"originates" poems
***Tum se hi meri pehchaan hai.
Atul yoon hi nahin bana main.
Tum se hi meri zindagi hai.
Aashiq tumhaara yoon hi nahin bana main.
Tum se hi meri khushi hai.
Pyaar tumhe aise hi nahin karta.
Tum se hi meri santushti hai.
Pyaar tumhe yoon hi nahin karta.
Har kavita mein meri tumhaari hi jhalak hoti hai.
Kavi bada main yoon hi nahin bana.
Har saans tumhaari hi yaad dilaati hai.
Zindagi ** meri tum yoon hi nahin kehta.***
*************************************************
*From you is my identity,
Atul originates from you.
From you is my life,
I am your crazy lover.
From you is my happiness,
I love you just so seriously.
From you is my satisfaction,
I don't love you just for fun.
Each poem of mine carries your imagery,
I have been a seasoned poet worshipping you.
Every breath reminds me of you,
I call you my life not just for saying.*
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
A haunting stare with a serious note
Originates in a lad just thirteen
Ready to command or to set to task
Obedient, mature, and quick to rule
More comfortable with adults than peers
An old soul has he, loves cars from the past
Collects Civil War relics and antiques
Spends most his time reading and researching
Reads historical fiction, lost in time
Analyzes plants, insects, and ol' coins
He could be described like Chaucer's Cleric
"And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach."
He desires, especially, silver
Yet, gold and ex-presidents faces too
Protects younger members of his small clan
Only his hand will be attacking foe
It might be his fine grades, his quirk or two
That humbles his parents. Proudly they stand
And admire their first born miracle
A babe no more, his age will meet his soul.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
It is not the bumblebee, that goes
unloved or unprivileged.
It is the sad circumstances of of his flower brethren
That congests his mind with remnants of
Regret and despair,
Brought on by a chain reaction of
Sympathy and compassion.
Do the flowers comprehend
The plight of the humble bumblebee?
He who flies in his aura of sincere concern,
For those who he calls friends.
Certainly not,
For they question the pain his eyes have seen,
But certainly not
From which it originates.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
The
path leading
to radical acceptance
originates with a pause.
Stepping out of your solitude,
promptly let go of fear-driven reactivity.
Embracing and accepting all of your being,
surround yourself with the warmth of loving kindness.
Begin now to forgive yourself and others again and again.
Know that your capacity to be completely open brings wholeness.
There are no formulas for navigating all of life’s situations.
Listen with your natural intelligence and wise heart then,
by breaking out of the old confining patterns,
freedom and healing are yours to hold.
As awareness to truth deepens.
show gratitude to life
that is now
open for
you
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
i heard another person in my village
died today, we didn’t dare touch
the body, his organs had bled out
there are no white people here
white as ghosts, they are going home
my friends in America tell me
we are not on the news, only Jewish
people fighting muslims, but
don’t they know we all come from Africa?
i heard the super-nationals took this
virus into a lab and created a way
to rid itself of the old people of civilization
if Ebola spreads maybe the world
will not remember what it means
to come from tribes that your mother came from
once, we left Africa and now we leave her
to her misery, well you know what
maybe fiscal ebola is just around the corner
for people who live in America, people
who live their lives on debt, credit, profiting
from heatlh insurance, death insurance, the works
but the fact is, I don’t think this is going away
I think Ebola is here for a very specific reason
The world is ready for another plague
to hemorrhage like a zombie, it’s not news?
not if you are black, if your body fluids
don’t stain your white skin, not when
it’s on another continent, that you don’t have
relatives in, don’t call it a “black death”
just because it originates in bats from Africa
there isn't a vaccine because the world
intentionally doesn’t wish for our well-being
you say it isn’t airborne, it doesn’t spread easily
because we are somehow ***** and you are clean
because you are somehow rich, compared to our poverty?
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
How have we come to need to pay for expression?
Perhaps because we get harassed and reprimanded by people we hold to be 'respectable'
(authority, parents, teachers, etc.)
when we're young for being wholly expressive
and so many people stuff it.
Then, those who don't stuff it seem somehow special or illogical for choosing not to stuff it.
Then, they're exploited by our glorious system to hand over the "rights" to sell the expression.
How do they expect to sell people that which originates from ourselves?
To sell people salvation from that which doesn't exist?
To sell them what they don't need?
To sell beauty? Happiness? Expression? Education?
In a word:
DECEPTION.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
have you noticed me yet?
XD
anyways here's a challenge for you guys cause i cant seem to write this week:
write a poem about your very own senpai (real or fake) and how you try to get hm/her to notice you and tag it as #noticemesenpai
:D ive written so much about my own lol i dont need to write anymore....
(inspired by dani chase's poem, Senpai >//////<)
and if you don't know what a senpai is:
"It originates from anime and manga. It's someone older than you. Someone you look up to. If they give the slightest attention to you, you sort of explode. They are just really admired by you and if you are a senpai, bask in it!"
-http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Senpai
cause urban dictionary is legit cx^
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
In ant populations
Worker ants are blind
Follow one another by scent
Pheromones are released from their feet
Leaving a scent trail from the next to follow
A single file line
Blindly trusting pheromones
Sometimes an ant loses the scent though
And wanders off looking for the trail
Leading the others off behind him
And if he looks hard enough
He’ll find the end of his own line
And follow the tail of a train
He created
Subsequently creating what is scientifically known as
a Death Spiral
For these blind ants are unaware
They are following the same path over and over
It does not lead anywhere
It does not lead home
Eventually they walk until
They walk no more…
Pheromone- “any chemical substance released by an animal that serves to influence the physiology or behavior of other members of the same species.”
Originates from the Greek phérein and that means to bear or bring and Hormone
Many people say that love
Is a chemical reaction
A perfect blend of pheromones
To produce attraction
Affection
And in the end reproduction
Love was
Scientifically disjointed
To fit better on a slide
Linguistically altered
To fit better on paper
But isn’t love just pheromones?
Like it is to the ants
Attractive footsteps
We blindly follow
Even if they lead us to no good
Most times Love leads us home
Leads us to prosper
Tells us where to go
What to do
To survive
Until it doesn’t…
Then our pheromone path
Leads us in circles
It leads around and around
Love can lead us in a death spiral
And if we are blind we will not step out
Step out of the path:
That winding circling path of doom
Made up of previous mistake we have made
That left attractive footsteps in their wake
Footsetps that when we go lost we again found
And now we choose to blindly repeat them
Over and over
In the pursuit of Love
Because of Pheromones
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
I am a cold, bleak and weary melody;
Forced out of guitar strings, alone,
a solitary piece made by a starving man.
My low notes bring down the sturdiest ship,
dragging its corpse to lay down on the sea-floor.
I am a low pitch plea of woeful "help me";
a drowning man swallowing water as his
mouth seeks the air.
My voice is wispy smoke of years of no use,
contaminating the very lungs from which it originates
from.
And sleep, she is a blissful siren.
Bringing me to underwater caverns-
chanting and humming melodies as the pressure
takes me down under and my eyes close in surrender.
I am more dead than my corpse will ever be;
just an empty sea-shell-
no pearl, no life.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Miami melts in its own heat.
It is, as Robert Frost writes,
"Riding on its own melting."
The grubby politicians
no one votes for
package the
melted, gelatinous
reality-space in
salami tubes.
(America, this is where your
“mystery meat” originates.)
And like Frost’s poetry,
this palm tree city
is a modern achievement,
gross in the undertaking.
It is a lead coffin, kept afloat
on the Atlantic Coast by
feat of the imagination alone.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
It's not the memories that hurt.
I seldom find myself lost amongst those painful reveries.
No, it's much deeper than that.
It's not logical or tangible.
It's an inexplicable feeling,
Or lack there of.
A void.
Deeper than conscious thought.
It's molecular.
As if the atoms that create my existence mourn your presence.
Perhaps they grew fond of the way our forms were intertwined.
Vibrating in unison to an unheard melody.
They moved together in harmony.
They united for a time only to be torn apart by shallow egos and petty differences.
That's where the perpetual longing originates from.
They grieve your absence with an incessant hum that whispers your name throughout my body. Pleading with me to fix this.
Sigh.
Sounds better than admitting I actually miss the *******
It's not me, I swear, it's my ******* atoms! Do I look like a physicist to you!? I don't know how to reinvent the atom!!
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
Snow, I hate, No,
Dislike.
Snow’s dislike originates,
Snow indicates-
The air becomes cold enough,
Pour down
White-feathered drops
Upon our heads
Snow, I dislike
Yet,
If cold is cold,
It has to be
I’d prefer
It pretty
So snow's cold I dislike,
But snow appearance
I like
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries
Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written
Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical
To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself
To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets
The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy
In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur
To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words
And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar
On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems
I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
The writer's life
Consists of looming strife
For a writer's eyes are keen
To the suffering that usually goes unseen
All writers are bearers of truth
Wielding their pens like a scalpel that cuts through
All the **** we tell ourselves
That keeps us in denial
A writer seeks truth incessantly
And eventually comes upon the somewhat ambiguous answer
That all truth originates from Love
How does the writer's analytical mind
Grapple with such a fluid concept?
The writer sees beauty in the invisible
Writes poetry on bathroom stalls
Lives life solely for stories
The writer feels things deeply but doesn't speak them,
But rather scribbles her thoughts fervently in a notebook
The words dancing on the page
As they are released from the tip of the pen
The writer knows, sadly, that even though she writes stories to make people feel less alone
That these people will never truly ever understand her and neither will
She ever be able to fully embody the experience of another human
The writer has wounds that go deeper than you could fathom
When no one was there to turn to,
She picked up a notebook instead and released the toxic emotional build-up in her head
Made art out of her sadness on the page
Through poetic words,
Elusive and enigmatic,
She could tell her story, indirectly
And still set herself free from the ******* of unspoken miseries
The writer's life is a privileged one indeed
For we see things, but don't speak them
But rather transcribe them forever in our memories
Until we find a clean sheet of paper,
And write
Write everything we've seen, heard, tasted, felt, known and intuited
Every struggle and every victory
Meticulously crafted upon the bare canvas
Like a war zone with an abundance of pent up zest
Finally unleashing itself upon the page
So, write, my fellow Writers
Write fearlessly
And our stories will prevail
They will impact even just one person
Who thought they were all alone,
Perhaps like we once felt.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
~~
Those might have been told in any other way
but you could not understand
No, No this is not a spring song
Not even a fairytale
An exclusive secret,
a pain which originates within a love,
reverberates with the rebel song,
within your known sky, wind
Naturally has seen in dreams
Rarely meets with the real
Crops of thousand wishes,
As the Vinci's Mona Lisa
Truly forms in nature
which has a vitreous luster
As the Crystal of Sapphire blue
where the beauty beyond
Of the words mystery unveiled,
yet the fascination of the Poe's uncovered poetry,
As the fathomless depth of Mid Atlantic ridge,
which goes a long way
Tastes like the first kisses of love
which is full of longing
where whole life is covered with dissatisfaction,
within the prospect of ever known
Like an old wine
where levels of alcohol is too high
After spreeing over the night,
Still hanging in,
Even after taking the morning black coffee
~~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
I'm tempted to yell
Beneath the waxing moon,
Call to the hood whistler
To whistle a tune I knew.
Just one I could recognize,
One to identify;
But it's well above zero
On this shortest day of the year.
My compassion over-rides
The duality in the airs.
Still there's no inkling
Of whatever he's whistling;
I can't locate
Where it originates.
He'll be inside soon,
As we move to hibernate;
I sincerely hope he's there,
Whatever tune he airs,
Come Spring.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
These thoughts and feelings
flowing through me
affecting
every aspect of my being.
My brain
receives and processes
the information
and then
reacts
No thought is needed
A highly functional automated algorithm
abiding by the learned lessons of interaction
and conditioning burnt into the once easily malleable
network of neurons that defines my personality
The heavy mask of logic and pride
so tightly wrapped
over the fabric of my true being
keeping me in this game
Yet
I chose to play
To identify
with this silly and burdensome sobriquet
To one day break free from the automated voice-mail
that responds apathetically to the glorified
archetypes, thought-forms, information
that originates from
God
creator of
signal and receiver
thought and mind
emotion and body
Once the original signal is found
a needle in a haystack
the mystery is opened
the opening of a book yet written
A beginning to all beginnings
An ending to all endings
this is you, here, now.
LIVE. BE.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 1:13 AM UTC
This moment is hushed by ecstasy.
The moment's breathe is held~
and you can see the dusty particles
floating through the pillars of light.
This is the exhale,
and is also the silence.
The observation tower of consciousness..
It all just orbits-
Minute molecules gyrate
in vast space.
The waves oscillate
in numberless meditation.
This is where thought
originates from.
It is the nature
of the mountain air.
It is the emptiness
in between speech.
It is the moment of possibility
when a loved one is leaving.
It is the moment experienced
when holding a baby first breathing.
It is the stem of
importance and meaning.
I am starting to remember
where we have been
and where we are going.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
Satori is a word that originates from Japan. It literally translates as 'awakening' and is used to describe a moment of 'sudden enlightenment'.
To attempt to understand this as an experience, try this:
Imagine your mind as being a glass prism situated behind your eyes.. It breaks up reality in a similar way to how a glass prism refracts light.
What goes in is pure and whole, but what comes out is broken and fractured. When the mind is active, what is received by the eyes is broken up into tiny little manageable pieces of information. Then for convenience, it will discard anything that it considers to be irrelevant, or 'not fitting' [what you already believe to be true].. Then your body will react according to that particular interpretation of reality. That's not to say the mind is bad or wrong, only that the mind does not see Truth, but only what it allows to be true..
When the mind falls silent the prism is removed, and you become just like a mirror. Light goes in through the eyes and your being will directly reflect what is being received.
See if you can catch the next time your mind goes silent. Be aware of the stillness it brings. Notice that the mind will want to judge it or describe it. If thoughts come, acknowledge them and let them be on their way. Just watch them. Treat them in a manner similar to watching clouds float through the sky. Stay with this feeling and remember it well.
For in that moment, all will be revealed.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
My favorite quote would describe knowing even one life breathed easier because you have lived;
The meaning of life.
But when do I breathe easier?
How can CPR be performed if the life guard has no breathe?
Surely resuscitation would fail.
Yet, laughter originates from the larynx;
Our primary source of sound production.
Cords vibrating as air passes,
Laughter production.
Laugh often and much,
We are breathing.
Resuscitation!
Share the breathe,
Share laughter.
This is to be a success,
To resuscitate
leaving the world a better place
By whatever necessary method.
Ralph was right,
Just resuscitate when needed.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
*It originates in the dilation
Of your left eye blue
Marble columns
Splinter and shatter
As your elbow gracefully
Settles
Your head
Seven pounds eight ounces
Softly perched upon the arches
Your shirt pulled upward
The pinkish white of skin
Warm flesh
Spilled wine hair
Sleeping in the window seat*
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Where were you when the fire went away?
When the thunder escaped
and the lightning was saved?
What did you do when you heard the sound,
but bore no witness to the golden down
that gives a sky that godly crown?
Certainly it was a matter of confusion,
transfixed by the pandemonious afterthought
of a storm that was simply illusion
If I cannot be the lightning in your bed,
but only the thunder you celebrate
--marveling at my storm and e-lectric charm,
and bottling the warning of what you forbade:
"Thunder tells distance, and lightning gives harm",
and yet I too have some meaning to display:
thunder cannot satiate,
nor can it corporalize into much
beyond from where it originates,
I am left blind as sonar and with
a desire that can only bring belly-aches
God made skies so that they would break
and splinter into seconds of worship,
--a blue vessel readied for harbor's sake ,
and with the beating it takes,
the wise sky adores itself enough
to revel in what was and then remain,
forward-fast and backwards again
healing, heeling and staying the same
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 6:19 PM UTC
i can see
your soft footprints
in and around
the green, the yellow woods
and that blue turquoise
offering you a ride
fluttering his wings
the white, black, green birds
holding stars in their beaks
in clouds you can walk;
it makes me envious
so ingenuous you are
as ye know not,
a Pandora box
is just an allegory
for your own
fulgent eyes
for through string of hopes
and wave of dreams,
for upon cloud floors
and blinking realms,
when you take your walk,
the earth's dear lady,
the whole universe
wants to keek and see
the sparkling wonder
that originates upon your eyes,
such is the moment of
ecstasy that, let alone us,
even all non-human forms
realize from you,
and your concomitant smile,
what true joy looks like
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
I peer out the porthole into the chaos of the storm,
Disorder, my sole companion
Blue waves crash along the jagged rocks
sprays of melancholic gloom
the wind howls
sounding like the ghosts of past memories
decayed wooden decks rotting from
the salty air
a wailing gust originates from the rusting iron of the ships hull
a hex is placed on it’s journey as the shadowy vessel tears through
the gloomy waters of its past
The past is only a memory,
as I find myself once again in the company of madness
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC