"onslaught" poems
Elated to see you aloft in the night sky
To what do I owe this enchanted boon.
In the merry company of winking stars,
Enthralled by this sight as I admire my moon.
Bathe me in your streaks of translucent silver.
Accompany me through my sleepless nights.
Watching over me with unwavering vigil.
Swathe me in whispers of peaceful respite.
Oh how you govern the raging tides of my soul.
Rest your gaze as the waters break upon my shore...
Erode and weaken the load strewn over my burning shoals,
Sands drowned breathless but craving for more.
Few nights now... Smitten as you coyly turn away.
Thick strands of shadow clad hair in gentle cascades,
Alluringly obscuring a slight fraction of your face.
A tiny crescent blanketed away; into the blackness it fades.
More nights pass... Now I see only a lesser moon
Leaving me with only half; darkness so had claimed.
Please make yourself last; you mustn't leave too soon,
I'm not ready to be left crippled and maimed.
I silently look up as more nights go by.
I watched my lunar love dissolving into space.
My heart too, torn away a morsel at a time...
Finally she had gone; without a sliver or a trace.
Every nightfall since is rife with emptiness and despair.
I asked the stars if they could soothe my gaping void...
But they'd only twinkle in indifference...
Regardless of the pleas I've employed.
Unsure of how many rises it has thus been.
Nights only brought the onslaught of mocking stars above.
Still I toy with the promises made overhead,
For the awaited return of my crazed elusive love.
I know it's frivolous to think I'm the only one...
There are others who pine just as I do.
But I yearn the most for your sought after attention,
For our hearts have sung in every colour and every hue.
Anxiety at peak, dismayed almost broken,
Then I hear a sweet song sung; distant and far.
A song that shared the words we once had spoken,
Again enveloped in translucent silver, with relief I sighed...,
"There you are..."
.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
I was relaxed, and deep in thought
The type of talk that silence brought
When just in earshot it rocked,
tick tock
tick tock
"Must be a clock"
I told myself and resumed my thought
Though as the seconds passed I could not,
Despite the will with which I fought
Do to its incessant knock
Tick tock
Tick tock
I searched for the clock
Unable to find the train I sought
I grew more and more distraught
With each and every tick and tock
That find the clock, I could not
As the silence grew more fraught
With the knock,
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
I knew the pain of Lancelot
On and on it ticked and tocked
I cursed at the unseen dreadnought
It no longer merely mocked
But each and every tick and tock
Became an unseen onslaught
TICK TOCK
TICK TOCK
T'was 11 o'clock,
When my heart felt the gunshot
Though the shots I could not block
And on and on the bullets poured
Further into the fray I bored
Each foot a cinderblock
Weighed by war
I slowly walked
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
How I'd make it answer for
Alas
With little blood left to speak for Desperately I implored
"Restrain your hands that caused such gore;
We need not fight evermore!"
But when I heard the ceaseless knock
Tick tock
Tick tock
I new my words had been ignored
And slowly collapsed to the floor
****** and bludgeoned when I hit bed rock, I had still found no clock
But tick and tock it had forgot
The church bell rang t'was 12 o'clock,
Though mortal wounds the seconds wrought
I no longer was distraught
And as I lay in the hemlock
It occurred in my last thoughts
I would miss the beating knock
tick..., tock...
tick..., tock...
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
°••°••°••°
°•°◇°•°
There are no
Monsters here...
this, the
abandoned
soft, fertile soil,
that was
to feed the
Family Gardens.
No evil creatures, lurking behind
these timid
hurting hearts.
a painful place...
this invasive, pervasive,
clusterfuck
of Us .
Here lay
The raw,
The ragged
mashed up
mis-understandings.
An onslaught
of hurts,
that float and fester
in our cauldron
of tears.
'Canvas of Colors'
tells Our story...
Melding together
The frozen and
unthawed moments of
all the
Precious
Forever
Embraces
There are no Monsters here
We are the tender
beings that continue
to breathe ragged
after the forest fire,
tripping through
Crumbling Ashes
turned wet black.
Dank and slippery.
Yearning to find
strong footing
amongst these
ruins of our
own doing
No evil creatures, lurking behind
these timid
hurting hearts
There are no Monters here
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 2:40 AM UTC
Arriving at the entrance of the ancient temple the white rabbit covered his ears. Shattering glass from a high-pitched vibration he leaped away from a falling chandelier.
“I must find our beloved Harvest Moon."
The white rabbit said to himself. With stern affirmation, a dark fog churned then into the vortex he was consumed.
He stopped at the entrance of the temple courtyard; everyone was frozen like statues.
"What has she done to all of you?"
He cried, then pulled out a magic rune deflecting a hail of daggers. The white rabbit looked up at a floating cocoon and saw the shadow witch hovering over the temple roof. Pale skin and veins glowing red, she was draped in a black tattered robe. With a sinister look and a Crown of Fire on her head the shadow witch spoke.
“White rabbit, white rabbit the Harvest Moon is dead!"
The white rabbit took leaped back then cried out.
"This cannot be so!"
Then he pulled from his bag a magic scroll and read the words written in gold.
"I ask the wind to protect me from this dark magic despair"
Then he conjured a circle of trees in a water globe. The witch streaked across the air and swung around her jet-black hair. Then she commanded an infestation of spiders to climb inside the trees and explode. Barricading himself inside a magic bubble he was protected from the onslaught of shrapnel. The white rabbit grabbed the water globe, leaped into the air, and disappeared in a puff of amber smoke. The shadow witch pulled out a blood-red pearl and murmured an incantation.
"Clever white rabbit, I shall find you in the invisible world"
The white rabbit snapped his fingers then magically appeared behind her. He snatched off the Crown of Fire from her head then whispered the following words.
"How dare you use dark magic on me!"
She jumped in fear spinning around, then summoned a devil hound. The white rabbit raised the water globe and merged it with the crown. A shock wave of light pulsated in the air then the witch menacingly yelled.
“Take him down!”
The white rabbit saw in his peripheral view the hound lunge to attack. But he was too cunning for this, with a symbolic wave and a vigorous slash the hound was severed in two.
The shadow witch glared, then cried out.
“We shall meet again white rabbit; I promise you I'll be back!”
Then she summoned a fiery cauldron and vanished with a blinding flash.
The white rabbit ran inside the temple and approached the Harvest Moon. He stared with eyes full of tears and sorrow at a beautiful princess with hair long and blue. A beautiful creature he so desired, the love he had for her was true. He opened his bag and pulled out the globe which was now encased with the Crown of Fire.
"I brought you a gift from the shadow witch"
Then he smashed the globe and with a flash of light, the Crown of Fire was finally free. The white rabbit held the princess and spoke.
"I have always served you because I love you and now, I command you to come back to life!"
Then he placed the Crown of Fire on her head igniting a ring of light. The white rabbit looked down to see the Harvest Moon Princess opening both of her eyes.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
.
How do we mend wavering pedestals...
When the ground beneath is parched dry.
Stemming off loose foundations that time had weathered wry.
How do we mend broken gazes...
When watchful eyes which were meant to see,
are blinded by the onslaught of half-truths and fallacy.
How do we mend burnt bridges...
When we never look back to trace heavy missteps.
We fail to admit to consciously springing obvious traps.
How do I mend ailing hearts...
When familiar corridors seem warped to a bend.
When my own is struggling and perpetually on the mend.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
Connect like comets,
got thoughts but won’t comment,
controversial as a result of being honest,
honestly sick of the politics & sick of the nonsense,
actually I’m sick of it all to be honest but still I won’t *****
conflicted by the conflicts that’re inflicted on my conscience,
from the constant onslaught of plots that they’ve got that I’m barraged with,
in this enormous orbit that we’re all in it’s ugly & gorgeous I’m nauseous but conscious,
just wishing they’d stop it & I’ve lost my train of thought but haven’t yet lost consciousness,
at,
a house party in The Hamptons,
July 6th. 2018,
last week D.C.,
next week Miami,
bless the vibes like we bless the mics,
that’s why they want us around,
if I get the invite & have the time I might take that flight,
because I’ve been all around but still up to get gown,
buzzing off of a mixture of different chemicals,
feeling Sharon ****** operating off of basic instinct,
Semi-Quasi-Serious-Centennial-American-Millennials,
were are what is in so we tell them to get out with their doubts & we dismiss what they think,
live big & still get enough to give more than a little bit away to various charities,
with 3rd Eye Vision that’s 20/20 so they can’t pull a fast one on me,
in the perfect position I see everything while most of them can barely see anything,
not kidding but we do play no kids no way,
our artistic creations are what we will leave behind as our living legacies,
staying grounded at the same time we’re all stars outta this world like a fabulous galaxy,
where we connect like comets,
got thoughts but won’t comment,
controversial as a result of being honest,
honestly sick of the politics & sick of the nonsense,
actually I’m sick of it all to be honest but still I won’t *****
conflicted by the conflicts that’re inflicted on my conscience,
from the constant onslaught of plots that they’ve got that I’m barraged with,
in this enormous orbit that we’re all in it’s ugly & gorgeous I’m nauseous but conscious,
just wishing they’d stop it & I’ve lost my train of thought but haven’t yet lost consciousness…
∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC
****** Mother Nature
As rain forests dwindle,
and skyscrapers grow,
we leave those who co habit
with nowhere to go...
Sweet indigenious song birds,
all turned off one by one
as we bulldoze the trees
where they once raised their young...
Stealing land from these creatures
in each and every direction
as we drive them all closer
to their own mass extinction...
there'll be uproar of course
when the last one is gone,
but this course of destruction
seems to just carry on...
In Asia the Tiger's
now on it's last legs,
hunted down for it's fur
and it's teeth ground to dregs,
The Bali and Caspian
are both sadly gone,
a mere five thousand Bengals
till they too follow on...
Just five hundred Sumatrans,
a last thirty Chinese,
then this beautiful Feline
will just cease to be...
There'll be uproar of course
when the last one is gone,
but our blood thirsty onslaught
will just carry on
Amur Leopards in Russia,
Jaguars in Brazil,
being wiped from the Earth
as we **** and we ****
Silvery Gibbons in Java,
Hynobius in Japan,
on and on goes the culling
of one and all except Man...
Polluting the rivers,
over fishing the seas,
as we spread and infest,
like a fatal disease,
yeah there's uproar of course
at this ill being done,
dusty crocodile tears
as we still carry on...
For an epitaph we'll have
as our only distinction,
that we were the cause
of Earths sixth mass extinction,
not a meteor smashing
from high outer space,
just a cancerous growth
called the inHuman race...
That we ravaged the planet
and drank it's well dry,
how we ripped out the goodness
and left it to die,
how there'd been a huge uproar
as they fell one by one,
how we ***** Mother Nature...
how
we
just
carried
on...
©HaroldRizla
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 3:23 AM UTC
The battle between
darkness and depression
is onslaught for any troubled soul
for it takes place much deeper
than any dug out hole
This darkness seems to just find me
Takes over my world into my sanctuary
It settles around the iris of my eyes
Turning me into someone who just seems to cry
Rooted in negativity and lost in my pain
Through my eyes it enters my brain
Corrupting my each and every thought
Breeding unwelcome memories that like to haunt
Spreading now like poison through my veins
Trying to take over till nothing remains
Writing words is my only defense
When nothing else I do makes any sense
The power of prose keeps that place deep within me
Safe and free from this darkened toxicity…
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
Lady night offers her generosity
as the stars twinkle in syncopation for me.
Shadow-clad silhouettes...
Their gaits mysterious.
The night lights trail into the depths of my eyes.
Burning away the seconds, so effortless.
The quietness...
Willing forth dishevelled reflections...
Of unkempt emotions.
Allowing a barrage...
Of thoughts and notions that span
over night and day.
So that they could...
Be conveyed through paper and screen.
So that I could...
Share with you what I intimately mean.
The unforgiving onslaught of ideas and feelings
I bravely conjured...
But too afraid to say.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
He had a habit of forgetting
That the knife should be
At his left,
Unlike others.
Every morning, she would
mechanically
switch the fork with the knife.
When they finished lunch
she started clearing up
and noticed the knife to his right
again.
That night,
after their routine drew to a close,
They talked.
Slowly, at first.
A touchy subject walks in.
It's time.
Even as the air is knocked from her lungs,
She gets up and scrabbles on the floor.
Nails scratching the carpet.
Eyes scanning the horizon, now black.
Her brain decides to get up,
Her body disobeys.
Her body disobeys.
Isn't that what put her here in the first place?
So what if she is pretty?
So what if her eyes are sparkling emeralds?
Her belly renders her defenceless
from his onslaught.
Isn't it her fault
that it is empty?
Isn't she wrong to want
independence from him?
Mentally, physically, emotionally?
He owned her, didn't he?
He owned her, didn't he.
He explained to her the benefits
of obeying.
Her pretty face wouldn't have been
all those ungainly shades of black.
Her eyes wouldn't have been encircled by blue.
All she had to do was obey
and not tell anyone
but obey.
Her brain rebelled.
Her brain rebelled.
Her body, for once, obeyed.
She stumbled through the hallway
She knocked down her favourite frame-
Their daughter on a pony.
Kitchen, her sanctuary.
She broke her favourite China.
Hurled her utensils.
"I arranged them last week, you *****
And then she saw them.
The knives.
The knives.
They were inviting
Her hands were pale, waiting.
His heart corrupt, hating.
"Knives to your left, darling."
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
While the calmness returns,
the strangers gone,
noise of gunshots,
the cry of the wounded
and dying are no more heard,
our children and women
came out of hiding,
the young men smiling sheepishly
as they survived the onslaught
of the insurgents.
You can see the older women
in small groups scattered all over
selling food and all kinds of stuff.
The stragglers returns,
loitering all over the place,
trying to adjust and blend
into the communities.
Laughter and shouts of joy
is again heard in our land
even the morning songs
of the turtle dove.
The stray dogs are seen
looking for food and handouts.
The women pounding
their yam in mortar
with the pistil are
heard in our backyard
with the noise of
happy children singing
and dancing at the village
square in the moonlight,
while the elders and young
men keep watch.
What a beautiful moment
as peace returns.
With grateful heart we
celebrate this day.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
You who graced and
adorned my life with
the fantastic I adore you
for you are my glory
and my salvation.
I am so grateful for your love,
thank you.
The one who made
my life possible,
you are the God of my realization
thank you.
See where I am today just
because of you,
thank you.
I survived the onslaught of the
wicked ones because
of your presence,
thank you.
Everything is working out the
way they should,
thank you.
My heart is at peace because
you are the God of my heart,
you reign in it,
thank you.
The world I see is beautiful
because of your glory,
thank you.
Night and day comes and goes,
yet you keep us safe and secure us
from the evil pestilence,
thank you.
Fear can never interfere and intimidate us,
for your spirit abound within us,
thank you.
I have a sound mind in a sound body
for there is no affliction or illness,
you are the God that heals,
thank you.
Incredible increase on every side,
nothing is wrong or lacking,
you are all sufficient one,
thank you.
Everything within me says,
thank you Abba father.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
Fingerprints are like relationships
they leave a trace.
Your fingerprints are all over me
The whorls of your prints are seared into my skin
Into my soul.
I submit each time you touch me
set aflame by your caress.
Spiral patterns of you criss cross my body,
Your body.
Sparks of need jump from your fingertips
arcing into me, possessing, caressing,
they leave me breathless and defenceless
to the onslaught that will leave me inevitably,
wrecked upon our bed, like a trapped ship on the shore.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
A con artist scurries
In white shadows
Fickle grooves she casts
In sequences
Imprinted by vainglory
Swift she fleets
Veiled with scars that
Were sequin rich
She spoke of ideologies
Subdued by violet myths
Exuding colorful flavors
Of classic deception
Her tattoos spelled
the wistful vowels of sin
Vexed by the onslaught
Of egregious inceptions
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
I posted this poem a few days after I joined HP. As is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions. With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked. Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week. So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Numerical Quality of Friendship
The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.
With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.
The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.
Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!
Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?
Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?
If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify
limitless.
March 2012
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
He was only one, that day,
Standing alone to fill and gap the breech.
No one else, but he, stood to face the onslaught,
The terror that charged forward,
Toward where he stood and held his post,
Where someone before had drawn a long line on the ground.
No one there to help, all had fled,
Intimidated by the imposing, closing threat
That was coming near.
All, but he, had run, and the time and the foe drew closer;
Making a last stand was not even on his mind,
Resisting was not a choice,
He would do what he could,
What must be done, until he could do no more.
Death took the defender that day,
But not easily.
He fought until he had no more blood to shed,
With a final gasp, onto a bloodied ground he, at last,
Fell dead.
His enemies, his foes, stood in awe,
At the red-stained, battered corpse,
With sword still in hand.
After much deliberation,
The horde decided to turn and leave.
If this one, lone sentry had courage such as this,
How much more an entire army that probably laid in wait.
Tactical retreat was the best option, and,
With that they turned about,
They left to conquer other lands.
His comrades came; took his body;
Pinned medals across his chest;
Said a few words reserved for heroes, and
Laid him to rest.
They glanced into the distant, disappearing dust and thought,
What cowards they must have been
To have let one lone soldier frighten them such
That they turned away.
There was only one, that day,
Standing alone to fill and gap the breech;
One soldier who stood the watch,
Who did not retreat.
Armies are made of
One soldier at a time.
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC
an ancient lyric, come to haunt,
no longer a shield, now thinner,
of gossamer consistency,
a tissue-thin papyrus,
“my poetry to protect me”
the poem words always were
a clarinet reed, capable of singing,
a highest pitch voice for turning
blades of clean steel clean away,
now blunting paper bunting, penetrated.
re-formed my shield, re-purposed,
into a stabbing instrument offensive,
my poetry pricking tearings in my worn
thin fabric tapestry, woven from linen
excuses of why I can’t, why couldn’t I.
this is life. moats becoming drowning
pools, castle walls reversed to entrapments,
wrecking machines, boulders hurling,
medieval defenseless against modern rhymes
giving away to free verse horde onslaught.
too late to apologize to myself, alas, my words,
my protectorate, island redoubt, now ruined
by doubts treachery breech birthed from within,
these verses hollow point bullets engineered,
Caesar’s words clarified, you, et tu, are Brutus
too, two, for the price of one, betrayer and betrayed.
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 5:44 PM UTC
I am called a scrooge
as I dislike this greedy
grimy "holiday" of gorging
gratuitously on cookies dipped in mashed potatoes.
People grabbing & gouging
for electronic pop culture distractions
to celebrate the "birth" of a baby
from a lady who claimed to be a ******
Everyone expects something
to be given, pressure permeates
those souls who wait 'till last minutes eve
as laborers looking for reprieves of this
audacious onslaught of wild eyed drooling
consumers
while I shutter at home watching TV's screaming
*Why wait 'till the "holidays"
when you could have gotten that anytime?*
Kids with detailed lists of wants make parents
feel like **** if the money's not there--
traveling to visit relatives the family cares little about
while everyone sends fake happy cards espousing
happy scenes of fireside matching sweaters next to a
tree cut from outside brought in--
a metaphor for the biannual church families
dressed up to sing hymns and drink wine.
So you can call me a scrooge,
or even a grinch,
I don't really give a ****
cause I've been giving gifts
consistently loving thy fellow man.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 2:27 PM UTC
It will soon be morning
Amma walks the backyard
Collecting flowers
The best for the Goddess
Who does nothing but sit
At her ivory throne
Sweets and diyas around
Her face with a pasted smile
I have so wished to wipe out.
Appa's snore shake the walls
I imagine his moustache
Shivering under the onslaught
Before he's off to the stores
He would want his breakfast
With Anna on his right side
Telling Appa all about school
And his stagnant progress
While Appa nods and laughs.
And after they would leave
I will then open my books
Where wonders of world hide...
Till then, I make breakfast.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
We are all born
Creative
Early childhood is all about
Being creative.
Soon, however, life
Steps in.
It tries to ***** out
Our creative instincts
By labelling us
Rebellious
Naughty
Selfish
When we try to do
Our own thing.
It tries to ***** out
Our creative self
By fitting us into
Life's boxes
Life's moulds.
Doctor
Lawyer
Engineer
Accountant.
Go the safe route
Life urges
Go the secure route
Life urges
Follow convention
Be serious!
The adult creative
However
Is the child who
Survives
This onslaught
This manipulation
This war on the
Creative self
And chooses instead
To follow their own path
In life.
The road less travelled.
Where
Fun
Freedom
And
True fulfillment
Await.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 12:23 AM UTC
Surviving a War that doesn’t seem to end, bombing and sniping all around. This is the real story in a book called “ The Cellist Of Sarajevo”, where three characters emerge to face this adversity head on. You have Arrow once a innocent young girl, now trained assassin to **** her targets without making a sound. Then you got Kenan a person who risks his life to fetch water for his family and others in need, no matter if it weighs a ton. Finally you have Dragan the person hard to explain, he just does what he needs to do, he will come to not care about the dangers of the outside, because he will control his own destiny. Each of them has their place in the race to survive this cruel onslaught from the men on the hills weaponry.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
The tension is mounting, standing in line
Bass reverberates, the sound of things to come
Manic conversation and body language animation
Staying awake until we see the sun.
Enter the venue greeted by sticky collective body heat
The treble of the onslaught of noise now palpable
Without thinking, i begin to move my feet
Becoming one with the masses of bodies moving in unison.
The milk of the night, one in my hand from a mate
I drink it down as I become expectant
Excitedly waiting for my body to be seized
And exited by a juggernaut of positive emotions.
Every stranger is a one minute friend
Micro moments of love become my guide for the night
The music sounds like the songs of the gods
The rhythm and percussion of an underground ritual.
Every touch and taste and sound is heightened
An emanating aura of love surrounds the crowd
Smiles, laughs, hugs and high-fives
Throwing shapes and boogieing down.
As the party creator closes down the night
Masses pour outside drowned by early sunlight
All in search of a beach or after-hours haunt
To continue on their hedonic treadmill.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
it's not me
pushing you
away except
it actually is me
it's the kind of
morning that the
wind is blowing
just right so that
the open flag
flutters in front
of the window
where i can see it
the kind of morning
i don't need coffee
and i try not to
think about
it too
much
*(i just wanted to
be the girl in
an owl city song)*
pacing back and
forth in straight
lines and gritting
my teeth against
an onslaught of
small town gunfire
*(i'll bet annmarie
never had scars
or scratches
brielle didn't cry
and shake for
hours thinking
how to end it all
it turned out
okay for anna
and vienna probably
knew how to dance
between the snowflakes
and underneath her regret)*
i've never been good at
drowning out thoughts
they just get louder the
longer time rolls on
good at rolling out
cookie dough and
good at drowning
in dishwater when
the brownie batter's
baking and the bowl
needs washing when
nobody's looking
*(i've had moments
here and there in golden
sneakers and navy blue
lace covered dresses
but i'm not the girl
in an owl city song
not something worth
writing dreamy poems
about not so lovestruck you
replace your words with dada)*
girls like me wear flannel
khaki too much day old
eyeliner too many day old
scones have half heads of weird
colored hair and spend valentines
day alone watching tv
so maybe why i'm bitter
as the inside of a lemon is
that i'll never be able to change
to someone drenched in verbena
spinning through the sunny
skies between your fingers
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
Of withering tempests screaming to the break of sunlight,
Of unrelenting wind and pounding rain, she stands
With her back to crashing waves and painful bellowing,
A weak induction of steady sighs and silent contemplation
Would perhaps bring a peaceful conclusion to the rage
And reproach of a Goddess stirring on the fringes of insanity.
But never would it have taken to fresh insanity,
The gentle swirling of confusion between glaring eyes and sunlight,
How she would wish never to part from the burning of rage
And leave a scorched shadow on the very place she stands.
Never did she desire for the learned art of contemplation
But instead found solace in a frozen lake of tears and bellowing.
At the end of such a night filled with harsh anxiety and frenzied bellowing,
She finds herself staring into the gleaming eyes of Insanity,
Who dwells in sweet and blissful contemplation
And harvests the piteous glow of sunlight
Such that any man would freeze and cease where he stands
And succumb to the urgings of exhilarating rage.
A chilling gust would release the embracing rage
And perhaps bring wishful silence to the obnoxious bellowing;
She feels her feet sinking through the sand and stands
out of reach from the tearing claws of Insanity.
Relief in the warmth of ethereal sunlight
Proves a worthy companion of contemplation.
Eudaimonia, she finds in her deep contemplation
Free of sorrow, empty and weary from her onslaught of rage,
She casts herself into the welcoming cracks of sunlight
And in Euphoria, she finds herself no longer bellowing,
The slow and steady pull of her chains toward Insanity
Break away and leave her where she stands.
In new light, she finds her strength and stands,
Embracing the drifting stream of wraithlike contemplation
Would send shivers and open wounds that might invite Insanity,
But turning around and gazing out into those waves might blind the Rage
And bring peaceful sighs to interrupt the senseless bellowing
Such that black clouds would give way to glorious sunlight.
To the death of Rage and the estrangement of Insanity,
The wistful bellowing banished in the silence of contemplation,
The Goddess stands with her back to the wind, tears dried by the warm sunlight.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC