"orchestrates" poems
Let me,
Be the waves;
The tides that will wash your troubled thoughts.
And with every crash of waves
being your happiness and joy,
Your ripples of bliss.
Pushing away crumpled parts,
Cradling your body
in warm currents.
Let me,
Be the waves.
Guiding you effortlessly
Out into the everlasting blue.
The waves, that orchestrates your heart.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
Momentary
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
(- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.
Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
barely there, staring at a laptop screen.
Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"
((A baritone chorus of laughter.))
"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."
Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.
A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We vanish from your house
- like elves -
by morning.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
what a beautiful soul
her heart beats among us
the way she breathes soothes your deeply troubled mind -
and she is so beautiful
the way her finger drags crystals along the soft surface of your skin
it drives you crazy
to a point where you begin to believe the sins you commit with her
are your most beautiful moments together
and when her tears drop like a rainstorm in the spring
it reminds you of home
because the deepest thoughts her mind orchestrates
have never made you feel so comfortable
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC
Bleached walls, and incandescent lights
The mind illustrates it’s own world
With dreams, desires and abstractions
What it wants, but can never have
Droned out vocalization, and exaggerated sighs
The mind fills in the gaps
With chatter, remarks and laughs
What it wants, but can never have
Concrete floors, and tiled ceilings
The mind creates it’s own scenery
With grasses, mosses and trees
What it wants, but can never have
Constant progression, and flooded walkways
The mind orchestrates it’s own utopia
With sunshine, breeze and cloudless skies
What it wants, but can never have
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
I've never been startled to surprise
seeing a man riding a six-wheel bicycle on my side
gazing up his smile in full plain sight
so subtle like pinwheels on summer breeze.
Cheese! says the lens-man from southeast
a harmonious melody led me round and round
till horses jump out of the merry-go-round
so as teacups swirling with no succulent tea
but are found to be couples squirming in obscurity.
Surprised! that no one tend to flee
for nights fright of lustful fantasies
covered their state of subtle ease.
Oh Fun, Fun, Fun, when there seems to be no sun
and I felt heedless to ponder
the fact that I endlessly Run, Run, Run
in far out yonder
then oops! ouch!
I howled like thunder.
Deluded, how I fell on the ground
when music suddenly lost it sound
colors I've knew were out of bound
and haze of somnolence was all I found.
Where could I be?
Surprise!
He shrieked
Who could it be?
Unexpectedly he's someone I could not see!
yet only I can hear.
A nowhere man whom greeted with sigh
though I've never seen him in beacon's of light
for he always knows how to welter my sight
his eerie voice orchestrates the eventide
shocked me with so much surprise.
for his eyes lilt like fireflies.
He given me a euphony, took away the agony
and hid me somewhere I can't even grasp
how many he had taken away to his untrodden land
to turn me as one of them, his very own nowhere man.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
Anne is 97.
"Oy, the bones!"
Walking ain't easy
Sitting draws pain.
"I use a heating pad."
Her pink house is a shrine
with 2 T.V. altars.
"I'm so lucky."
Marilyn is 72.
"I ran my own modeling agency."
She orchestrates care,
for her mother Anne,
for husband Manny.
("He had a stroke.")
and for Debbie,
her daughter with M.S.
"WHO TOLD YOU SHE HAD M.S. ???!!!!"
screamed her text.
I pause, . . . . .
Volcanic fissures of paranoia erupt weekly.
(she's tired, living on that last nerve, Om..... I must forgive... forgive... forgive...).
"You did" I reply.
Anne,
Marilyn,
Manny,
and
Debbie.
And the pink house altars chanting.
Chanting greed.
Chanting wanna be, wanna more, wanna wanna om wanna wanna....
The kill-you-with-boredom soaps and talk shows blast from all T.V.s,
"ELLEN looks more like a man everyday, I like KATIE," she declares, as I quietly shut the door.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
My mind spelled your name
with such intimacy
that I craved for the lips
between your legs
at two o' clock in the morning,
with sweat running down my spine.
And I know that my name
orchestrates the symphony
under your sheets
whenever you're alone
on a Sunday afternoon.
I guess we can call it even.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
Robots and gods.
Is this madness?
It must be.
On one hand, the robot feels.
The robot knows what it wants, takes it.
But has difficulty feeling what other people are feeling.
On the other hand, the god watches.
The god orchestrates and plans things to go its way.
But feels as though it doesnt have control over itself.
It manipulates and prods.
It is calculated.
It is watching.
It is observant.
It is careful, caring and emotionless.
Yet full of it. And still yet unexpressive. Full of life. Trapped in their vessels; their roles.
What am i?
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 3:43 AM UTC
An anarchist atom
Assaults the atmosphere
With anger and aerial arson
Bringing, begetting
Brutal and ****** battles
In my brain
Initiating chaos
With charges
Of chemicals.
A disection, distortion
Diversion of dedication
And direction
Causing eruptions
Emissions
Of erratic, electric elements
Of ego.
Ferocious fires form
In filaments, firmaments
Feeding the fantastic
Forces
Which grow and gain
In greatness in gravity
Grave, gory, gorgeous
Gloom.
Henceforth hidden horrors
Harrowed in a hollow heart
Instantly interact with
Intimate ideas
Initiating irregular, irrational
Irreversible
Irrelevant
Intimacy
Jealousy
Jumbling of jinxes
And laws of the jungle
For kicks
Leading to lies
Leaving love for loneliness
Loss.
A massive moral meltdown
In my mind
Negating, neutralising
normality
Orchestrates an open
Onslaught of order
And ordinary
People's principles
To pursue passion
And perfection
In a poetic periphery
Quite queer to some
And quaint to those
Not acquainted with
Rushes of ramblings
Received and reciprocated
Or radical ridicule
Of rascals.
Synapses send,
Signal every sinew
Simulating similar signs
But transmitting treacherous
Tingles
Teasing, trapping thoughts
In terror, temptations
To commit treason
Unforgivable, unforgettable
Us
Vivid and vibrant
But also very
Woeful
Wishing we were wild
And willing to walk
Our wishes make wonderful
Wells of
Youth
And creative zest.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
64 squares and 32 pieces
white and black or black and white
pending your thesis
whether your black or white
they all have the same features
8 pawns, simple creatures
8 x 2 is 16
infantry disguised as peasants
trying to get above the 7th
to the 8th and replace
their meager form for something more severe
2 rooks, sitting on the edge
2 crooks robbing everything perpendicular
to the perimeter provided the king
doesn't falter in his pledge
When the night rolls through,
the knights roll through.
Puffing green goo, these squares or cubes
will move an L make a 7 and ***** you.
The bishop will say a blessing
as he stumbles across the board.
Moving forward diagonally,
these drunken priests drink towards
a leader hung with dressings
The queen? That greedy broad
thinks everyone is a pawn.
constantly placing her place
in the face of those trying to take her place.
The king orchestrates the beat
carefully placing his feet before god.
His feat is living, no great givings,
giving up the wrong square will make his crown your treat
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
The subway air feels like pudding. It's thick, and as clingy as water. When you take a shower at night - and you should always take a shower at night, unless you want to sleep with the city - you can feel the air instantly liquify and drain away.
The memories leave marks on your skin, if you let them. The bruises on your sides from bumping unique people; the cut on your head from hitting a pole; the ache in your heels from walking too far. You're experiences hang on your skin, and shine through your eyes.
New York is unique because of her variety. She's strong because of her diversity. She grows because of her adaptability. New York is a jungle of human-animals trying to survive.
The smell of opportunity is stronger than the potent *** of other smells: the ***** rodent-infested tracks, frequent homeless sleeping quarters, grungy, old costumes on Times Square.
She is life; she is alive.
If you're alone or together you are always a part - a piece that makes it what it is. Without you the city survives. She has, and will. But without you, she's not what she is with you. Even if she tried.
People flow trough her streets as uniquely as blood runs through your veins. The heart orchestrates the motion, while the blood does the dance. she lives and breaths through each person's lungs. Each one arrives for a particular reason - even if for no reason at all. Our arrival helps her breath.
The anticipation before arriving in New York - not the Big Apple, no one calls it that - is enough to deprive a voyager of sleep on incoming flights. Even at 11:45 p.m. The jungle of buildings, built in perfect chaos testifies someone saw the bigger picture. A person may only see a foot, or a year in front of their face. New York saw far ahead, and high above.
Everyone is welcome. Some never leave. Permanently or temporarily, New York will take you in as long as you stay. She may hold on a little too long.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
Sugar nightmares haunt children
Nancy harlequins cane them
Oh, child of mine
your life you did,
away,
sign.
Force fed familiarity with already branded emotions,
irregular realities and clouded surreal formalities,
so very many humans’ form dichotomies
out of our shared mute gray;
spinning constant self-important prose.
So very many humans share so much,
so little,
not often
doing little to soften
all of their emotional blows
trying hard to strike enigmatic pose.
Oh, child of mine
the heart of utilitarian method
has receded in incredulous fashion
followed by authoritarian apologies;
the majority is not icecream people
spreading simple good thought,
but generations fraught
with trivial conformist ideologies.
We are all hiding our seams
with creative masks
and self created tasks.
Oh, child of mine
your prescription reality is revealing itself as Atlantis,
sinking and shuddering into Quaaludes
with frightening psychotic interludes.
Emotions paint
stained lurid faces,
dancing with
ludes effecting movement,
nudes of swaying and repose.
You arose deeming so much rightfully yours
waltzing through seemingly already opened doors.
Holy curb their anti-Christ
Consider your aging soul
Oh, child of mine
Belief of awareness in action
understand the probability of dissatisfaction,
Stop!
treating the moment as a bleak bridge to the next inaction.
Eventually ponderous thoughts form
resembling an orrery,
an incessantly philippic story
orchestrates your oleaginous personality.
Oh, child of mine
Youth flees and your mind
takes once again to the seas,
a vexing penumbra of perception.
Bathos permeates the fathoms of an obstreperous life
and if you still care,
lament that this meaningless congeries
of moments
inspires only delusion,
no disillusionment.
Eventually a lilting threnody
leading 'tween burning pews of proposed serenity
and the following bumping callithump
will firmly stamp you into black infinity.
Oh, child of mine
You've used the switch
too much
too often
coupled with lofty scoffing
giving the innocent up as offering
to the
mechanical engine
of organic creation.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
THE CALDER TREE
( for Connie )
The tree stands
naked
against a sunset
leafless.
She cries for the tree's
lost leaves.
I tuck her into bed
promise to make her
a tree
a la Calder.
Dawn sees the tree
adorned
in mobiles...wind chimes
where leaves should be.
The tree sings
the morning.
Mobiles sings the day
that is
to be.
The Calder tree
orchestrates this Thursday.
Birds are
our choir.
She stands under
understands
the moment
as it
sings.
She the one "stabile"
beneath the cascade
of wind chimes & mobiles
that the morning plays.
The tree
forever planted
in her mind
now
all of her
outstretched
as she listens to
Time singing.
***
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
Medicine induced hallucinations,
body quivering with ache,
and I'm hearing the sweet chime of bells
In this hour of pain my mind orchestrates.
The next drop from the IV,
helps even greater than the last,
a constant drumming in my head
a beat which was not meant for dance.
The others around me dressed in white
say I'm doing fine and that I should rest,
but when there's music pouring into the room
Sleep is what I must detest.
Can they not hear the wondrous sounds?
The vibrations that reflects my pain?
Those invisible waveforms move visibly
or have I just gone entirely insane?
There is no music, they tell me.
It must be a side-affect to the medication.
The ambiguous tune that rattles my brain,
is death knocking, it is by my orchestration.
But who is to say what I hear
is not real?
The tune in my head I wish to transcribe
but I'm weak,
and barely clinging to life.
So no one will hear this stirring melody.
This is the song I hear towards the end of my life.
In these last precious moments
laying in my seemingly sterile bed,
the tune haunts me 'till I shut my eyes.
but the tune is my comfort, I do not dread.
So take me with you, oh humble melody.
I welcome your amplitude with open ears
Let's take a listen to what you're telling me,
I dare you to move me to tears…..
The warm blanket of the strings comforts me,
the brass section: a foundation, a rock.
Oh, but hear the timpani? It taps to the beat of my near-ending biological clock.
The woodwinds, a sympathetic harmony that aides my despair.
Their aloofness like the machine by my side, filling me with air.
*The main theme speaks to me directly, and I've been worn thin
but I swear the main line is "I've fought valiantly, but this battle I could not win."*
I do not have to open my eyes to see,
that the director of this symphony is myself.
I've created this music on my death bed,
and it was not meant for anyone else.
When I close my eyes this final night,
take a somber breath and leave.
I'll have my tune in my head,
and nobody for me to grieve.
Goodbye to this world around me,
now the nurse come to medicate.
One last final wave of my arms.
This song I hear, mine alone, I orchestrate.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
The Lost Letter of Love-
The thunder of the busy street makes love to the vicious voices that plague my mind. Reminisce of a forgotten love still shower my inner most thoughts. Passion that once overwhelmed my life is now my reason for exhaust. The shimmers that once lit my ambition and drive now hang lightless, darker than the deepest secret. Yet the frequency of lost desire still induces the most intoxicating substance. Arms grow weary caressing forgotten times, the tears that once grew a river, are now dry beds of torment. The beautiful dawn plays in coalition with the residuals of a distant song. “Goodbye my lover” plays in harmony with the neglect of reality. Not facing demons yet displaying affection to them. Indulging in virtues once restricted by political propaganda. I am her vicious vendetta, her thoughtlessness, her absence. I lay on a bed of needles enjoying the aguish, suffering in satisfaction. The destructive thought of deserving such a decisive decision allows my mind to become a rag of lost emotion, wiping tears from the concaved steps that once bread a whirlwind of radical love. A canvas stained recklessness paints a picture of a destined solitude. No regret orchestrates a symphony of percussions, streaming beautiful sound through the hills of total regret. Awake becomes second nature, slumber slumbers with the lack of motivation to ignite the calm. Insomnia hums in a melody so righteous that the religion becomes the man. A hollow shell of broken ambition sway in the wind of self desire. The cries of the night become intoned with the cries of truth. Instinct maps the course of self-withered illusion, illuminating the “why us” cause. A foundation of happiness holds the weight of a pessimistic engagement. While optimistic scavengers prey on the depths of endless souls. Disappointment rectifies all signatures of a so-called love. Remembering a once forgotten future claims its stakes as the eternal right. The moon holds desperate for the fortune of the unfortunate son. Unsettled disputes, take a toll on broken bodies. Broken wills dance in the limelight ignoring the forgotten pain, a laugh of retribution becomes one with inexplicit content. While saying “I love you” becomes that of explicit context, searching for the meaning between the lines. The lost letter of love shapes like the clouds in the sky only resembling something it never can be.
RICHARD ITSKOVICH
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
The second power of the Sphinx
is Will.
"Motion is by mind alone." ⊙
Intelligence, armed with Wisdom,
fortified with Understanding,
self-realizes.
The will to power orchestrates
desire, giving flesh to dream.
(ripples in the waters of מ)
Who awakens, ceasing Motion,
becomes the Mover:
the omnipresent Point.
Will is the Artificer of Truth.
Truth embodied by Art
follows conception.
Existence produces mythos.
*"The Maze, the Maze that is the Secret,
loves Itself.
And in the love of Itself,
amazing things Become."* ⊾
To Will is to express:
to falsify the inestimable
and create by omission.
"The world-dream is a lie." Ω
*"Lo, for these words that stain the lips of the Anointed,
the Smeared Ones.
Smeared in the ashes of My blood
is the lie that is Our story."* ⊾
The cause of Action is narrative.
The effect of Action is narrative.
I speak the Word.
I hear the Word.
The Story begins.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Gunshots pierce the silence of the yawning night,
In the subterranean abyss of the subway
A young life ebbs into the filth strewn sewer,
It is a girl, fair and beautiful with black locks,
Her violator pockets the still smoking weapon and zips up,
He spits, looks over his shoulder and lights a cigarette,
He inhales deeply and in his nostrils he can taste her sweet perfume,
The memory orchestrates a smile
Which once again compels him to look down at her still warm body,
Upon her dress and glistening legs the blood is beginning to congeal,
Her eyes are sightless but they mirror his image in the dead sockets,
He takes another lungful of her succulent youth
And then slithers and melts into the anonymous jaws of the city,
His ***** are still encrusted with hunger
And the night is yet young and tender,
His teeth glint by the light of the neon signs.
©Rangzeb Hussain
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 4:15 PM UTC
around the table we go,
each declaiming modestly,
the blessings we are duty bound
to acknowledge
my list swift
in possession of all my senses,
some say, even my faculties,
but hours later,
when the glaze of gourmandy fades,
struck, remiss,
my failure to extend a kiss
*to my muse, who, deft orchestrates,
the combining of the five
into something greater,
a symphony of visionary words jive
that come to life,
more than I ere believed possible*
that thru the poem,
I could give joy to others...
for this blessing simple,
rejoice, rejoice, rejoice
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC
Cupid’s adept at quantum entanglement
his arrow has no shaft instead a crafty wave
two spinning end curves, not a singular head
as this emissary sends signal to maid and knave
vibrations ripple with superposition stead
like bottle-nosed dolphin smoothly outdelivers
bashful receivers twist, twirl, dare not quiver
electric intention across time-space weave
this is no unruly Robin Hood fighting heave
Divine alignment chooses magnetic maiden
portal opens precious pearly coded probability
universe responds with willing golden spirals
precise molecules looking like slippery chirals
rascal but knows ardent alchemical compatibility
mercurial mirror reflects duo’s ample agilities
turquoise light refracting lifts forgotten bond
sacred it slept inside musical harp softly fond
pirouetting progresses path matching persons
particles becoming prime entangled photons
picking out their aspects is a spooky action
wave emits fractal triangle as realisation hits
atomic Love cannot but flamenco follow flits
heart harmonic orchestrates beloved true
when triangle aims this is the cue !
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
_______________________
*triangle in this context : God/masculine/feminine
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 5:11 AM UTC
If you ever wondered what do I sound like
and pictured me like untamed winds on rainy nights,
humming melodies in chorus with raindrops
and spilling dulcet tones off holy concert
Or contemplated I would be as synchronized
as the sound of a calm water fall,
off a sharp cliff erupting euphony
every time its hits the bottom in a xylophonic fashion
Or believed I would be as patient
as a cuckoo reciting her syllables religiously,
calling out to her mate every evening,
let go
Let go your fallacious thoughts.
I am not a piano, violin, xylophone, flute or a guitar
I am
A tender heart who squeaks like squirrel
when exposed to unprecedented depths of uncertainty.
An introvert who sounds like a voice narrowed down into a tunnel
cascading echo in batches when exposed to unfamiliar faces.
A small town girl who orchestrates her crescendo in vain
when the slightest ray of hope is felt.
A fearless soul singing silently while her hands spill cacophony
when exposed to prejudiced ways.
A fiery lover whose heart beats on high tempo of passion
and spill music off desires.
Come in, know me better.
-Pallavi
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 10:04 AM UTC
The tree are whispering in hushed silent tones
Their voices carried softly by the wind
Caressing the whole forest with their hymns
Suffused in their cries, the arrogance
And greed, and vanity of men
Men that were tasked to guard creation!
Their chants deafening, echoing, increasing
In brave tumultuous waves
Growing ever louder
Pushing the rivers and tributaries into the seas
Infused in the currents
The laments of the helpless
Trampled, and ravaged, and killed
With violence and impunity!
Be wary of the axeman, the hunter, and the miner
They are lurkers, waiting in the dark canopies
Waiting for a chance to **** and pillage
To **** the forest out of its wits
Until it loses its lushness and vitality
'Til it surrenders its grip from the divine earth!
Be wary of the forest ranger
For they are the ones that orchestrates
The relentless and appalling ******
That decimates lives, hopes, and aspirations
They perpetuate the madness
They are the harbingers of chaos, they are destruction
Their charm, vile and putrid
To ever allow them recite their prose would be death!
But never despair,
The sleepers have woken
Those with quiet ears slowly hears the noise and commotion
The deniers have silenced their self-serving lips
Await that moment, when the silence is fractured
By the forest, howling in raging defiance
Justice will be swift, the wolves will be unraveled as sheep!
And only then says the oldest of the trees
Can the children of the forest roam free.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 6:43 AM UTC
In the shadows deep, a hidden self resides,
Shadowy moments, secrets carefully hide.
Masks conceal, terrible, masterful deceit,
Hiding desires that hopelessly tear the soul apart.
Each stolen glance, stories endlessly untold,
Understanding fully the consequences, remained ruthlessly uncontrolled.
Embroidered shadows, i dance through the night,
Soul aflame that seeks freedom and its light.
Secrets unfold, longing leaves for peace,
Quiet nights, where mystery shadows cease.
New pathways unfurl, dawn ascends, a radiant light, dispelling night's despair.
Hope's strength sustains me; I step towards soaring heights.
Trapped within shadows, as I cast off the disguise,
Facing endless fears, with courage in my eyes.
Freedom awaits, reaching beyond the crafted scene, revealing its embrace.
Constraint Path, yet mysteries still remain, a mystifying presence.
Whispers of doubt, an insidious refrain.
The weight of the past, never-ending ache.
Devastating reminder, for goodness sake,
As Overwhelming loneliness creeps in, stealing the day.
The masks fall, after a long day of charades,
The freedom sought, tragically feels distant and far.
The cruel illusion, leaving hideous scars.
With cunning hand, he builds enigmas that are hard to find.
Concealed within that emptiness, darkness springs.
Their arrangements symphony, the instruments, played at his own will alone.
Threads of silken fate, a tapestry completed.
Chess master strategist, emotionless with cold and calculating mind.
With deep calculations, strategist orchestrates every move.
Checkmate is now declared, the final game is at an end.
For endless nights, the game continues.
That even resigned on his power, he was trapped within a dream.
In this ceaseless, darkly deceptive game, a bitter truth appears.
That even in my invincible mastery, i'm utterly empty.
Weights of countless broken hearts, never easily forgiven, and burdens that are hard to bear.
Archon's orchestra fades, but the echoes remain.. does he hear them? or devoid of shame?
The nefarious price of power, is the wearing of many masks.
Do we deeply, truly know who we are, or are we forever lost in the labyrinth of masks we create to hide our true selves from the judgment of others?
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 8:44 AM UTC
An endless trap neglected to be seen
I find myself clinging to the scheme
Conceptual romance, called lunacy
Better things are coming rather slowly
Like the clothes folding
She orchestrates, collecting mishaps in jest
She rose beige and benign into the sunset
On the steps of my home, I noticed a little presage
She then sends galling annals in one text message
Hovering on your lawn
And wretched calls became a bad quest
Soft clouds traipse vastly like coy insects
Sloom the week, stapled to the mattress
My whole life has been nothing but this
Restless, princely, and a sad mess
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC