"obliterates" poems
Fear is a wine-red chartreuse window.
Holding within the fantasies and myths of ones mind, body, and soul.
Ever present, it stays with you your entire journey.
To gaze from afar, brings you closer to your destruction.
However, the best place to cast the stone that obliterates it's well being,
Is the place where few tread.
Your time is now to play the role of David.
Your Goliath is fear.
And your stone,
Is you.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 7:48 AM UTC
Long days seem so much longer.
Distance does not make the heart grow fonder.
You’ve conquered the empire of my subconscious.
Your crusade so short,
Yet I hope your reign continues for eons.
We’re far past passive flatteries,
Instead, we fill each other’s hearts with vows.
You mean them now,
But what about a few months?
What if you decide I’m not what you want?
The torment I am slowly approaching,
Consumes my distant soul.
I can hear the sounds of futuristic loathing,
From when you decide this love has taken it’s toll.
So tell me.
How can I pay this inevitable toll?
How can I save us from Cupid’s malicious tyranny?
His arrow is too far lodged within me,
I cannot remove it.
I can only push it farther and farther
Into my heart until it falls out of my back.
But this arrow, trenchant.
Cupid, the sharpest of marksmen.
Yet colorblind, he is.
He sees not what colors his targets represent.
He draws his bow for the pure love of marksmanship.
Sometimes, yet not often,
He will hit the intended target.
But the odds are scarce.
His subjects are often punctured,
And connected to one whom reciprocated Fate’s desire.
Yet this time…
This time…
Cupid must have hit a target of Fate’s approval.
For thrice he has missed.
This time He and Fate are in sync.
This wound may stretch over time,
But the arrow shall remain firmly lodged within my *****
***** and immovable.
Until you kick it through my backside.
But until then,
I can only endure.
I can only be woo wounded.
I can only survive,
Another ambush of the militant called Cupid.
But I will do it for you,
For by you,
I’ve been so divinely seduced.
Wooed by your lips.
Not by your kiss,
But by the music,
Which your mandibles so express.
I desire not to seal this wound,
But to evade its’ repercussions.
For I have endured a similar wound thrice.
He is winged as if an angel,
Yet Was Lucifer not once an angel as well?
Cupid is an impostor.
A spy of Agony, himself.
He prays on the young, the old, the strong, and the weak.
He cares not who he obliterates in his crusades.
He is a bloodthirsty heathen.
He makes scoundrels of Saints,
And Harlots of Housewives.
Saint Valentine is no Saint.
He is Satan’s nightmare.
At first, his arrows are ecstasy,
But like a cancer,
His poison-saturated arrows
Seep deep within every crevice of your body.
They consume you as if enriched with ******
And eventually rot within your *****
Until it is nothing but dust and a memory.
One day I will assassinate Fate’s Malicious militant,
The one we call Cupid.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
.*i can think of one cool job... a nighttime DJ on a radio station... anything more cool than being a DJ between the hours 12am through to 5am? honestly... can't think of a cooler job... all the song requests are gone from the classical.fm show between 3pm and 5pm... now one is telling you what to do... **** me... as a kid... either a veterinarian, or an owner of a music shop... now? an insomniac DJ... they would never play Christopher Young's Something to Think About in the afternoon... sorry... i'm a Hellraiser cult-follower of the first two movies... and that song? why? i just can't be bothered with listening to that Braveheart over-scratched Song of / for a Princess... it's good... once in a while... but, come, on!*
just one of those nights...
having listened to the scoops
from the alternative...
worried your to hell
about not having *******
enough concerning
the previous day's load
which would make the pleasures
of **** *** look tame...
perched on a windowsill -
solving a sudoku -
and listening to
Frank Zappa's occam's razor...
and wishing:
making sure it was never
hot in the city
by Billy Idol,
or Kiss' crazy nights
to usher in the night,
and the watchman...
why?
it's not your standard
guitar solo...
it's a medley...
big difference...
guitar solos are bound to
a strict return to the rhythm
section...
they are caged beasts...
composed of a restricted
time constrain in a song...
but a guitar medley?
**** me...
it's what obliterates
a need for vocals...
the guitar medley is
the vocals substitute...
and that aspect of music?
mm... gummy bears...
jelly in the knees...
which is why i like
the fact that jazz is the antithesis
of classical music symphony...
sure... i get the Schubert / Schumann
piano duets...
nice...
but jazz?
the breakdown of the quintet?
**** let me count...
piano, drums...
bass... horn... sax...
yep, a quintet...
that moment in a jazz
song? where each instrument
player gets his solo?
genius!
the same with a guitar medley...
neither solo,
nor the rhythm section...
what a beautiful opening
to what i expect to be,
a beautiful night:
as the watchman once said.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
—Flash Forward—
A day of reckoning.
A small boat crosses
the Hudson River,
no warning horn.
Destination New Jersey,
of all places.
A. Burr isn’t warned
that Hamilton will not
fire his pistol.
Destiny predetermined.
“Death doesn’t discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints,
It takes and it takes and it takes.
History obliterates.”
—Flashback—
General.
Colonel.
Aide-de-camp.
Immigrant.
“Don’t engage, strike by night.
Remain relentless ‘til their troops take flight.”
“We escort their men out of Yorktown.
They stagger home single file.
Tens of thousands of people flood the streets.”
“Took up a collection just to send him to the
mainland.
‘Get your education. Don’t forget from whence
you came.’”
—Stepfather of the Union—
Treasury secretary, author of the Federalist Papers,
lawyer, speechwriter, confidante, opponent of slavery,
member of the Constitutional Convention.
“History has its eyes on you.”
“I’ve seen injustice in the world and I’ve
corrected it.”
“The Federalist: Addressed to the People
of the State of New York.”
“Goes and proposes his own form
of government.”
—Family and Marriage—
The Schuyler Sisters – Eliza.
Maria and James Reynolds – adultery and bribery.
Philip Hamilton – successor son and victim.
Philip Schuyler – father-in-law.
“And if this child
Shares a fraction of your smile
Or a fragment of your mind, look out, world!”
“I know you’re a man of honor,
I’m so sorry to bother you at home.”
“I’m only nineteen but my mind is older,
Gonna be my own man, like my father
but bolder.”
“Grampa just lost his seat in the Senate.”
—Why, How, How long?—
Why not?, biography,
genius, rapid-fire rap,
hip-hop, historical vertigo,
Lin-Manuel Miranda at the White House,
a cast talented beyond measure,
the Great White Way,
2017-18 and forever….
“…13 percent of the population is foreign
born, which is near an all-time high;
that one day soon there will no longer
be majority and minority races, only a
vibrant mix of colors.”
‒Jeremy McCarter, from Chapter I of
Hamilton: The Revolution
*© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016
With credit to the book:*
Hamilton: The Revolution
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
I'm in love.
I'm in love with the way grass smells after it's been mowed.
It has a certain smell that reminds me of summer days and childhood memories.
I'm in love with how that rain hits my window during a storm.
It's like it wants to come in so badly that tries to obliterate my window but only to realize that as soon as it hits the glass, the raindrop itself obliterates.
And I guess that's how I feel in love with you. You reminded me of summer nights and some childhood memories and I wanted to get into your heart so badly that I thought if I made myself fall you would catch me.
But, just like the raindrop, I obliterated on contact.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
It is the mundanity of the act,
of envisioning your hand gently wrapped around the copper kettle.
Obstinately gripping the pen, while you wring a sheet of paper dry for the right words.
You, cupping my face as if you were holding something precious.
As if I might slip through your fingers.
It is this devastating simplicity that obliterates every shard of my being.
A brick wall, left at the mercy of a gleaming sledgehammer
that is determined to turn everything to dust.
I see your hands everywhere.
In the haze of steam and shower curtains,
the lines dragged in velvet throw pillows,
the cloudy smudges left on a glass of water.
They run faint paths through my hair, their touch ghosts against my eyelid.
If I stare long enough,
your palm is right there, pressing into mine.
Silver cuts through the air and delivers a redundant blow.
The dust scatters once more.
You did not leave a hole
the way everyone said you were bound to.
Empty space cannot exist without everything that surrounds it, yields to it, forgives it,
validates its gaping hollowness.
Empty space is a needle and thread on the dresser, a sellotape dispenser on the desk, a container of soup left on the doorstep with a get-well-soon scribbled on the lid.
Empty space is where you can see remnants of what once was whole.
The faith and conviction that bit by bit, you will put your fragmented pieces back together again.
The nothing you left was so thick and suffocating
that it permeated every room,
filled my lungs to bursting capacity and left me gasping for more.
Its sickly, bitter fragrance danced relentlessly in my nostrils,
as though my suffering was the sweetest symphony ever heard.
It waltzed until I could feel it rising in my throat and leaking from my eyes,
twirled until my head spun.
The nothing you left insisted on making its presence known my every waking moment
and then gleefully romped its way into my nightmares.
It was so quiet, though.
A resigned quiet, like that of the ****** swinging in the gallows,
when everybody holds their breath to watch the pendulum sway.
The crossbeam glistens with last night’s rain and
they trudge back home, muttering to themselves as the dust settles beneath their feet.
I sink into sheets creased by your fingers and watch it sway.
Aug 21, 2021
Aug 21, 2021 at 6:45 AM UTC
Strange times are surrounding us
The baby bird is eating its mother
The rain ascends and fog descends
Strange times are surrounding us
Superfluous confusion dissolves concrete
Medicine sickens the the terminally ill
Strange times are surrounding us
The ambulance mutilates the patient
The moon obliterates the unsuspecting sun
Strange times are surrounding us
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
Head a hostile environment again
Emotion overthrows intelligence
Fragile skull accepts another beating
and indecency becomes preference
Absorbing black into gray matter
Meticulous infiltration;
Makes death a desire
and living a fear
Friendly fire
Mind battles disease, disease
obliterates mind to violence
collided with sharpened corners of myself
****** mess, wrong message
Swallowing hostile heavy medications,
contain my elation so that overjoy
doesn't morph into mania, or joy
Mass of electrons now inside
find nothing positive; thought paralyzed
Deviating cells that scare themselves
from the darkened sanguinary state.
wide eyed faces searching for a homeostasis
Far from stable since demon's rule
Constant epiphanies with no execution
turn to facts filed in brain catalogs
Fully aware solutions are there,
but the drawers are glued shut
~kb
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 12:43 AM UTC
When harsh words
Exploit the delicate mind
They lose their meaning
Outcasts among words
To destroy a bond
Vulnerable are they
And weak to the core
Annihilates the integrity
And obliterates sanctity
Of human gratitude
Harsh words a refuge
For the weak
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
I want to learn everything; everything comprises of everything,
be it the knowledge of the nature or the horizons of the cosmos
I want to canvas over the universe, multiverses;
to paint my reality with a brush of joy.
But, it's tough for me, because I'm dementic
If I decline it while inclining towards a book
Dyslexia obliterates my desires and hurt me badly
If I ignore all this, ADHD comes forward to poke me
with a stick of astounds and pains of eventide
If I cut down the roots of ADHD, S.A.D greets me
and enter to my dark world and enhance its darkness
I'm confused, shattered; directionless in a myopic way
Highly myopic, no direction, but I do have vision
I want to crisscross my myopia to an extent
where it diminishes.
Meningitis, shut up, you *******
Please have mercy on me, I don't deserve U at least,
But do I really need someone to have mercy on me?
I guess no, I can build my own world where
Dementia strengthens my spirits by saying,
Why just Embryology, what secrets do you want to find
Ova is not dependent on a ****** *****
it is a complete YOU.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
I feel his eyes on me
Whenever I cross the room.
It is mostly when there are others
Present and we must share ourselves,
Expended over people
And places. The spaces
Before we fall into our wine stained
Non-marital bed. The grape blood reminds me
Of my own. On my own, fledgling ******* and acne,
Elaborately false *******
Where I would never have my fill.
A child-man I forgot.
Or remember only as a token,
Cardboard textured orange peel
In a breast pocket never worn. I forget
Most everyone
Now that he is
In my life. He obliterates
All else like light pollution.
Not of fluorescent neon or slogans
But an exploding star
That dims all else
In my peripheries. I am
Diminished also in his love,
Both wholesomely and then in a sense
Where I lose my ‘I’.
It is in his shadow
Where I live. Small comet
Hidden in the black of velvet,
Licked by the spit of his flames
That scald me
And bathe me
In equal measure.
I am more than this
I know. Or guess. His tailor hands
Though, are efficient and caring. They
Do not create me, but he threads himself
Into my sides
And drops a stitch
Only to adulate the rhythm
When he enters me. When he enters me
I become burgeoned and full and blood fills
The rusted roadways
That shine blue
Through my pasty prism.
He finishes. A gloom fills me. Not
A gloom, more of a nothing and he is
An obliterated star once more
And I his aftermath.
He has killed me with a kindness,
A ghost only when witnessed, kissed.
I have long since forgotten whether I have
Been taken prisoner
Or gave myself up.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
At an angle of ninety degrees,
two trees share the same plot.
This one grazes the eaves,
seeking vain attention in the window glass.
The other, its grey ghost lazes
prostrate on the herb garden, reveling
in secrets of lemon balsm and thyme.
At night, the first becomes demonic,
obliterates the universe,
branches scraping the pane, scratching
like fingernails on slate,
its coppery leaves trying to get in.
Its partner slinks to earth,
seeking solace,
wringing conterminous roots till sunrise.
I've had my fill of these unrested moments
fighting the pillow, not settling.
There is no joy in seeking stolen stars.
My dilemma grows horns.
I half dream of ******
at least amputation.
But even the dimmest light shines in the dark -
I consider its tormented destiny.
At daybreak, like a ****** I scale its gnarled branches
ridiculously one-handed,
the other a keen-toothed weapon.
I am an agile goat shinning upwards
feeding on dreams of peace.
Lost in the sky, I become sap,
melt into its arms,
(a vertiginous release)
I become a curved branch.
(There's someone standing in my elbow!)
Leaves helix down, settling on autumn crocus.
“Look! Gold on gold!"
The grey ghost yawns, grows its shadow,
waves its arms demanding justice.
I wave back.
Suddenly terrified, I secrete an invisible scent.
The branches contract, tense as ligaments.
My heart plummets, rolls out recumbent,
presses heavily on the earth
listening to fleshy roots recede.
A few deft cuts......
Sun gutters through bereft spaces,
striking the window.
Both trees a shade lighter, a lighter shade.
Tonight I will dream under visible stars,
feel the moon's half-light slide over me.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
The wanderings of a corrupted saint
Leaves the ground bare
And brings life to the dead
Forgotten canvases on display
That were once blank
Now consume attention.
His air obliterates the unknown
Under his tread both destruction
And creation occur.
All through this pain,
this Lion races the wind.
Engulfed by fog
Separated by difference
Trudging through the broken glass
Burning what it longs to live
Learned by curiosity
Lost by the rules
Found by the enlightened
Sinner by the lost
Saint by the found
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
*"Though the mills
Of God grind slowly;
Yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience
He stands waiting,
With exactness grinds He all."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow*.
The Mill
The grueling weight
of happenstance,
A millstone for to grind,
It deflates the ego
And shows us
Where we're blind,
It renders flesh a ruin
Obliterates the mind,
We leave our idols desolate
Leave the ties that bind.
Under painful hardship
We release the very things
Which put us in the circumstance
And caused the suffering
We leave behind our craving
For wealth and diamond rings
Everything exalted
All exalted above God...
That means EVERYTHING
Whatever you adore
On this temporal earth
Whatever gives you pleasure
In which you find worth
These very things will shackle you!
You'll find out they're not free.
They are just the Golden Calf
Of base idolatry.
But the millstone slowly purges
Turning hour by hour
Turning the wheat kernels
Into useful flour.
And so I am refined
As I surely must
Put to naught my flesh
Make powder all my lusts
For I am as ashes
for I am as dust.
SS (C) 8/23/2017
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 1:43 AM UTC
rain falls on roof tops
acid desecrates energy in the air
rain falls onto us
sprinkling in your hair
we look perfect
skin soft
deflection corrupts meaning
but the acid obliterates any sign of fear
pain that we bear is nothing for vanity
gasping for a breath to see past depression
bear the burden of self awareness with me
move forward
lovely words to follow
we mean them dearly
insert our minds into perfect reality
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 12:28 PM UTC
Kali, Mother of Time & Change
obliterates superficial reality
creates black matter
to mold & form
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
I have been singing for forgotten things,
beer bottles hidden in the hedgerows.
The opera singer, the strangled vibrato,
ash-filled cokes cans; the afterparty sunrise.
This recovery has been long, fickle.
Reckless optimism and the science of failure
collide into the colour
of a Daniel Johnston cartoon,
or a songwriter's sense of humour.
Disused pencils stand as monuments
to old dreams of grass-roots art,
the fragility of neurotic *******
drawn with innumerable straight lines
that composite a woman's naked body.
I have been drawing on memories
and hoping for a brand-new image;
dissolution of old borders - a strangled voice
in a room full of opened tongues.
The Hawaiian shirt made light of depression
in darkened hours and wax smiles.
Plastic cocktails, the pending brides;
desperate men - the post-work demise.
I have learned a lie ever since.
This recovery has been imperfect, a fraud.
Swollen truths to satisfy the concerned,
only myself left to fool.
I have found the early morning
but cannot reach a sober conclusion.
Redundant habits mildew my mind
with the backwater of yesterday,
familiar street names to mourn
those who became strangers,
the negative bias of my mind's eye.
I have been writing words of action
from the safety of my desk;
all that the desk-lamp can illuminate,
all of which words can make sense.
This half-lived recovery is bunk, irretrievable.
Working poverty and untied knots
are co-morbid in meaninglessness;
chains to hold me in Plato's Cave
whilst her skin freckles in the sun.
Disused and living outside of love,
morning curtains open to a sheet of light
that obliterates loneliness
in the presence of shared heat,
only for it to return again, come night.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
drain it out,
drain it out
drain me of pollution in my burning soul
cloudy days destroy tattoos on people
stuck in my head
and to hear the cries of
people looking for rights(andwrongs)
i don't need a star and i don't need a connection
betweenotherworldythings
drain it out, everything
the doubt
the senses
the emotion
this background buzz obliterates
my eardrums
-----------------------------------------------------
into the sea of people again
no one looks at me
you've ruined it
i sink into some sink,
down the hole- -
falling
i can't understand why you don't
want to drain me out of you
and why i can't drain you out of me
it's the nightmare that just keeps going
and going
and flashes of faces of your face
just eat the hole
just eat the whole lot
impressing the press and the hole
and ripping me apart (with your
eyes)
the rambling and the falling will stop one day,
(I think i'll just have a little taste)
I have pressed i have pressed I have pressed i have pressed
you down to your core as you have pressed me
but nothing has been drained out except my invisible energy-
that is the pleasure of life
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
Sadness is dwelling in my mind
Anger is swelling in my heart
The thought of suicide sounds like a fantasy
Almost close enough to touch
But yet too dangerous to hold
As my heart melts into nothingness
and my desire to communicate diminishes
My walls of safety have been stripped from my soul
As my happiness begins to swiftly deteriorate
With every god **** blow of rejection bruises me more
screaming I punch the brick wall till my knuckles bleed
angry at myself
how could I be so **** stupid
My innocence and yearn for safety completely obliterates those thoughts of logical thinking
I am becoming this monster with open wounds that he keeps lashing at with his steel whip
As I whimper crawling towards him
But he keeps hitting harder
My body shaking, trembling
The wound deepens and gushes out blood at an intense rate
but I still am crawling as fast as I can to his arms
in hopes that he will hold me when I reach him
hoping he is satisfied that I took each intense beating and still crawled to him
hoping to be wrapped in his warm arms against his stone cold heart
Praying as hard as I possibly can that he does not drop me as he has done numerous times before. If he drops me that recurring painful crawl to him will begin once again.
Tears soaking my body and his black t shirt.
And when I look up his face, it is hard and emotionless, I push myself as close as I can into my creator. The one that turned me into something so vulnerable. Something so monstrous. But at this point there is no turning back he has every part of my mind controlled. With the snap of his fingers he can have me down on the floor begging for his attention.
My grip around his torso tightens as I feel his muscles twitch. As I look up to his eyes they begin to show the soul of the devil. As his head tilts down to mine and kisses my lips hard. With every part of my body coming alive for those brief moments, screaming with short lived happiness. He releases and looks into my eyes. For a moment, I see hope but then his eyes turn to hate, and he shoves me back to the floor, bruising not only my body but my soul, but the pain only makes me need him more. He runs towards me and at this point I think he is going to help me and hold me. No more crawling to him with open, ****** wounds. But just as he gets to me, he throws the steel whip into the darkness, and starts to batter my body with his fists. Breaking my bones and cracking my skull, blood gushing from places all over my body, but the pain is pushed away by my need for him.... but now he is leaving me ****** and broken and when he Is finished... I just crave him more.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
Piercing the shrouded sky
They fight against surrounding black:
Like flowers breaking through sidewalk cracks,
The light seeps through the darkness.
Between the leaves
The stars reach for the eyes…
But now thought reaches away:
I escape myself through abstraction
As the past violently asserts itself:
Remembrance induced by a careless focus
On a memory flowing from a present vision:
The tree
now
Clothed in leaves
Beckons forth remembrance:
*Autumn leaves,
Trundling into legs only to move past
As they ride the restless winds
Whispering their own poems
Of meaning only experience could collect…
They rush
Through fallow ditches
And enclosing brush which
Form a pattern around
The tree that beckons forth
- With disrobed branches glistening
White under stars,
Dampened by the still-settling dew-
A Self-realization that obliterates all boundaries
And encompasses no thoughts,
but the One
which gives them:
The One which gives a breath
Held together by the moments
Which trail the first puff of white
that joins the airs that wrap themselves
around the tree reaching up to the stars
which do not reflect the one who sees them
but give the light
towards which thought now reaches.*
All these memories induce
The longing to feel the openness
No words could possibly posses
As slowly the months fade
Into the dissolving moments it takes
For the eyes to reach up to the light.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 6:06 PM UTC
Are you still drinking every night?
Who do you scream at now?
Now that I’m not there to bear the brunt of your violent insecurities?
Help is an insufferable waste of air
When the one needing it is in narcissistic denial.
Part of me hopes the crumble of your career
Obliterates your shiny golden god complex.
The rest of me doesn’t give a ****
Because after the years of manipulating and pain
I’ve torn the shackles, broke free
And you don’t mean a god **** thing anymore.
A forgotten false god.
Enjoy your downfall.
I won’t see it from my rightful throne.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 10:47 AM UTC
It isn't just a flame
Burning within me
(cannot extinguish with your loving words)
It isn't only the rotten smell of overcooked thoughts
(I'd still love to eat their bitterness away)
Although it is...
It is me and my love for thee,
You who makes me a poet,
Who makes me feel enough to feel human
Whether it's sadness, happiness, hatred or jealousy
(oh that silly stinging heart of mine)
No... It's a contagious forest fire
Combusting my sanity towards those
Near you; Lived and living or loving
(how readily my tears want to burn them)
It's known it's not healthy
But you don't see it's my love anyway
Even when I am angry with you
(nothing that you're responsible for)
And mime my thoughts out to you
So you never understand.
By the time this forest obliterates,
It's all just too late to tell you,
And again,
The ash is buried inside,
Waiting to reignite,
Soon.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
Is there a place somewhere known and yet unknown
where humans keep or lose their guilts
Is there a dumping hole or a snug
or a fierce incinerator blazing
That destroys or obliterates
human guilts
Is it a known some guilts carry comfortably and alone
just another thing for the holdall satchel bag or arm
Someday its worryingly heavy on the shoulders
other times it's just small and weightless
An accessory as any others
imperceptibly light
Is the heavy guilt or tons heavy ones like granite stone
a weary toil left in a storage or thrown over a cliff
What ever done guilts come with a personal receipt
bearing owners name time and number
Attached to owner and carried 24/7
marked as 'Non-Transferable'
Is your guilt or guilts bearable or carry-able like your phone
have you stored, hidden it or pushed down a crevice
What about the indelible receipt on your person
that which is there and rests on you
Does it flare like an incindaries
or just simmer quietly
Is your guilt a bedfellow that clings to your chest in a zone
whispering in tone foreboding and chills persistent
Or one that wades in and recedes like shore waves
perhaps it's a type like a central rigid statue
An unmovable edifice of horror
coated in fear and alarm
Is your guilt light and niggly, a Bonsai with no tall grown
did you amend paying a due and penanced did leave
And though the attached receipt still haunts you
least you know it will gradually fade away
Leaving truly tutoring imprints
Never to be repeated
Is your guilt a stranger yet unmet and your spirit happy flown
do you walk in salient steps with no recourse to remorse
And greet each morn with pleasantries to I, me and self
enthralled no rent paid for secret storage or a crevice
Just the one that stands before man and Creation
Held aloof by a Conscience unstained
Copyright@Laurence14th Aug2018.all rights reserved.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC
Time doesn't steal anything from you,
it changes you.
It lets you watch your grandmother,
a strong woman, sturdy,
a force to be reckoned with:
shrivel,
become small.
Her size reminding you
of when you'd lay beside her
as a child.
Her back to you, watching her massive shoulders move
like calm waves on a shore with each
breath.
The presence of that giant
chased the nightmares away.
And you realize that it was the only time that feeling small
felt so good,
and being big now
felt so terrible.
Time doesn't steal anything from you.
It conspires with your brain
to help you perfectly
remember
the time the boy you loved gazed down from above you,
the moment
before a kiss.
The moment that will always feel longer
than any other in your life.
But time obliterates any words that were said
from memory.
Obliterates any useful information,
any conversations.
Does not allow you to remember
each
and every day.
The momentum of time allows you infinite moments
to live in your past
today.
Like living in the moment
that you woke up on your 5th birthday
to your mom who spent
all morning
blowing up hundreds
of balloons.
Time let's you remember that feeling
of opening your eyes
to magic.
Remember feeling more loved
than you will ever feel.
Time gives you this moment,
but takes away
the day.
Time is indifferent as you plummet into the future.
Dragging behind you the images and words of
an optimistic kid
that you hope to keep alive.
Time is indifferent
as it demands you wake up,
and start over
again
and
again.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC