most ridiculous thoughts I  remember having was 17yrs old.  My boyfriend, and I  had been living for the past year in Manhattan, ater leaving Atlanta to make a fresh start away from his herion addiction. It was like jumping from the frying pan into the fire! He hadn't stopped using. He had actually gotten much more out of control.  While Looking in the mirror after my nightly shower after one evening, I thought about the way he had started looking old and worn and sickly looking. That is when it came to me! A genius idea! ...At least that is what i thought at the time!
I decided the only way I could get him to quit using drugs, and me, was to BECOME him.
And that I did!
I became a selfless him.
He used me up, and my heart still mourns him.  
...It still mourns ME, for that matter.

Disillusion and Disappointments come easy in life.
But being real and heathly come just as easily.
If only  you can stop running blind for a moment.
Then recognize the difference between the two, that is.
It was incredibly easy to set myself up for disaster and disappointments.
But I have found, it takes guts to care enough about myself to say; "Enough is enough!"
Even now, I catch myself trying to walk on the razor's sharp edge of reason and choice.

I could wake up tomorrow and decide I'll take the "easy" way.
Then again, I could to take the "real" road. THe road to freedom of *******.

I  have decided, at this old age of 36 years, I am not willing to, and will not repeat those miserable years for anyone ever again.

...My road to happiness has been paved with fear, disillusion, disappointment, and heartache.
I will walk the rest of my road with love for myself and for others!
Love and Light!
So Ham!

posted by romy geissler at 7/12/2005 02:42:00 AM
Dorothy A Dec 2014
I think of her often, for thoughts are all I have—not a single memory. She died before I was the age of two.

From what little that I heard, there was little reason to view her in a good light, but now I can see something admirable about her.  After all, this woman endured so much, and the odds seemed stacked against her. Incredibly, between the ages of eleven and sixteen—at least five times—this poor Lithuanian girl crossed the Atlantic in attempts to get into America. Twice, she was turned away. Some may not have had high regard for her, including her own son—my father—but I can see a heroic nature, a survivor, through and through. Just a toddler when she died, I missed out in knowing her. Throughout the years, I really had only gathered bits and pieces of information while trying to know better about her. It has been like constructing puzzle in which the pieces fit here and there, but the gaps are too big to cover.

This woman that I write about is my paternal grandmother. Out of all my grandparents, her story is the one that stands apart, an amazing, heart wrenching and most thought provoking portrait. Evoking emotions of anger, sadness and sympathy, I find it a rich tale of a poor woman.

This has been in the works for quite a while now—in my head, that is. I pictured what I wanted to say, the words playing out in my mind.  What a story it is, too, a tremendous one of sorrow and struggle, of need for love and acceptance, of perseverance and strength of the human spirit. Yet things get complicated when they come from my mind to the page, as I try translating my vision down into words. Before long, like a snake, hesitation surely comes slithering through, as it quickly snuck its way within, fueling my fear, a fear of disapproval and rejection by two people who are now dead and have been for some time—my father and my grandmother.  

And while writing, I imagine what my audience thinks—critics in my head abounding before I even finish. Well, I am the first to stand in line for that.  It’s kind of scary relating such things. I am not sure I am doing the story any justice.  I’m not sure I’ve captured the essence of it well.    

And who would want to read this anyway? Is it too long and of no significance to anybody but myself? I have my doubts. Celebrities do this all the time, and people just eat that stuff up.  I think we all just want to relate to what others have to say about themselves. But it does bare you—your thoughts, your secrets, your soul, —and it feels a bit unnerving, to say the least.  

So, naturally, I still drag my feet. If she were here right in front of me right now, what would my grandmother think? Would she throw the papers in an old fashioned stove—in the fire—as she angrily did to my father’s flowers?  I can only imagine my father as a child—in an impoverished scene that I only have sketchy knowledge of—with his young heart being crushed and shamed, his sign of affection and desire to please his mother, drastically rejected. In return for his small token of love, my father’s mother was furious that her boy spent a few coins on something perceived as useless, a waste of good money. Away like trash, they went. Like the flower story, would my father be ashamed and angry that I revealed some family history for others to read, stuff that he would rather have kept quiet?

This is why I am mentioning no names. Nothing is sugar coated—it is what it is—often not very pretty. Yet this is not intended as an exposé or a smudge on any family members. A slam on my father and grandmother is surely not my intent—far from it.  Rather, it is my offering of affection. It is my little bouquet of flowers to a history that includes me as a part of it.

Like those flowers of long ago, I’ve so wanted to scrap this story in the garbage. Often seeming like a knotted mass of yarn, I have had to work and work to get a smooth flow.  Like a sculptor, I wanted a fine piece of clay to emerge into form, but the chunks, lumps and bumps just frustrate me to no end.

It’s complicated to relate it all. It is revelation about my father’s origins which hold no real pride for him.  There was much pain and shame associated with his mother’s mental illness, his distant father, his broken home and lack of a solid, safe family structure, his constant poverty and fight for survival—the list goes on and on  As I unravel this tale, I continue to fight with the many tangles. As I try to find the face, I feel that my sculpted story is left wanting. So I continue to chip away.

Dishonoring? Embarrassing? I hope it this tale is not.  I envision an admirable purpose instead of the pain and the shame, redeeming the pride that was lost. My father’s origins are mine, too, and they help me to know myself better, and my father—to build that better, more complete puzzle of my grandmother.

Much of what I heard was unflattering terms. From a young age, I knew she was mentally ill. But what did that mean anyway?  Well, to my father she was crazy and nuts, not a good mother. No, she wasn’t mother of the year. Clearly, she had a temper and was known to instigate fights—with her husband, with one of her sisters. When my young father was physically disciplined it was by her, and it was probably quite harsh. If I didn’t like her, it was due to all that I heard. And when I had problems with my father, who had a bad temper, too, I probably felt that the apple didn’t fall very far from the tree.  

But in spite of all the remarks, I grew to have great sympathy for my grandmother. It makes me wonder how mistreated she was as a child.  My father deemed her as neglectful, not in tune to her children’s needs. It is obvious to me that she was in lack, herself.

So what was she really like? I very much wanted to understand her, to be able to relate with her. I don’t know—perhaps, it is because I root for the underdog.  Often, I felt like one, too. And Lithuania is the perfect underdog, under the thumb of Russian rule until much recently.  Perhaps, it was because my dad’s dislike for where he came from made me all that more interested to discover what his roots were all about.  

History often repeats itself—what has shaped my father had a strong influence on me. Like my father, I grew angry and bitter from the upbringing I had. Getting a similar brunt of problematic parenting made for a tough go of things.  I could have easy said, “Who gives a ****?” I could have been thoroughly disgusted about my dad’s old baggage that I had to handle—all the wreckage of rage and shame that became dumped into the next generation.  I evolved from a more sensitive, inquisitive child to one who battled between the feelings of hate and love, painfully clawing my way out of the emotional garbage and with the terrible stench of it.  

Thankfully, the war is over. I am enjoying the peace.  
  
With insight, I grew to understand my father, to accept what he was—capable of good and bad. I can relate quite well in that sense, for I made plenty of mistakes that I wish that I could do differently, ones that hurt others as well as me.  I could not deny that, in my dad, there was a wounded man who could not really figure that out—not until he was much older. I saw a man who was remorseful, and humbled by his costly mistakes. I was able to heal from some of my wounds with that forgiving perspective, though it was not easy and did not come overnight.

Unlike my dad, I’m surely a talker and I ask questions, perhaps my father’s worst nightmare in that sense——he had to have at least one child who always wanted to know things about him and who he came from. That means both sides of my family. Perhaps, I was born that way, with a tremendous sense of wonder. Curiosity always got me, and I am much too hungry to remain clueless about my more secretive father.

Maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s bad. It involves risk which can lead to a boatload of hurt. Where do we come from? What were your parents like? What were your grandparents like? When where they born? When did they die? Do you have any pictures?  Can you go any further than them?  Sometimes, the answers aren’t what you want to hear.  

It’s nice to belong to something, to somebody. It isn’t always possible or realistic to relate to one’s family, I wanted to belong. Not just to my mom’s side did I want to identify—I wanted to fully belong—to both sides.

My mom and dad both had common backgrounds, both coming from poverty and chaos. The fallout from my mother’s unstable father created a similar unease within her childhood home. Yet her family actually seemed like it existed. I knew all of my mother’s seven younger sisters and five younger brothers, as well as all nineteen cousins. We used to visit mom’s parents in Detroit fairly often. My best knowledge of life in this unfamiliar, yet close by, city—my native city—arose through this connection. I heard stories of grandmother’s German immigrant parents and learned of my grandfather’s Polish and Prussian roots, part of his family’s rise from poverty to wealth—to poverty once more.

Born in the latter part of the nineteenth century, my father’s parents were much older than my mom’s. Impoverished Lithuanian immigrants, my dad’s parents surely wanted to be Americans. My grandmother really had to fight to even be on American soil, and my grandfather sought out citizenship and became naturalized. I have likely seen them both, but had no relationship at all. I heard that my dad’s mom came over our house for Thanksgiving dinner—a rare visit—and she died not long after.

My grandfather died the following year, when I was closer to three. Possibly having a primitive, early memory of this man, I am told my dad had him over the house once.  I have a vague recollection of sneaking into the living room, when I was supposed to be in bed, and got a smack on my behind from my dad, crying in protest as I walked past an older man starring at me. But I’ll never know for sure if that is even a real memory.

Since my grandfather was a supporter of the Communist party—a big taboo in those days with the McCarthy era and the Cold War—my dad was mortified and afraid to mention it.  I doubt I’ll ever know much about this grandfather. My father found only one photo of him in his wallet while trying to claim belongings from his flat after the man died. My father eventually gave it to me, and I was shocked by one of the most bizarre photos I ever had seen. In it, my dad’s father was photographed with a woman that my father cannot identify, but the likeness between her and me is so uncanny. I look more like this woman than I do my own mother, but I cannot say if she is even related. My dad knew almost nothing about his father’s family except that he came from a big one back in Lithuania.

Family must have been like foreign word to my father. I can see why. Since boyhood, my dad lived apart from his dad, and they became more strangers than father and son. My dad even admitted that he hardly understood his own father because of his thick, Lithuanian accent. My dad’s background still remains more like shadows in the dim light.  I don’t clearly remember my father’s older brother— out of the two that he had—because I only saw him three or four times. Since my father cut ties with his younger brother, I hadn’t laid eyes on him. Not even a picture was available. When my estranged uncle called on the phone to try to talk to my dad, I would speak to him, instead. One to be sympathetic, I never got why my dad wouldn’t bother with his brother, though the call usually involved asking for money. I was pretty much told that he was a no-good ***, plenty to keep me fairly leery of him. His first wife kicked my uncle out.  Most of his six sons—just as unknown as their father was to me—wanted nothing to do with him. No doubt, the guy was an odd and deeply tormented man, yet we both wanted to meet one day. If I remember one thing he said, that was it, and I agreed. This did seem unlikely, for I didn’t want to stir up the hornet’s nest, not creating more friction than there was.

Years later, that wish came true. One day my dad did get a picture of his brother from the older brother. Much later on—several months after my dad died—I was able to meet this troubled man when he was dying in the hospital and had tubes down his throat. unable to speak to me any more.  

My mom was my source in finding out about my grandmother, but she knew little.  She admits she didn’t know what to say to her mother-in-law, being young and not very savvy when it came to making conversation. What she remembered about my grandmother was that she was very quiet and often stared out from the position of an obscure woman in a room full of people. My mom thought her “spooky”. My mom recalls that my dad said that she smoked down her cigarettes the nub, burning and blackening the tips of her fingers.  She even might have started a small fire in her sister’s waste basket with a burning cigarette.

There is one thing that sticks out that my mother recalls that is sweet. What my grandmother asked my mother shows her humanity: “Do you love my son? “ It shows a woman who has genuine feelings, has desires, and caring. I could see the love that she had for my father when I heard that she brought his boots to school in bad weather, and he was embarrassed by the look of her—rolled down socks and an old fur coat.  I doubt, though, he ever heard the words of “I love you”, as my father did not say these things to his children.

Near the end of his life, when my father was getting dementia, I knew the time was short for us to talk and now was the moment to ask questions. “I know so little about your childhood”, I told him. He said there was nothing worth mentioning, and when I probed him a bit, he told me, “We were the lowest of the low”. It saddens me that the pain was still very much there.

What my parents couldn’t or didn’t tell me, I learned from a few other relatives. I called up my dad’s cousin—who lives in Las Vegas—with plenty of apprehension, never having met her, and not knowing if she’d want to talk with me. Slowly, I sensed her grow from suspicious of my intent to warming up to me a bit. She said she liked my father, but “he could have been nicer to his mother”. This cousin told me that he avoided her a lot, and she felt my grandmother was aware. My dad’s younger brother did, too, I am told. My mom related to me that once when my grandmother would knock on their door back in their flat in Detroit, in their early years of marriage, my dad told her not answer the door to prevent her visit.

If it wasn’t for this cousin’s mother, my grandmother’s sister, as well as two of her daughters, the poor woman would have been quite lonely—though I’m sure loneliness defined her. I am glad they took an extra interest in my grandmother. They would take her out for coffee or have her over.  This sister “felt sorry for her”, the Las Vegas cousin told me.  I’m glad, but she “felt sorry for her? I hope it was more than that.

Considering all what she went through, I am wondering what went through my grandmother’s head. Did this woman ever feel loved? If she did, it must have been like a glass of water in a desert.

Another of my dad’s cousins, from another sister of my grandmother’s, helped me out. Her family stories filled in some gaps, but what she couldn’t tell me records did. The records seemed to prove the stories correct, as some family stories can be more fiction than fact.

I did my own research, as well as get records from others, and finally hired a genealogist. I verified that my grandmother was born in 1892 in a village in Lithuania, not ever knowing the exact date. Loss began early in her life, as her father died of small pox when she was four months old. He was twenty six, and he wasn’t even married a year. Records show this bit of oral history to be almost spot-on.  My parents made a single visit to my grandmother’s youngest sister, and this great aunt told me that my grandmother lost her father at six months old. My dad never knew his real grandfather died, thinking his youngest aunt had a different father. He was surprised to find out that his mother was the one set apart from the others.

So my great grandmother was left a widow with a baby to care for all on her own. This would have been bad for both, so this gr
Grandmother, may you feel the warmth of God's embrace now, and hope you can know that I care and you DO matter.
Dreams of Sepia Jul 2015
( or also entitled : Just How Much ******* Are You Prepared to Believe)

Confidence - grandiosity
Hope - Delusion
Ambition - grandiosity + delusion
Love - Co-dependency
Unrequited Love & romantic hopes - Erotomania
Sexuality - Hypersexuality
Happiness - Manic mood
Sadness - Depression
Shock - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Emotional - Bipolar
Fear - Paranoia/psychosis
Distrust - Suspicion ( e.g paranoia)
Loneliness - Neediness
Needing connection to others - Co-dependant
Existential doubts - suicidal
Spiritual awakening - psychosis
Sarcasm - Aggression
Loner - socially-withdrawn
Messy - self-neglectful
Angry - dangerous/violent
Faith - dangerous Religisiosity
dubious combination
of some of the above : Schizophrenia

Note : All of these need drugs to 'cure' them so the drugs companies can make a fortune & pay you a premium. Where did you think the money for your salary came from?
Have you ever thought how many of us are labelled as mentally ill these days? Have you ever stopped to think about how wrong this is? How everything is being medicalized? Just ordinary human behavior, reaction & emotion being ostracized? Labelled? People being given dangerous, damaging drugs to ' cure' them of their human condition? People locked up in hospitals against their will & treated by force just for being human? There is a better way.
Bob B Jan 2020
Sometimes you see her admiring herself
In the mirror that's hanging next to the shelf.
And when she does it, oh, how she shines!
Is that, dear cat, how you practice your lines?
She seems not to care if we pay attention,
But maybe right here I ought to make mention
That being an actress, she's disinclined
To always reveal what's going on in her mind.
And she'll never, never tell you her age--
Aphrodite, the cat of the stage.

She says, "You know…I'm not one to cuss,
But when I am hungry, I WILL make a fuss."
Yes, she can certainly put on a scene
And act as though she's an importunate queen.
She says, "My dears, if I'm weak or mild,
I'll never drive the audience wild."
That critical scene is repeated each night--
A regular tour de force all right.
Yes, it's best to try to assuage
Aphrodite, the cat of the stage.

Her eyes were surely her greatest feature;
She THUS scoured the town for a drama teacher,
"Who," she says dolefully, "told me one night he
Could make me a star. ME: Aphrodite!"
But as it turned out, ol' Mr. Mittens
Made her instead a mom of eight kittens.
"But," she says, "THAT'S between you and me.
You know how I like my privacy."
It's good to always be on the same page
With Aphrodite, the cat of the stage.

One thing you learn is for her it's the norm
To act a bit slighted when asked to perform.
She must be totally in the mood
Or else she behaves in a manner subdued.
And heaven help you if you are neglectful
Of if her audience is disrespectful.
She'll exit the room like a "cat" out of hell,
And you may not see her for quite a long spell.
You never want to see her rage--
Aphrodite, the cat of the stage.

She sighs and says, "It's such a shame that
Few playwrights write good roles for a cat.
My friends say--when they see me upset--
'Commercials might be a better bet.'
My talents, however, as you might have guessed,
Best fit the stage. But now I must rest."
With that she lifted her nose in the air
And strutted out of the room with great flair.
It's always nice: advice from a sage
Like Aphrodite, the cat of the stage.

-by Bob B (1-24-20)
CHEERFUL voices by the sea-side
Echoed through the summer air,
Happy children, fresh and rosy,
Sang and sported freely there,
Often turning friendly glances,
Where, neglectful of them all,
On his bed among the gray rocks,
Mused the pale child, little Paul.

For he never joined their pastimes,
Never danced upon the sand,
Only smiled upon them kindly,
Only waved his wasted hand.
Many a treasured gift they bore him,
Best beloved among them all.
Many a childish heart grieved sadly,
Thinking of poor little Paul.

But while Florence was beside him,
While her face above him bent,
While her dear voice sounded near him,
He was happy and content;
Watching ever the great billows,
Listening to their ceaseless fall,
For they brought a pleasant music
To the ear of little Paul.

'Sister Floy,' the pale child whispered,
'What is that the blue waves say?
What strange message are they bringing
From that shore so far away?
Who is dwelling in that country
Whence a low voice seems to call
Softly, through the dash of waters,
'Come away, my little Paul'?'

But sad Florence could not answer,
Though her dim eyes tenderly
Watched the wistful face, that ever
Gazed across the restless sea,
While the sunshine like a blessing
On his bright hair seemed to fall,
And the winds grew more caressing,
As they kissed frail little Paul.

Ere long, paler and more wasted,
On another bed he lay,
Where the city's din and discord
Echoed round him day by day;
While the voice that to his spirit
By the sea-side seemed to call,
Sounded with its tender music
Very near to little Paul.

As the deep tones of the ocean
Linger in the frailest shell,
So the lonely sea-side musings
In his memory seemed to dwell.
And he talked of golden waters
Rippling on his chamber wall,
While their melody in fancy
Cheered the heart of little Paul.

Clinging fast to faithful Florence,
Murmuring faintly night and day,
Of the swift and darksome river
Bearing him so far away,
Toward a shore whose blessed sunshine
Seemed most radiantly to fall
On a beautiful mild spirit,
Waiting there for little Paul.

So the tide of life ebbed slowly,
Till the last wave died away,
And nothing but the fragile wreck
On the sister's ***** lay.
And from out death's solemn waters,
Lifted high above them all,
In her arms the spirit mother
Bore the soul of little Paul.
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring lace which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly:
A winning wave (deserving note)
In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
GaryFairy Jan 2014
It is easy to detect
detection of the rules you neglect
neglectful of what you protect
protection of the invisible object
objection to what others select
selection of the list that's checked
checking for a way to connect
connection lost, has an effect
effecting words that were direct
direction lost
N Mar 2020
You who left me,
a child without a home

You who neglected me,
I carry your last name
like a curse

You who forgotten me,
I look in the mirror and see
your eyes staring back at me
I hate that I have his eyes.
Alexander Klein Oct 2011
Thou stars who burnést sore unto our realm,
Why lay such laurels cruel about our ears
And hail misfortunes from the noxious clouds
To break our will? Was it not thou, thou star,
Who shone the speech of Delphi on Aegeus,
Shone likewise on his simple mind when fail'd
To find the veiléd seer's second truth?
In deed, by words son Theseus was wrought
And carried newborn from the grasping surf
In soft-eyed mother Aethra's arms, whose face
Like sprite, which King of Athens knew. The boy
Grew warm and noble, olive branch and fig
Did blossom at his fingertips and fall
When hunger or desire reared their heads.
'Twas time of peace when shone your sister stars
That hang in clouds of gas or nebulae
Far from the grasp of Dodekatheon.
Shall not benevolent stars keep kindling flame?
Young Theseus did sail away, some spark
Of thee caught in the sky when Athens rul'd
By silent father missing roaming son.
Long passed the years when Echo was sole friend:
Repugnant Stars who drool malignéd light
Wax'd strong in endless cloak of mother night,
Bestowing jinx and turn of luck on man
And all his ways. Long pass the years till home
He sails! The slayer of the minotaur!
Victorious and bathed in Pallas rays -
Neglectful to the shade of trecherous sails.
O father, father! Where was thy patience
So long control'd when rul'd the world of men?
Chanced she on silver winds and flew to sea?
Or swallowed by thy famished heart in grief?
Or was't the curse of evil stars that led
Thee to thy end? O, there are none who know.
Pay heed, thou stars, for still Aegeus fled
To coast, and from the stony precipice
Lay ancient eyes on blackest slaver's sails.
On oracle had he but thought again
The pain of murdered progeny be dulled
In falseness and in truth, and he'd have stayed
Still breathing on that windy cliff. And yet
The meddlesome magic of vexing doom
By constellation born caused tears in him
Who had birthed kingdoms into fiery being.
His sandles part from lip of cliff, he falls,
Belov'd of all the winds while through the air,
Until Poseiden's realm at last he finds
The greenest dream he ere had known. The reefs!
The fish! What sweetest realm is kissed by him
Beyond the veil! Those two great fathers meet
At last, both loving boy in ship above
Still goveren'd by the waning stars of hate
But sailing on till morning come.
We sat aloft a dune
   peering over the ocean,
waves mesmerizing
  our inner turmoil,
grainy surf dimensions
    cut into psyche,
voices turned hazy
midst broiling sun
  washed back with
   salt water tears,
there was no lighthouse
  to guide the way
  nor save disparate crests  
no words reverberated the sound,
    just the floundering of
      gritty restless emotions
that once were blissed horizons
   before moon lost its balance
     to relentless torrential currents
      of neglectful destruction,
   drowning in ambiguous undertows
The full moon took effect.
Margrett Gold May 2015
Yet Truth and Honesty,
not always clear to me,

they're their own entity.

Uncraddling.
They've allow Me to submerge myself
into what has always been known.

And not at all similar to comfort,
nor a sense of peace.

indirect, passive,
...neglectful

Truth and Honesty,
Mother and Father.
A second version of "Real Parents"
Brittle Bird Apr 2015
I didn't hold tendons between my fingers like
street boys on rain city rooftops,
crumpling their futures up to smash into shredded jeans,
shredded hearts,
some wrappers escaping, flying over this city
as our neglectful witnesses.

Their hands were broken bottles. The black top
made my guts look like escaping snakes,
my eyes hoping to be Medusa.
Fictionalizing gets me through most things.
Sometimes pain tastes like metal, sometimes like cherries.

I stare at the sideways sunset, a wrapper spit up
and drying out, a pipe dream promise;
reviewing my time strips as if they'd had a spelling change,
recounting every drop of blood word and smile.
Sometimes I forget that I'm real.
Sometimes I'm not.
Day 27 of NaPoWriMo.
Adam Childs Mar 2014
I reject  God as he dances around
In his heavens in his expansive freedom
While the neglected human spirit
Remain chained to the confines
Of this world
While he sits back
Overlooks
With a neglectful apathy

All Gods drop away in my mind
As I turn my back on the Lord
I bow to the power of human spirit

Engulfed and surrounded
By the darkness of their mortality
I still see the defiance in their stair
Engulfed by a face of fear
Eyes shine bright like two
Sparkling stars in the dead of night  
Saying NO NO NO
To the darkness

TRAPPED TRAPPED TRAPPED
Deep down in their darkness
Buried under under under
FAR FAR FAR
From any heaven above
As they feel no God down here
BLACK BLACK BLACK
Pitch blackness , Coal
Crushes with an engulfing fear
From every side
Birth presses from below
And death presses from above
Compressed into an inescapable
       DARKNESS!!!

But the human spirit
Relentlessly fights back
Abandoned by God
It defiantly pushes back
At the darkness deemed to
Destroy it
Atoms of the soul
Unify themselves into
Perfect alignment
As they become an
Impenetrable army
That stands firm and says
No to the darkness
YOU SHALL NOT PASS

Crystallized under great
Pressure the soul
Becomes the perfect diamond
As nothing is stronger , harder
Greater than the human spirit
I feel i took a bit of risk with this
felicia Jan 2016
through the looking glass i see.
i know right, im that girl
whose life is far from the word perfect
and no one wants to be me.
cracked, bitter, gloomy, broken ?

and im dealing with my own self.
hiding under my blankets, dark in my own cave.
introverted soul trapped in an extroverted personality.
they tell me im emotionless,
but im just not good at expressing my feelings.
they say im neglectful,
i think they just cant dip into my world.
they say im freaking out,
for me im just me

but whose life im living now?
oh for God's sake!
imma live my own life,
not other people's life.
im gonna go a hundred miles and live my dreams.
i will be who i wanna be.
im gonna scream, im gonna sing.
i will write hundreds of poetry, thousands of poetry.
i will free myself.

i will heal myself.
im buying new pillows, new cute glasses,
i will paint my nails blue and green,
i will dye my hair.
taking sick days and letting myself fall apart
but just then i will buy myself some candies and i will be okay again.
i just wanna be alright again and i know i will.
im gonna laugh till i cry,
im gonna skip classes to study at the library.
imma be disgusting and cry into my wounds.
going on a walk by myself
and tell everyone they look gorgeous.
i will dress nicely,
and make others feel alright about themselves.
imma read books, drink a cup of tea, and buy myself succulents.

i wanna love hard, i want an extraordinary love.
im gonna love the people i love.

i wanna be mad, passionate, going insane.

i dont want mediocres,
my love is not a mediocre thing.

i will live my life and i'll be okay.
and i will find a way to tell
Tiffany Norman Apr 2015
You broke your little girl.

You dropped her head
in a boiling ***
and the pressure
broke her skull.

Fished her out
and set her
in the sun to
dry and dry and dry.

Your neglectful hands
left her there to turn
the color of things
trapped between train tracks.

And now she exists.
You can hear her
but you don’t understand
what she’s screaming.
Justice* for the meek
   won't come soon
Under skies aligned
   with sinful moons
Neglectful statues
   posing as mothers
Executives commission
   the blood red summer

Venture across the divide
earmarked by three lines
another writing exercise
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
feminists can't take to aristotle, they can't "trend" him, or put on a christmas sweater donning a reindeer... they can't do it... first of all: aristotle in feminism? just a donce, mr. spastic-fantastic... they call it autism these days... get a **** from a gob that said that, i'll wager you a ******* treasure map leading toward king solomon's mines... feminism came about from as much as a movement as any, that was existentialism... it could have been: beginning with phenomenology... but then there's the problem of suffixes... -ology and fem- what? the logic of women... ah... so no -ism then? that would really make much more sense, thank you. the suffix already explains it! it's best described as quasi, so quasi women... not pseudo women, just quasi-fem... owning a chair makes more sense... and when they do take to creating an affix of -ology to the movement, i'll be glad to drop my figurism ism ism ism, ism blah transfigurism ism blah blah ism.*

a bit like the modern day narcissus needing two mirror
to look at "himself", but rather the industrial
     advert commercial complex
of the other looming
over him...
    if we can call 3rd wave
feminism, we can also call it
2nd wave existentialism,
and i invoke the prefix with that
suggestion of keeping up with "vogue";
it's post-existentialism
i.e. it's a return to a theocracy
embellished by islam...
  if feminism is in its 3rd wave
then existentialism is in its 2nd
and this is how it's going to stop,
by not talking post-modern art,
                     or the suffix associates of
         -ism,
feminism is as much a movement as
existentialism, to be honest, they ought to be
a married couple...
  none of them care to prescribe us individuals
akin to a person that can't be ascribed
feminine evaluations as to what guarantees
an individuation authenticity;
we also state that the more vogue we handle
the more vague we become,
       humanity has become so so beautiful
in its self-righteous adoration that now it's
starting to cling to a hidden pathos
that its atheism presribed it,
         meaning atheism worked from the stance
of apathy...
                     or: without a pathology,
until the coroner inspects.
              atheism isn't akin to a *** drive,
apathy is...
                  apathy overpowers atheism every time
a need to persevere is mentioned, or
is the basis for the antithesis of φoνoς: στρες
(units of stressors)...
                         take to whatever comfort is
abiding, but never think that writing will not make
you neglectful; in this art of "remembering"
you are most likely to become forgetful,
hence the symbiosis of writing and drinking,
hand-in-hand, the two walk toward the dover cliffs
and jump off them into the sea-like-abyss.
the funny part comes when you perform
a balancing act while also juggling on someone
else's book, after you've written your doodles
and subsequently became ingracious about
others' claim to poem... like it had to rhyme?
english to me is like shoving my pinky finger
up my *** telling people it's the size of a thumb.
Daniel A Russ Jul 2010
Furious orange wounds
rimmed in charcoal
betray last night's secret:
died, almost died,
charred in an accidental inferno
due to the lazy application
of a long-standing addiction.

Warm,
paper-burn stink clings
to the heat of an early morning
- July.
The slowly-creeping wet heat
in stark contrast
to the quickflash realization of predawn:
my bed was on fire.

The must never know,
those in the cells opposite -
surely, threats of neglectful destruction
warrant the hasty eviction
of the new tenant.

Thus I,
the wakeful sentinel of 611 Lyon
watching for mattress fire
have overturned the hopefully-cooled burns
and will sleep
to avoid dwelling on thoughts
of bonfires.
allison Jul 2014
Written about a car accident on May 21, 2014

The phone only rings once
but I don’t even pause for that
I just sputter out the sobs
and sloppy descriptions of a flipped car
and cross streets where she can find us.

I remember to assure her
that me and Cyra – yes she is with me – are fine
and we turned down the trip to the ER
in the cramped ambulance
with the neglectful girl
that might have a broken arm,
probably from the nearly fatal
death grip she had on her navigation
through that red light.

They ask me the same questions
at least four times
but I can’t possibly remember
which direction I was driving
because we flipped twice in the air
and shattered my windshield in the process
and I’m not sure how we got all the way
across the intersection
because now I’m sitting on Walnut
but that’s the opposite of
the direction I was headed.

I reach for her hand because I’m just glad for two things.

I took most of the impact
and the seatbelt abrasions
and bruised bones
are mostly on my limbs
and not hers.

I looked over to my passenger seat
in fear of what I would find,
and saw her looking back at me,
scared, but alive.

May 23, 2014 3:48:40 PM
Joanna Oz Jun 2015
I wear my watch on the inside of my wrist keeping time by the pulsing of overfilled veins.
If I'm honest, the seconds pass blurry when you are around, red pounding at the blue surface reminding my life of it's vigorous momentum as the watch face marks it's disappearance.
I can do nothing about it's circular cycle, nor the manner in which I mirror it, recycling threadbare thoughts and feelings in ostensible new purpose.
I am a walking contradiction formed of practical mysticism and coffee stained teeth, spinning poetry from numb fingertips onto the ghosts of birch trees, fleeing from my wildest dreams.
Meet me,
half way between belief and reality at the junction of duality and I'll reveal I have no true identity - no creed no name no history,
only chaotic shifting and angry bumblebees drilling sinkholes for visitors toes to curl into as they fashion temporary homes in me.
I am solar soliloquy.
Astrological antiquity curses me to orbit you habitually.
Eye of the storm, hand of the beast, souls of the many downtrodden and hungry, asking for shoulders to stand upon shaky.
Grant me your three wishes, and I will conjure infinity from our palms clasped tight in secrecy.
Tell me,
neglectful lover,
when did my beauty become a pleasurable void, to be touched
yet left unseen,
when did my spirit become matter
buried under the mind of desire and empty chatter.
Humor me,
say that the meeting of our skin is more than physical proximity say,
that you dream of my flowers growing from your ribcage say,
that the gods granted us an opportunity for greatness,
say that our kiss is a portal to Andromeda and that you could get lost there forever - I know I have.
Yet, even light years away I hear the tick tocking ticktick of my heart bleeding into itself.
I am fleeting.
I am deafening.
I am a forgetful timekeeper,

late to my own re-birthing.
Damaré M Apr 2013
Relay the message
There's something I'm detecting
I promise to respect it
But if he's being neglectful
Let me become careful

Caresome
Deceitless

Excuse my grammar
Im speechless

Broad day
Thinking
Dreaming
Wishing
That he's slippin

Falling right off the edge into the ocean

Leaving your heart open

Right? Open ?

When he become irresponsible and lock his keys behind the closed door; tell me that he's the only one who can't access room in your heart!!!

Ocean no!

I hope that you don't dive in behind him and allow yourself to sway from captain to captain

I hate to be captious
But
Mermaids aren't meant to be captured by a man who's heart is fractured

My net is full of caress

So while the both of you is near the cliff; I'm somewhere onshore

Ready to reel you in with so much lure

Tell him
Tell him now
That when he clown
Which results into your frowns

Let him know that I'm in town
Right around the corner
Right up the street
No where far
On the same boulevard

But if you're smart
This is where you'll start
Where you'll Start To finish

Just end it !!

I know I don't have your heart, but I'm still in it

You know how I know?
Because of his senses

His senses, make him ask you; who is it?

Who's the guy?

"How is it that I make you feel low
And somehow  your still  high"

His blemish
My good intentions
His senses
See how tense he is
Makes my wish list
So I'm whispering
"Do it, do it, do it"
And you are listening
But your lips isn't twitching
You kno he'll lose it
Your eyes are glistening
His eyes is blistering
I wish I was present for witnessing

Strange because I'm smiling for your cries

Waiting for you to tell him goodbye
So I can actualize on his lies.

Capitalize on his disguise

Tell him
Tell him that it's me, who he thought that he was when he was not being truthful

His creativity and imagination

Is ambiguous and hellacious

Let him know that he have your heart, but it belong to someone else

Also make it clear that he antagonized on someone else's prize

And while your eyes are teary; you laugh and tell him that someone else has come to title him as your last

At this point He knew this wasn't gonna last,  but he must ask

And ask
Again and again

Who is he?

Then you tell him ...
Tell him that he met me before and I looked him dead in the eyes like a man but didn't shake his hand.
...
Tell him that I basically told him
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
⌘                            well, sure,                            ⌘
she is a poet, alright,
but quite a peculiar one.
the quill on her escritoire
has worn brittle. and it's
inkwell is mostly dry, but
not from good use. i believe
it was knocked over by her
spooked, yet shamefully
neglectful cat one stormy
afternoon. it was monday,
i'm quite sure. to elaborate
a little further, the cat's name
is 'monday.' honestly, i am not
that good at remembering days;
though, i do believe—yes, it was, in fact,
a monday.
⌘                                                        ­                  ⌘
regardless
of monday's impromptu housecapades,
the inkwell sat dry and unused;
yet, she still authors such rich,
beautiful poetry. she'll never
use fancy words and rarely
ever speaks, but i do know
that i am her muse. she'll
never confess that much,
but i am positive they’re
for me. i feel her scrawl her
loyal verse upon my fragile,
calloused heart; they have
made change within me.
i'm her living poetry and
i love her—i need her—
she is Quill and i'm
⌘                          her Paper.                          ⌘


To:
my love—
my dearest
darling,
Sarah-mine

Ɛ> ~mushes~ <3




∘ ⊱‧⌍  ⌈✞⌋  ⌌‧⊰ ∞
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
allison Aug 2014
Forty eight hours since I sat at my dining room table
The sweetness from the red velvet bundts and
The sharpness of the burnt wax filled the air
I had just blown out the candle on another year
And I looked at my small stack of cards
And I realized that none were signed with your name
But I wasn’t surprised because
Not only did you bail the day before to see us
For the first time in a few months but
You hadn’t even called.
Friends I haven’t talked to in years logged onto facebook
And typed the two measly words
That would have made all the difference.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by both
Your neglectful nature and
Your ******* excuses
But it doesn’t help it hurt any less.
I wonder if you remember the disgust
When you not only lit up in the car with me
But told me the right woman could make you quit
Or recall the weeks I was trapped
In a cheap house with cracking doors
On a dirt road in some small city
With your crazy, thought-to-be witch of a wife
That conned you for all that you had
To split with her drug addict, anxiety-ridden sons.
Even if your memory is that far-fetched that you don’t
You can’t even bring yourself to remember
The day I was born?
Even if you had, the lack of acknowledgment
Is utterly upsetting
And it left the pieces of my smile
Scattered on the shower floor
As I heard my mother yell at your voicemail
Because you couldn’t bother to pick up
The other line either.
The week you wait to apologize
Won’t make me any more eager to forgive
And you best realize
I won’t forget.


*August 13, 2014
9:52:25 PM
deanena tierney Jan 2011
In the afterglow of prodigal, there is found a sour taste,
One of worthless memories, and of time that was a waste.
A bitterness which became ingrown by neglectful disconnect,
Which thrives on learned indifference and a lack of self respect.
And as for needs, there are not many, shy of another breath.
But even that is questionable, still there is no desire for death.
A ticking clock with broken hands, there's no edge on the knife,
Thus only the heartbeat's contrary to, an empty pointless life.
Dania Dec 2013
Stuck,
Uncertain whether in the beginning or the end
But does it matter?
I try to look ahead and pretend
That breaking glass doesn't scatter
I reach for that paper and that pen
Trying to hold in an unwanted tear
But then my words reflected by the ink,
Figure out the pens cry of fear.
And then I look around
Certain of the uncertainties, aware of the unawareness
Holding on to an edge
Then I glimpse his eyes, too far for me to reach,
Yet the echo of his voice still stuck in my head
I can still hear the unspoken words repeating, triggering the superfluous blame
Still muted behind walls
Walls of dishonor, disgrace, walls built by layers of shame
An inner struggle, shaped by the outer actions, of the mind verses the soul
Regardless of the consequences, I blindly reject the "Future's" call
I've spent endless nights, drowned myself with thoughts
Going hand in hand with the shades of black
Tried to relate to those shooting stars, those on a journey of no way back
And I did relate, for I knew my starting point, and I knew I was heading far
However indecisive about the awaiting future boulevard, turns out I am that star
Dealing with doubtful thoughts, facing the faces of the phases that await me still,
Taking hesitant steps, one after the other
Climbing that undecided future hill
And it seems the decision isn't easy, but I'll use his tender touch as a guide
I'll whisper in the pure ears of the deaf, and use the open eyes of the blind
For it seems it is a blessing,
To be neglectful of a thing or two
And for me nothing is as it seems, remember the sea isn't blue
I will search for the pause button eager to buy some satisfying time
For in a blink of an eye, it’ll all be over and what’s mine will no longer be mine…
I am unfortunately out of practice,
I have given you into the hands of my laziness and neglectful nature,
They are unkind masters,

They like to make me forget that good things require attention,
Else good things grow tainted with tarnish,
Your polished glory was only known when I remembered to care,

Must I communicate with you,
Resurrecting you from the dead?
Or are you my communication and I must learn to speak again?

As sleeping beauty,
You are sleeping inside of me,
Your lifeless form is sustained by only the guilted glances from my mind,
I acknowledge you existence,
But something hinders me from shaking you,
Waking you,
Ripping you from your slumbering prison,
To replace you to your seat of importance,

Why hold back?
I know the reward of your company,
Yet I am content in complacency!
I am the one sleeping,
But beauty does not grace my bed,
I am betrayed by the unfeeling safety l cling to,
To work,
To make an effort,
Not only is it hard,
Exhausting,
But it is a risk,

Fear of falling,
Of failing,
Of losing,
Of letting down,
This fear has replaced you as my best friend,
It drives my actions,
My passions,
It claims my best interest,
Delusional,
Self-centered,
It looks out only for itself,

“You know better.”
Whispers,
As though talking into my dreaming,
You insist truth,

Truth is the only thing that might overcome fear,
If one could just let the truth in,
One could wake up,
I could wake up,

You, thought to be the sleeper,
You are screaming from my heart,
But Fear also screams,
Fear is afraid,
It chokes my heart,
Trying to silence your pleas,

The war in my chest breaks my trance,
Wake me up!
Oh for God’s sake, wake me up!
I want to live again!

Was life granted only to sleep in safety?
I was made to feel!
To speak and express and converse and love and use my gifts,
Fear be ******!

I was made to be with you,
You are my heart,
Hold me tight and never let me forget you again,
Never let me fall asleep.
Visit My Blog: http://thethirdpseudonym.wordpress.com/
Mary Torrez Jan 2012
I remember your nervous doe-eyes
and uncertain grasps
like a new shriveled-pink baby
engulfed and overwhelmed
by the palpability of a realm
outside the womb

The canary of your hair
melded with the sand of your skin
and the rose of your lips
****** into an anxious
façade of a smile

It was as if
the contortion of your lips
was stenciled onto your taut canvas face
by a neglectful artist
and you wore the mar acquiescently
like a sketch unfinished

And I remember
kissing that imperfect smile
and being stricken by a heavy melancholy
that descended from my lips
to my chest
where it burrowed inexorably

Your limp hand fell from mine
and as my chest constricted
like a reptilian death penalty
I understood your nearly-smile
Thought are not suppose to be bottled.So I pour my *** down the sink when I think, it runs down,and I **** away the world afflictions, cause its bigger than my shrink.Hard to blink cause my addiction is I stare into space tryna find my place.To be libra, even with the ying yang cause its constant battle in my cerebral.
Dealin with neglectful people,resultin with me to project hate towards the one I call fam.
****!
I should crucify my hands cause its writtin so much sin from heart.Its truely hard to be positive cause im always dwellin in the dark.
I feel thats what my only option is.
Haunted by the future, dreamin bout the past,tryin to recover, and exhume feelings to rid of that never last.Cause I dont want  stained names writtin on my heart cast growin pains maken me nuts, groin pains.
I want no part of that!
Sometimes I wanna die of a broken heart attack.Beating too seperate pulses on the screen, watch  it get flatlined and silent like my hopes and dreams.
pshhh **** this self esteem!
I been bullied at young,laugh at cause I was fat and dumb,always askin for theyre pizza crust nd crumbs.Always picked last and never won not once.
But I aint done,lost my father, young and I wasnt a good son.Im his off spring that sprung with mean gene son.Him a Drug addict, im the pain addict,I inject the hate habbits an cry in my own attic.
Hopin for a dragon tails, or some
Harry potter magic.
At night I see father & son commercials on the tv screen, I cringe, cause I remember thinking one day thatll be me.To have some  sorta memory of the dAy that we meet.But it never came to pass or be. No sir-ree!  he was notorious, but all he gave me was a  missed calls and birthday wishes never granted, and dead dreams.And a ache, that came with me when I left the nursery the day I was born.
Breathless, a severe asthmatic. Abnia child,who eventually  grew wild,while with no father to tell him to sit down! Im AdHd I cant keep calm! Ima a pessimisst with thoughts in my
Mind that storms from night till dawn.
All about christ,with nails as the  pen in my palms.Reading the psalms,to keep strong but im still weak ,a lefty doin right is wrong.
Still keep my heart on my arm I still flex  nd rep love till packed solid like abs and pecs. But just give a nine or tech, to shoot bullet notes.The ology of knowing me, is a study of a SOB.. Shortness of breath...


Lost in direction I need a pointer,
And eyes cause im walkin wrong,
No seein
Not believing


-Deep Thought
Tammy M Darby Sep 2016
Love
Present the description
Without soulful glance and regretful sigh
Vocalize its definitions from within and without the heart
As vast as turquoise boundless skies.

It is an integrated palette of deep desire in warm soft dreams
Often no more than a contrived replica from a lover’s breath
It is the written of in fading ink by the long dead poets
The portrayal of honorable words falling from trusted lips

Neglectful to the seed of betrayal
The despair of a shriveling heart
From the whole to the dark eclipse

Look deep into the transparent windows
Beware for the eyes tell all
Of love and hate
The frozen span of a bleak wasteland
The veins coursing with inextinguishable fire  
It is the integrated palette of soft warm dreams and deep desire

All Rights Reserved  @Tammy M. Darby Sept. 17, 2016 .USA
Kelsey Erin Jun 2017
I was created from car crashes and cigarette smoke and alcohol and neglectful and broken parents
I was created from their hurt
I was created to be hurt
I was born unlovable
I was born not being able to love
I was born sad
I was born with a name that means to be brave
I was born with a curved spine and was made into a titanium one
I was made into long legs and unruly brown hair and green eyes and loud opinions with a soft voice
I was made to be resilient.
Chloe Zafonte Jun 2016
A 2 year old boy was killed by an alligator
"I don't care he was white"
"The parents are neglectful"as these people mourn their baby that
they created, birthed and raised for just a short time.

The gorilla was shot simply to save a child
" justice for harambe" " they should of killed the kid"

50 people have been shot dead in a gay nightclub by a man who pledged to isis. "Islam is a religion of peace" "hug a Muslim" so the LBGT  community no longer matters? You'd rather defend a religion that isis branched  off  of?

A man gets arrested for ****** a girl and gets 3 months in prison which is completely unfair and he doesn't need to be in society. All you say is " it's white male privilege" do you people care about that traumatized girl? Who has the deal with this humiliation for the rest of her life.

Take time to realize the suffering and embarrassment the victims and the ones who personally know the victims are going through instead of defending perpetrators and bring outside stories into the case.
JDK Feb 2014
I had a dream that you were larger than life.
I slipped in through your mouth
to learn the secret of your insides.
You spat me out.
I fell.
You caught me with hands the size of clouds,
then stuck me in a cage with a yellow canary.
I had to eat the bird to stay alive.
You're a neglectful pet owner.
Now I'm  trapped here
with no company.
I long to be free.
I cannot fly;
I never sing,
but it would be alright
if you'd just look at me.
I know why the caged bird sings.

— The End —