"openness" poems
Over time
I built the box
wall by wall
day by day
composed of dreams
and desires
ideals, beliefs, and goals
Over time
it kept me safe
and where I wanted to be
within the boundaries
of what I wanted
pushing me to succeed
keeping me in line
Over time
it became a prison
trapping me in, not letting me out
leaving no room for growth
no room to move
to change, improve,
or to fail
Over time
I took it down
wall by wall
day by day
removed of dreams
and desires
ideals, beliefs, and goals
Over time
replaced by the openness
of being whatever I want to be
able to let things go
and to make mistakes
for to err is to be human
and with that I was set free
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
The body was given to us as impression of the gift of love.
We were conceived in love and born in order to love.
The Creator has given us through the body to the world.
We are therefore divine spark.
Let us look at other man as at indescribable gift.
Adam and Eve in paradise followed in the wake of ****** without shame.
Through the body we can touch the soul.
This ****** was
acceptance of a man with his limitations,
tangible form of love,
devotion to each other without mystery,
boundless openness,
freedom from lust of flesh.
Bashfulness has its roots in this original innocence.
Discretion to the body is inscribed in man.
Let us follow with pure look at man.
Purity is trying to get access through the body to soul and inside.
The physicality brings us
childish joy,
communion of souls,
inner enrichment,
sharing a beautiful relationship,
exploration of mystery of love.
Pure look at man is unconventional symphony of his gift of life.
Such scrutinizing is necessary for genuine love.
Beloved should first play simultaneously the same notes of feelings
before the symphony will flow with sexuality.
This presage will give your body speech.
Sexuality should not drown out the relationship with beloved,
it should build skyscrapers.
Sexuality is a gift, such as body and life.
Sexuality discovers endless wealth of lover.
****** expression of love is a confession of God's presence.
After all, God is love.
Only the perception of sexuality as gift saves from vulgarity.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
**† † †
A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.
A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.
A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.
A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)
A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.
A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.
A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.
A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
When she left she couldn't help but to leave that soft and sweet fragrant scent behind. You right, love is blind. There are other senses which make me miss her. Don't get me wrong, she is a enthralling flower. However I'm only reminiscing on the way she lingers, I'm drawn in by every 'come here' gesture of her finger. The openness of my nostrils, the little chill hills which coexist with my follicles. Jasmine... she is so honorable.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
Picketed, another generation pushing for advancement in the age of reason,
Logical, radical movement
Trying for less invasive measures of medication
To take the blinders off the prejudice of non-conformity and reach the masses
A promise to ease the pain, promote healing, the overall good
Met with violence, verbal slander, from mommies and daddies afraid of a world outside their white fence,
Fearing independence, the expansion of the mind, an openness in their youth to allow radical change.
The bloated belt bent backwards, white collar replaced by hedonistic practical libertarians in pursuit of happiness for all
Sick, disgusted with the man, the one behind the podium whom allows for this animosity on a group that did everything right, legally sound
Tired of hearing the whispers across a university, the hopeful gushing’s of elated individuals bright- eyes naive
Of a system that won’t allow something this controversial into the public, afraid to lose their hold on a potential capitol
On something that should be as easy to find in a free market as Captain Crunch, Coca-Cola, and Rice Krispy Treats.
Grinding down, fluffy-green-crystal bud
Dank yellow smoke smoldering out of pipes end, seeping out of closed lips billowing out of nostrils
Dragon fire down a throat coated with a week worth of soot, and experience
Choking, coughing, laughing away the misery
The disappointment in her fellow man to refuse to even consider the validity of a proven product
Knowing that if it was anything else a miracle drug composed of fairy dust, unicorn hair and the ***** of a thousand angels; approval would have been immediate.
Whip lash.
Flick, flame, fumigating
Baking myself into a calmer state, watching with ****** off grace
Twitching with the need to take action
To control this negative reaction, to slap the of face limp **** conservatives
So consumed with themselves, blind to the pain of people who have lost hope in other forms of relief
Alternative therapy shut off by a system obsessed with its war on drugs.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
Western coast of Norway.
Relentless fists of salt and sea
Pound against the windows
Facing the openness.
All edible remains after every
Meal, they surrender unto her here.
She feeds them back.
Her moods change daily,
Taking only one life
With every ten thousand she
Nourishes. *We love her. We fear her.
We love her.*
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
Next time
I'm gonna take my time
Spread it out so it lasts
Answering desire with your gasp
Your hair I pull with a gentle grasp
You've opened your body and soul to me
Being bound makes you feel free
I would never take advantage
Of the openness you've offered to me
I am your protector and your rock
Your pleasure is what brings my pleasure
The trust you give I cherish with respect
I know just when to let go
When my hands are around your neck
You know that I would never go too far
Because I know exactly what you can handle
Half of the pleasure is finding out what your limits are
The other half is finding the limits then raising the bar
Although I may be in charge and I may be in command
Your pleasure is what I seek
Your pleasure is what makes me feel free
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
...that The Goddess
has hands of ivory white
or black as ebony night,
fingers that glisten
with the intensity of immensity,
of stars,
over-flowing with the seeds of trees,
scattering them in splendorous openness,
across the moist, brown earth,
where they'll grow like grass
and cause the quenching rains to
fall,
from the sky made azure
'neath the endless streams and strands
of Her hair
which is the wind itself.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 1:11 AM UTC
I believe in you and must not try to tame you
I am learning that it is enough just to sit with and lie with
That it is enough just to listen to words being softly strung together
Rhythmic sounds conceived in mind, of heart and soul
Giving birth to desires and prayers
Lay your head on my lap my love
Loosen the restraints of the day
Unravel and find your rest in me
Drink deeply of my devotion
From the wellspring of my openness
I am in awe of your beauty and must not try to claim you
I am learning that it is enough to trust the nature of man and woman and allow
My fingers the freedom to travel, to dance, to trace and to follow
Your curves and caverns, seeking warmth, pulse of body and wilderness
Swallowing love's sweetness whole
Lay your head on my lap my love
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
*My little helium filled heart
floats off into the clouds,
free from the weight of itself.
It makes miniatures of buildings
losing sight of material things.
From its' skewed perspective,
high in the stratosphere,
It has grown bigger than
the earth itself.
There is poetic sadness
in finally reaching happy;
a lust for inspiration
in the openness of the
universe it creates.*
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
Why do I get jealous?
Jealousy is just an emotion
Emotionally draining that is
I’m not supposed to be jealous
We’re in a poly relationship
So why do I fear you’ll leave
Leave me for her
She doesn’t give you the problems
She gives you happiness
I’m mixed up
I like our relationship
The openness
The communication
I just need to let this go
Let it leave my body
I shouldn’t be jealous
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 5:41 PM UTC
#The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)
Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..
not as surrender,
but as choice.
Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.
Within the responsibility of what
leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her
without deception.
Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.
It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,
the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound
and wonder.
Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:
*the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,
the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.*
This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.
Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.
The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..
*through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.*
And inside--
the war begins.
.. .. .. ..
Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding
what stays,
what burns away.
Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,
what is earned,
what is Light.
The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;
they choose.
And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.
Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.
Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.
The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.
The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,
*Light has begun
to rise.*
#
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 11:54 AM UTC
You claim a fortress you've built of yourself
To guard you from feeling anything
Why the need?
We've all been hurt, even us two, and yet we still let people in
Let you in
You say the ache creeps in anyway
Until you focus on anything else and it fades
You don't need to salve the ache yourself
Admittedly the tendrils of feeling are seductive indeed
You said yourself, hold on love
Let us sit in the stars with you, and disperse the chill in your bones
Take us to your cabin all alone, together
We are not the malicious, mocking, twisting agony from you
We will never extract from your veins
The poison of your pain
For us to drink later, and make ourselves feel powerful
We only lift, and cradle, and cocoon
We never step aside, laughing at your failure,
Yourself shattered into a thousand pieces on the pavement
Why the fortress?
Be an openness
Reveal to us, your fears, your questions, and dreams and we will give you calm
Fight your demons
Rejoice your triumphs
Not for you, but with you
Are you truly better alone?
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
We have never been so connected.
Humanity has never been this accepting.
Indeed, we are moving forward.
But isn't it ironic?
That in this age of openness,
It is considered wiser not to show care.
That caring is something miraculous.
Almost.
We almost did it.
We almost showed passion.
We almost cared.
We almost loved.
We.
Almost.
Made it.
Almost. But never enough.
Yes, now, we value honesty but we always forget that not saying what we really want to say is the opposite of what we uphold.
This is not honesty.
This is far from the truth.
We are lying.
We've been lying to ourselves.
Hypocrites.
Casualties.
We end up faking our deaths,
Eternally uncertain what could've happened if veered away from life's
What if's.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
Asking a question does more than fill open space.
It expresses curiosity.
Devolving into things not easily expressed.
Given our availability.
It expresses a deeper need for connection.
Whether we are open to what we desire most.
Closed off to preference.
The right time of day or night we can de-clutter.
Taking in what we give out.
Asking a question isn't something done out of boredom.
Or merely because your there.
It expresses a thought that requires action.
That I've thought of you.
That there is a desire laid bare.
An anticipation that builds until the next time
I am able to hear your voice.
For the more serious moments require a deeper tone.
An ear that senses deeper need.
Responding to this deep need of connection.
A need of care.
A need of longing.
To respond to this vulnerability not out of responsibility.
But in the openness of being
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 9:58 AM UTC
Forgiveness eases the soul,
Overwhelms each one and all.
Unity is what we need.
Nevertheless, we have it now,
right now, indeed.
Differences among us should not break
us apart.
After all, it's our institution that would
take the hurt.
Trust and trust you shall reap
In times of doubts and during mischief.
Openness sets your spirit free,
Nothing more, nothing less if you keep it
everyday.
Done is the past,
And time to move on at last.
You and me, each one and all, this message
is for meant to be.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
Break down the barrier, break down the wall;
So I can see your smiling face, your white teeth and all!
Break down the barrier, break down the wall;
Let your inner beauty shine through, so with kindness you can stand up tall!
Break down the barrier, break down the wall;
So you can give me a helping hand and answer the helpless call!
Break down the barrier, break down the wall;
So you can share with the world the magic of your beautiful brain ball!
Break down the barrier, break down the wall;
So together we can enjoy the songs of melodious birds, and experience the great outdoors!
Admire nature for its openness. No barrier, no wall!
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
Do you remember that time of innocence?
When the horrors of the world were invisible,
and you were so much more than invincible?
Do you remember when you didn't doubt for a second that you were amazing?
When you wore those "crazy" things,
And sung at the top of your lungs, unashamed?
Do you remember when you raced outside at every opportunity?
When catching fireflies were the only thing you could think about in the summer,
Other than swimming in the open sea?
Do you remember when laughing came so easily?
When you didn't catch the naughty things in kids tv programs,
And when you had a million perfect life plans?
Do you remember when you woke up early, because you couldn't wait for the day?
When you spoke so fast, because there wasn't enough time,
And when you created a trillion random things, because you wanted to?
Do you remember dancing, or bobbing your head to some random tune in your head?
When you ran out into the rain, without shame,
And screamed until your lungs ached?
Do you remember when you learned everything, and wanted to still know more?
When you were so proud of getting one thing right,
And not caring if you weren't perfect?
Do you remember watching your older siblings, or grown-ups do things, that made you say "I can't wait until I grow up!"?
When you loved yourself, without a doubt,
And had the power to do anything, or be anyone?
I do.
And I wish I could have all of that innocence, and freedom back.
I wish that openness, and self-love had transferred into my more mature life.
I wish that nonchalant way of doing everything had stayed.
I wish that careless way of dancing and singing had tagged along.
I wish that I had stayed carefree for longer, instead of quickly becoming cynical, and depressed.
I wish that I had never pushed to be a part of the grown-up conversations.
I wish that I had never rushed into intimacy.
I wish that I had held onto my wildest dreams.
Because, now,
I regret every time I said
"I can't wait until I grow up!",
Because each time I said those words aloud,
Its pushed me further away from my imagination and wilderness faster, and harsher.
Because each time I said those words, and every single adult around me said that I should hold on to my childhood,
I replied with anger and irritation, not knowing the hell that I was rushing into.
I want to go back,
Don't you?
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 11:30 PM UTC
It's so hard to find the perfect breeze,
One blowing none too hard nor soft,
Carrying a scent of wild flowers,
And moving clouds about aloft.
It's so hard to find the perfect sky,
One blue and deep and bright,
Carrying a sense of openness
With the birds of summer in flight.
It's so hard to find the perfect night,
One warm, quiet and unflawed,
Carrying a mood of solitude,
And a closeness to a god.
Yet no perfection's so hard to find
As that which you extend
And none I'll ever treasure more,
Than to simply be your friend…
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
Listen to this @ https://soundcloud.com/spiritbarehear/the-living-instrument
PRESSURE - like animal skin stretched over the head of a drum,
my heart,
BEATING, like ancient hands, BEATING
an even more ancient rhythm, BEATING. BEATING.
tribal eyes wide, pupils bare, BEATING
with ayahausca or psilocybin, ibogain or some sort of villlage speed
BEATEN. BEATEN.
with dirt and herbs, a lion's adrenal gland to make the Super Amphetamine,
royal in it's derivatives
and it makes the heart BEAT BEAT BEAT
like a prisoner in the straight jacket of lungs it BEATS and screams blood into bursting vessels
it BEATS like the misunderstood youth of the 20th Century, the frenetic spirit HOT and LOUD
and lost...
POUNDING HEART BEAT NO MORE FOR THE NON-SHIT GIVERS!
leave it to the liver to filter out those toxic connections that evoke those dire emotions
arresting both the heart and the breath
IF I AM TO FEEL CLOSE TO DEATH
let it be because if I were to live any longer in a happiness, it would just be unfair to the rest
that if I were to live any longer in a happiness
the whole of my being would fold into the openness of my chest
IF I AM TO FEEL CLOSE TO DEATH
it will not be caused by a PANIC, a PANIC caused by a PUSH, a PUSH caused by discontentment, discontentment caused by impatience, and impatience caused
by the resounding WUBwubWUBwubWUBwub of a beating heart.
THE LIVING INSTRUMENT.
living instrument, sing to me what is meant
living instrument, can you forget
what once made your strings as heavy as led?
what once made you wrench?
living instrument, twice as large as the machine in the skull, why do we bother with loving?
living instrument, are you solid enough to take this fall?
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
She was art
Yet no one told her so
She covered her body in other people's art
She didn't think anyone would see past the ink
She liked it better that way
She was art
He was an artist
Yet no one told him so
He covered others' bodies with his art
He didn't think anyone would see past the needle
He liked it better that way
He was an artist
One day, the art met the artist
He called her his masterpiece
He covered her in ink
But he would never touch his face
Artists know when not to touch art that is beyond their own talents
She never believed she was art
Only a blank canvas
But as she lay fully exposed to him, she finally knew all his words were true
He never believed he was an artist
Only a man with a needle and ink
But as he watched her lay exposed and vulnerable for him, he finally knew all her words were true
She never believed that she was a piece of art
That was okay
She was just waiting for someone to make her believe she was a masterpiece
His masterpiece
He never believed that he was an artist
That was okay
He was just waiting for his perfect muse
His perfect canvas
And in his bed, entwined together
The art fell in love with the artist
The artist fell in love with the art
His soft touch was a paint brush
Each stroke painting her with more love
Her openness was a canvas to him
Each time, a new and exciting moment for him
She wore his art as a badge of honor
He wore her on his arm as a mark of freedom
The art and the artist had become one
And no one could separate them
The art and the artist
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
little girl
I want you to keep everything that makes you strong
I want you to treasure
the reason you can still stand tall
I want you to be wild
and free with desire
Ignore their calls, feed your fire
and little girl
how can you be hurt so many times?
your soul is young
you tongue is gold
I've never seen you yet turn cold
and I want you to stay
though you shan't be long
so hold your head high little girl
don't conform to the brokenness
let your creaking be a different kind
than the the overwhelming, the openness
that wickedness has dared to spread
little girl don't creep back with the rest
Keep trying your best
I don't want you left for dead
little girl
you are only 65
I'm telling you
you still have time
so hold on to your wits
and shine
and then
your glow might last my lifetime
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
Carrying your name forward
on a silver stein raft
with the wreckage of me
I long to crave,
mouth agape, eyes watering proof
I long to crave,
my deciduous vulnerability flashed wide upon when you’re there
I long to crave,
your sweet nectar lips dipped in honey;
have a taste of your
white chocolate
lava cake
I long to crave,
to stare into the openness of your porcelaina doll face
I long to crave,
look through the window to your soul through
your nebulaic eyes.
I long to crave,
Suggestively suggestive advice from you to me to you
I long to crave,
My lover dreamer’s dream
I long to crave,
My tinder streak
keeping me warm
I long to crave,
the shoulder to lean on
in my darkest hours
I long to crave,
The person I want to be beside
When I’m at my most beautiful.
I long to crave,
Oh, how I long to crave ?
My undying longing to crave.
You.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
There is a place
in you
that needs a name
but you're an absolute beginner
at naming things.
Centred in this pathos, I've never known
whether to create stillness or bitter passion.
In this, there is a sacrifice,
something to see through to the end.
The openness I sometimes extract
can break me down.
Is it better
to find a way to say it?
Would it be better to hang for it
or to forget
how the fig is fertilised?
In its sweetness,
to forget
the distaste of undermining friendship.
I have stretched myself into the past.
I have stretched my body
to see the places it could end.
Vein bubbles
from where it started,
wet bloodgasps;
sorry smear of a poem
they write your name next to.
History repeats, all that's left;
neutrality at the cost of
a better passion,
and the count of
how many ribs you have and how many you've lost.
I abuse my fingers
and still expect them to carry me through.
There's always a way
to see trauma as something to crawl into.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
perched in a thick mess of pine trees
my head rotates three hundred and sixty degrees
scouring for the vermin I make my prey
I own the night time skies
silhouetted against a harvest moon
death is coming in my dreams
and with it comes new life
wisdom of the self
aware of the lies which cover the world in its blanket of grey snow
the owl lives in my skull
The coyote stalking the empty desert highways
looking for roadkill
looking for the weak and alone
I cackle into the dead sterile air
for every pack member lost to poachers
manic laughter for every left turn which results in dead ends
stealthy patient
hungry and haunting
the coyote treads the territory of my atriums and ventricles
The hawk circles in the blinding midday sun
a deadly serrated dagger with wings
arrow let loose from the quiver of the Gods
impossible to tether and domesticate
finding ultimate freedom in the vast openness of the sky
lock on,
tuck the wings,
nose dive deep into the waters of the ****
a creator
a teacher
a messenger of truth
the hawk soars in the infinity of my soul
ID
EGO
SUPEREGO
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC