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Steve D'Beard Jul 2014
One is seemingly more impressed
by the less endowed or blessed
when somewhat incapacitated
and borderline inebriated;
the monstrous unconscious
disregards the likelihood
of fathomless undergarments
in other dubious departments.

Disregard the random blotches
or the involuntary discharges
instead revel in model tonsils
and almond shaped parcels
the comets of multi-notches
like a strange attraction
for disheveled carpets.

The blossoms of toxins
a libation ensemble
almost near horizontal
each movement a bent nozzle
like a prehistoric Narwhal
dancing like a jackhammer
with the elegance of a cement mixer
a broken leaking fissure
seeping vapid glamour
and indecipherable grammar.

The paraphrased clichés
and communiques of praise
like lost prophets put on display
caught in the ricochet of overplay
making an exit with the grace
of a stumbling ballet
down a poorly-lit
nightclub passageway.

Ultimately this can only lead to
the face-plant moment-of-tomorrow
the flooded memory of the-night-before
feeling utterly spent
hungover and hollow
with ill conceived consent.

The: Oh. My. God!
The: He/She is still here,
what do I say?
Hoping inexorably
they would just get up
and silently fade away.

Beer Goggles:
remember to drink sensibly,
or run the risk of
nasty STD's
or unwanted pregnancy
or breathless infidelity
or reckless insincerity
or if you're really lucky,
just another
session in therapy.
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2014
Everybody in Russia loves Vladimir Putin.
In the years since he muscled his way to the top of the tree, he has established himself as the Champion of all Russia!

In the degradation following the collapse of the USSR, national pride in Russia spiralled down to an all-time low, there was little to be proud of. The satellite nations fled to independence abandoning the Rodina,  Agricultural and industrial production fell dramatically, law and order diminished dangerously. The economy shrank and the order of success in business depended largely on connection with Government and/or the Mafia. The Oligarchs became monstrously rich, the average Ivan monstrously poor. Life savings were rendered worthless overnight by the plummet of the value of the rouble. Russian society polarised from the ecstatically happy, filthy rich to the chronically unhappy, beggared poor.

Russian leadership staggered from Gorbechev’s democratisation through Yeltsin’s alcoholism to Andropov’s sudden death…. enter the fray Vladimir Putin.

Putin tightened the reins.
He organised regular payment of wages and salaries to the movers and shakers, the police and the military.
He changed the rules of doing business within the nation and made investment opportunities within Russia available to outside interests.
He took charge and commandeered discipline within the ranks of central Government.
He set about correctional treatment for the terrorists/freedom fighters in the Chechen Republic and elsewhere.
He raised the expectations of the common man and gave the people an element of promise for Russia’s tomorrow.
He invaded and took back the Crimea as legitimate Russian sovereignty.
He garnered the roaring support of the six million ethnic Russians domiciled in the Eastern region of the Ukraine.

Putin now stands, bare chested, astride Russia. He faces a hostile but cowed West with pale, blazing eyes and a ******* bulge in his trousers.
He is widely idolised by Russian women and admired by Russian men. He is their champion; he is believed to be their key to the future.
His nation is currently under severe trade embargo and economic sanction by Europe and the West which is hurting the strained economy right across the board.
The declining price of oil is adversely affecting Siberian oil profits and making further shale oil exploration uneconomic.
He enjoys hugely profitable Siberian natural gas pipeline sales to the Southern neighbour, China, but they watch the unfolding political landscape with careful, calculating tiger eyes.
Putin is regarded by Europe and the West as an unpredictable, serious threat who should not be unduly provoked.
Undeniably, the West, in their sour lipped manner, would be happy to see him and his Russian bear, fade quietly and permanently into the obscurity of the frozen wilds of the far Siberian tundra.

But if Vladimir Putin plays his cards well, he could actually bring the Rodina all of the benefits, glory and rewards that it seeks.
However, should he overplay his hand here, he may well crash and burn….and in doing so, could bring Russia’s dreams and aspirations crashing down with him.

Marshalg
Auckland
15 November 2014
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
a conversatioon with cats is "biased" upon the focus on gesticulation, or rather: a hyper-cipher of expressing a body to encompass language, without a focus on the existence of thought: that can be allowed rain.

a gender neutrality of pronouns?!
pronouns have been "gender neutral"
last time i checked...
   in attempting to give directions:
    it is a pronoun with negative
subjective "insinuations"...
          
that* also being
                               a pronoun...

   the mob rule argument:

       i'd like to "know" what
a "world" view looks like...
          given the specifics...

and some have children, and some have
mediocre language use...
        but who's to lay the brick on brick
and say: that's a castle, not
a mountain...

    i could have loved a woman
once...
          had she not thought i lied to her
and slapped me in the face...
  apparently visiting your
grandparents is taboo...
                     must be a russian thing...
and if she told you:
well i moved from st. petersburg
on the ground that he provided for me,
but i wouldn't move to the outskirts of
london that he slept on floor
while i slept in his bed as he held my
hand to imitate a lullabye

   then i too am riddled with having
to perform the lunacy of prayer,
     invent a god i might require
to invest in rekindling will...
     but still, the narcissus before the still
waters of a lake, imagining mirror,
when peering into a shadow...
  
                  schattenkind...

     an artist is fed by curiosity...
        the many may remember the many
that leave no foot...
            to be trodden on via repeat...
                 ******* Seneca deserved his
fate...
            complaining about the Tao monks
is one thing,
                  but living by stipend
of their maxim is another...

       dancing on hot coals is one thing,
petting a lion another...
       why Aesop conjured the
lion & fox chimera and not the
fox & wolf: now akin to me...

                 pronouns are generally
discriminating, anti-narrative shrapnel
of words...
                but for deity's sake:
why does the devil require a precursor
of a definite article,
   and it can "never" be cited:
                        a god?

                          i once studied the monarch,
the bishop and an orchestra conductor,
you know what i found?
    what, with a static audience?
        even with an opera singer on the fore,
the balancing edge of falling into
a sea of people?
               this clown with a prestigious
monicker?

                     as some might pet a cat like
another might play a guitar.

       can you imagine an orchestra
without a conductor,
   with a frozen audience to "provide"
a rhythm?
            i'm just starting to realise
the need for an orchestra conductor...
      imitation of rhythm...
           i've started reading
   the need for a conductor
   of an orchestra....
                               orientating
yourself using an inanimate object
to make a performance...
          requires a motivational
"tool"...
                    something wiggling
and spaghetti throwing
                      in foci:
     i.e. there's an alleviating point
     to mediate orchestra and audience...
considering the in stasis presence
             of an audience...
              
           sabina zweicker singing
        drachengeboren...

   because who would think an orchestra
conductor a homelessman?

        if he be not a motivational tool?
it would appear that there was
to be a mediator, akin to a football
judge & linear,
        to encompass an team worth
an orchestra, and an audience...
                
     oiled up ****** *****...
                                 and a sinking Venice...  
      my mediocre beginning
culminating in no works of Goya...
        a tuba player and an Etonian choir
of cherubs masked as castratos
        of some obscure Egyptian harem...
labouring a geometry of
people who's shadows do not
              morph into stones of graves...

     however many plagiarisms
of frank zimmerman...
         ah, right... hans... zimmer...
scooters on four-wheel chimps-
worth a Ferarri calling it a
Mediterranean diet's worth of canvas
blockers...
                  
        because language suddenly
had the ontological basis to bias
            play-dough in favour for
a rigid architecture of a chair?

       i won't fly with angel wings,
      but i'll certianly become flustered
with pigeon beaconc worthy of flight...
    
   and they really did overplay
    tchaikovsky in st. petersburg
when celebrating the use of a fountain...
i said to her: they're turning in their graves...
even if dead, i said to her:
  the dead find it hard to fall asleep...

they really did overplay
   tchaikovsky in st. petersburg
while crafting a water fountain
             spectre...
   with the regrettable consequences of
having under-played prokofiev...

as i find the conductor a "primitive" form
of  Cratylus:
        to have spoken deaf...
                             among the hearing;
but there's the need to mediate
    a moving body against
a canvas that does not,
                  in a forum...
                        a place of congregation,
at leat a thinker can be allowed
to be entertained
             by such a, un-fathom-ability.
Amrita G Jan 2021
“He doesn’t even care to keep the knowledge of her possessions a secret, not the least worried about it being stolen”
“What’s worse, is that everyone knows his treasure exists. It’s common knowledge in town”
“How long will it take to get stolen?”
“It’s a matter of days, if you ask me.

He was, however, smiling in the corner. He coerced the enemy into being his friend.  This is why he doesn’t actually disclose himself to anyone, because she might be misunderstood, like what was unravelling right before his eyes. This time however, the misunderstanding just helped him protect his real treasure, something he thought no one could possess because……………

What if you need to think a certain way to know something; and you can’t think that way without feeling or experiencing something else. If that’s true, so much of this world remains hidden in sight, and we don’t even know its hidden.

You can, to an extent, disguise what arises from material belongings immaterially. That’s what makes the key to your locked doors. The keys to your secrets and trust. Our experiences may dictate the way we feel. Look closer however, and there will always be these cracks on the edges of interpretation, these nuances in feelings, small differences that stem out into larger and larger branches until you have at your disposal- uniqueness.

So, here is a complex network of questions and possible answers deconstructed to portray different perspectives of personality, trust and secrets.

Let’s start with trust. It should ideally start with mutual respect and admiration.   Most things fade away, so in reality you are not trusting the other person, you trust yourself to be hopeful enough to believe trust will not wither through time, which is why it may seem like it’s your fault or centered towards you when you are betrayed of trust.

Even the reasons for choosing why we trust others is vastly different for each person. It goes to show how ephemeral our mind is at the microscopic level., almost like no one can truly know us. The reaction of others and their understanding of you may be an external input. But after that the interpretation is yours. And interpretation is slowly built over cycles of overlapping feelings and subtle thoughts.
Can we use this as a “key” to explore parts of ourselves whilst keeping them invisible to others? Can we recover old feelings or find out what means a lot to us, but we remain ignorant to?

Many things that matter deep inside, tend to have a personal lock, like an unspoken connection, or a bittersweet memory we like to visit. The most interesting part about these is that the key for some of these is unpredictable! Any future incident could somehow serve as an access to it, which is what makes personal locks so magical. No one can possess it because of no one, sometimes not even yourself, knows it's meaning to you. Such a key is truly unique, two people may go through the same thing, but for one person alone, that experience could serve as a key.  Here, an experience from the outside world can awaken memories, thoughts that we inadvertently treasured. It can, in a sense, almost transport us to a different timeline.

The phenomenon of getting goosebumps from listening to a piece of music (called frisson), and experiencing a surge of sensory feeling could be a doorway to some great things and could be a sign of higher levels of creativity. When you re-listen to a song you hadn’t listened to in many years, you can relive the time you originally heard it to startling detail. You may notice newer things about memories, be aware of nuanced feelings. Essentially, it becomes something that’s only yours, because you can’t predict how you yourself will be. The only key for such a secret is a unique reaction to an external input.

When you listen to this song, even ambiguously (not attaching it to any particular person or experience), even then when you later hear it, it will be infused with meaning. Why? Because the environment around you at that time possessed some emotional meaning, even if you didn’t know it. It became like recovering a part of you. Like recovering your own perspective on what’s in front of everybody.

Suppose instead of attaching significance, you simply create scenarios in your mind. You just imagine instances and do this repeatedly. Over time, the song’s original meaning will tarnish away. Such imagination gives temporary satisfaction, and even though one can imagine a variety of different scenes and emotions; imagination itself, feels the same. It does not carry any value by itself. It would seem that listening to a song a couple of times and then years later seems to be the world’s best time machine, but when we overplay it, and tamper it using imagination, neural networks get diluted and may not be serve as a very effective train of reminiscence anymore. *^


Mulling things over in our mind in loops can change almost everything about it- it may change a happy sentence into a sad one, a normal experience into a special one, and now these emotions that have been created by you, are like small filters that complicate further experiences.
Consider that two people go through the same experiences from birth. They may not feel each experience to the same degree. The second point is that subtler feelings are experienced by each of them. One may react more heavily, and the other may have auxiliary feeling in more magnitude than the other. Though these differences may be minimal at the start, these subtle thoughts become triggers, just like the initial experience.
Look at what’s happened. Now the seed of subsequent thoughts and emotion is no longer EXTERNAL. Its internalized. As they grow, though material interactions give rise to initial waves of thoughts, our lives are culminated by infinite intertwined feelings and emotions- so for each material interaction, a hundred immaterial ones are processed subconsciously. A symphony can’t be broken down to violins, piano, and drums separately. The feeling that arises when they are played in unison is simply “different” though its just a conglomeration of its parts. This is similar to our mind, and the concept of “The whole is greater than its parts”. What’s more is that the thoughts occurs in different order, and a different order creates a different story.
The concept of “personality” is viewed as abstract sometimes”.  Like character is something that describes the mind, rather than the experience. But this is contradictory, as “Personality” is immaterial, while the experience, the derivative, is material. So, there is a possibility that during this invisible conversion process, our internal reactions and what we make of things in our mind may gradually shape our personality more than the experience itself.


In a strange way, that makes us original. Perhaps not completely original, but it’s possible that no two people are the same, even if they have gone through the same things.
But since the development of originality is subconscious, let us look at conscious examples to put it into application:

Often, there is a part of a song that appeals to us, a favorite part.  When we ask ourselves why that particular melody appeals to us, it may be hard to pinpoint the source of what produced your liking in that part.  Sure, it may mean something like “freedom” or “joy” of remind you of a memory. But why does it mean a specific emotion to you? This is an example of how something that has no direct connection with a memory could possibly trigger a feeling. This is a magical occurrence. It’s extraordinary that a melody can awaken in you a unique emotion, that others may not react to in the same way. It goes to portray how subtly different our minds are. Furthermore, when we create things out of that feeling we derive from the music- make a story based on the feeling, write a new song, or even play it on an instrument- now you have made something that is unique from the depths of your mind. Your own subconscious interpretation.  
Frequency of frisson was positively correlated with overall Openness to Experience, as well as five of its six sub facets: Fantasy, Aesthetics, Feelings, Ideas, and Values. *This may also mean that extensive feeling, or sensing is related to creativity.

Sensory influx, the visual imagery, nostalgia, all point towards creativity, and many renown creative geniuses draw on their sensitivity to fuel creative processes.

Highly sensitive people tend to be more creative, as the depth of feeling offers scope for exploration. The interpretation and emotion felt greatly corresponds to the creation of ideas, and is similar to how interpretation even creates association between senses, or synesthesia.
Infact, drawing on nostalgia can increase imaginative processes


You might have heard of the term “synesthesia”, where sensory experiences get interconnected. A person with grapheme synesthesia, for example, associates letters and numbers with colors. A person with musical synesthesia sees colors effuse out of musical notes. Some synesthetes taste words, smell numbers, etc. It is also a fact* that Synesthetes don’t necessarily share the same sensory experience-though there are commonalities ( ex: most synesthetes associate either black or white with zero), the difference in perception is linked to the environment of growth, childhood*, and if its occurrence is natural, then synesthesia is developed in childhood or at birth.

A Symptom of synesthesia is also reading sentences that seem personified, as though a stranger with different personalities are narrating them. It is interesting to relate this to how there might be different personas in our own head, and sometimes constantly make commentary on our life! It’s like seeing yourself through different perspectives, except these perspectives have defined forms, which makes it easier to assign little quirks to them. If this helps us sense and perceive the world better, and makes us see through multi-colored glasses, it can be very creatively satisfying to have internal conversations, in a positive and uplifting way. We can be a stranger to our own experience, and wouldn’t a change of view be enlightening?

Synesthesia also, may be linked to creativity and metaphors, * and is in a way a example of consciously coming up with original sensory interconnections, a creative process that becomes part of character.  It's connecting something unrelated and different, and an original combination of connection.

So the rearrangement of feelings, and extent to which people sense and feel can contribute to original creations. It is no surprise that many artists and musicians have synesthesia.

Such experiences, with music, nostalgia and conditions like synesthesia are examples of a how we interpret and sense can consciously contribute to originality.


The bottom line is that synesthesia obtains its roots from childhood, but morphs into something complex enough to blur lines of emotion. The proportion of how things are mixed is unique. That proportion is the starting line for all character, and the proportion can be random and unique.
Thoughts feel so diverse and interwoven, that experiencing different facets of it itself can seem synesthetic. Seeing a neon sky, for instance, may not just bring happiness or excitement, but very specific sentience, and a connection to memory, even if it has never been a part of your life at any point of time. The neon sky could mean regret and eccentricity, and flashes of senses may correspond to it. You may feel the aesthetic of a place to strange degrees, and sometimes a simple scenery can seem “wrong” or “sinister”.


  “Why does the neon sky seem eccentric?” “why are roses connected to a past memory that had nothing to do with roses?”

These questions have some intangible meaning behind them. So, it’s not just that people perceive things differently, it’s that their reality itself, a culmination of perceptions is unique, and so are thoughts. And don’t thoughts and ideals shape character in some way? Don't these interpretations become a part of you? A filter for how you perceive the world?


Some song forms a golden thread link with some intense feeling which is connected to a memory you never knew you possessed (this memory may be fictional even) which is linked to a whole little city in your world.  Everything means differently. And as we think and think, these meanings become fine-tuned, and create emotions, thoughts and perspectives that shape our individuality. The essence is that your character may have obtained its roots from the world, but your proceedings, both on the inside and outside, are truly yours. And gradually, proceedings reflect character. More than the roots. It’s a many layered mind that could seem impossible to strip down.

Memories can be similar, but the sequence of memories and thoughts, will likely not be the same.


Here we gently skim the daunting surface of the philosophical idea of “Fictional realism”. A main idea here is to try and question what the definition of something has to be to be considered real. We say “It was a dream, not reality” But did it not feel real? When we read a book, or a movie, and voraciously delve into fictional landscapes, does it not truly feel like we are integrated into it, or rather, it is integrated into us? In that case, since we are real and it is now a part of us, can it be real too? Or can it be real, simply because it exists in our minds? Love and loathing also exist in our minds, but we regard them as a real thing, pulsating with its repercussions. Do we regard something as real only if it has a scope for action? Or if it’s something we can touch or see? In that case, the world will be limited, and there would be a loss of explanation for what gives rise to those actions. It would be like saying “imagination seeds reality”.

Memories and thoughts can be similar, but the sequences of them, even if  slightly  different can grow to be hugely dissimilar. If we can consciously create things when exposed to sensory information, why can't we consider the possibility of subconscious creation of individual character?
Harry Roberts Aug 2017
Dont overplay your hand,
I'm the type of Aries to
Throw caution to the flames.

Set a fire
And watch it burn
Watch as you learn
Yearn for the heat of my rage
Lust. My love oxidised you to rust.

I blush
I digress
And I rush.
If that's not living
When 100 I'm giving,
Then I'm already lost on forgiving.

When through dust I'm sieving,
Looking for Hope
And for my mind to cope,
Truly lost yet never got the scope.
Looking through a different lense,
Cleanse, forgive and love true friends.

Life's what you shape it,
And I will find form,
Lived in chaos:
Thought before the storm.
Though now no longer
Find myself torn,
In life anew I am reborn.
Trying to channel some Aries.
Alexander Nelson Sep 2013
are you dead yet?
my pillow has the plastic to prove it
take a thought, overplay it, remove it
the whole time
staring at the sun, with eyes wide
burned retinas blinded with truth
shaking in the darkness with vermouth
staring at flesh, of flesh
staring at the truth in flesh, of it
one day I smell the sky, the next I can't fly

bipolar without klondike bars
humor doesn't work either, smell ether
smell ether and breathe
working with strings and straps
not g strings and strap ons
working with and against myself
constructing the pyramid with the town
burning a hole in my back
lies are cement to be removed

Are you dead yet?
Why even ask, viruses aren't living
taking a **** and growing up, caring and giving
dividing my time up to distract
providing it won't sneak attack
I must have ate a lot of nuts
Planters **** you, now I pay he ultimate price
******* and screaming while my vice peaks
slips into, porcelain
no more sin, please, no more sin
armon May 2014
Even you aren’t immune to despair
I can read you from here, I can beat you from there

You’re a zealot, you’re a widow
You’re a silhouette a shadow
You’re a superficial shallow piece of meat, baby

I’m allowed to say what’s on my mind
Cause according to you we are totally fine

You’re a liar and an object
That’s not taken out of context
That’s the only honest thing
That I’ve said all year

Loving you is like loving a mirror
I can see you in me, I am there, I am here

You’re a lone wolf
You’re about to engulf
Everything I love, every item on my bucket list

Even you can’t abandon a crisis
I call it criticism you call it kindness

You’re a genius
Saying it is meaningless
I don’t think you’re gorgeous I think you’re a goddess

---

I don’t know if you know what I think
But I know that you probably know we’re in sync

You are one with your anger
A lonely little doppelganger
Try to condescend with your silly little smile

I’m not sure if I hate or admire
That I never can tell if you’re fine or on fire

You’re a salty little devil
And we’ve got a score to settle
Do I really have to sit through this whole ******* play

Not that I know the way that it ends
Not to judge from the truth that her sarcasm lends

You’re a terrible example
You’re in ruin, you’re in shambles
Do you even know what mixed signal means?

I don’t like the direction this leads
This relationship has more than one set of needs

You’re incredible
You are terrible
Why do you think the whole world’s against you?

Even you know you’re not so unique
Why does love always fade at its absolute peak?

You’re the sum of my ambition
You’re a victim of contrition
Doesn’t everyone you meet mention how beautiful you are?

Is it really so hard to admit
That by saying you love me you were full of ****?

You’re a scam artist
Had to try my very hardest
Had to dress like a ******* tool to impress you

Even though you are once in a lifetime
I could use some help deciding, 50/50 lifeline

You are floating like a bubble
You’re about to be in trouble
When you spiral when you crash, girl

Even you aren’t content to obscurity
You are not that innocent don’t overplay your purity

Disappointed, battleplan disjointed
Even you’ll admit that this was destined to fail
recorded - http://armonpakdel.bandcamp.com/track/even-you
Sabila Siddiqui Apr 2018
I am not feeling okay
The thoughts that were at bay
Are starting to weigh
Heavy on my mind
Heavy on my heart.

My thoughts start to sway
Guiding me astray
With its
overplay
and overstay.

Pieces of me
Start to fall away
Fade away
Further away.

I am starting to breakaway;
Flay away.

My mind frays
As my thoughts start to play,
my hands start to pray
And my words start to blow away
the people I hold so dear.

I will defray
Soon
But for now I am going to splay
my ache into words.
Amber K Oct 2020
Obsessions.
They are what keep my brain from the trauma.
From the darker side.
In school I was the weird girl,
the one who talked about the things she loved too much.
The one who couldn't just LIKE something.
Whether it was a band or movie,
I would obsess.
I'd find a song I loved,
and overplay it until my ears would bleed.
I'd read a book,
only to read the same book five more times right after.
I began to think I was just a strange person.
I just had obsessive tendencies.
Then I notice something...
These obsession always spark after something bad happens,
or after my brain decides to go to dark place.
These obsessions are my minds way of protecting itself.
Because it's much nicer to obsessed over a band,
or a movie no one else cares about,
than to sit and dwell on all the awful turns life could take.
So let me obsess.
Let me be weird.
It's for my own good.
This pretty much speaks for itself. This year has been pretty traumatic for me, so my obsessive tendencies have been set to high. A friend and I were just talking about how were both obsessing over this band and mainly the lead singer, even though we've now about them for YEARS. I told her I think it's because we've both been in a negative place mentally, and this is our brains way of keeping the bad thoughts out. Because it's much easier to let me brain think about this band than to think about the two friends I lost to suicide this year or the million other things my brain decides to stress me out about daily.
Jowlough Sep 2010
You're late again,
get some weight my friend.
overdued the waiting,
**** time again.

You got no gain,
go expresslane!
You brought us pain,
from start to end.

You tried to bend,
don't go insane.
You bring your friend,
please apprehend!

You waste our time,
share the pain my friend.
overplay the drama,
You're late again!
Later, forever (c) sept 16 2010 jcjuatco / dyokar
LONDIN Dec 2021
I know better than to overplay my hand,
                                 but suspense gets old.

“I want you to ruin me.”
For a short bit of time the smiles were Contagious

Now the solicitude wins out Memories that Overplay

While crumbled stones attack my thinly callused Feet

As the tears fall so readily down the path

Unknowingly, that was so neat

As I escape the roadway my feet hurt so Daringly

My toes crush a fallen limb the cries come so Loudly

Tackle and break the heart from head to Toe

But as I look up and see the stars the glacier looks Deep

They twinkle brightly in the red sweet ****** of a Sweet lip

Wanting to remember those beautiful days with You

Bright fireworks thrilled us gentle looks of Love

But fear has set in love has turned to Hate

Sleeping with sadness like I would be with a Blanket

As I thrash every night all night Long

Longing for the morning to come and find me Alone

The noise like grinding teeth I wonder if that is Me

As blankets accumulate like my sadness Does

I jump to my feet crying this can be no more

As I run blindly to find my life yearning and Believing

Wearing thin I knew I could not stand any Longer

So the urge to fly away comes so very Strongly

And that  breaks my Heart....

Debbie Brooks 2014
Geraldine Taylor Aug 2017
Verse 1
To go beyond comparison, no place to overplay
The potter of unique design, brought new life to the clay
Unwholesome talk, within my walk, of that I will release
I’m truly made in your image, I am your masterpiece

Chorus
Formed by your hand, beautiful and wonderfully made
Knowing who I am, honouring the life you gave
You have made a mark of victory
To partake in your plan
I present a unique offering
To the voice I understand
I am wonderfully made

Verse 2
Authentic worth, embrace your word, perspective unabridged
To liberate and so create my spiritual heritage
To this effect, I will protect your standard of measure
Your love endures, unconditional, of that I will treasure

Chorus

Bridge
Guided by your hand, to direct my sphere of service
Knowing who I am, created with a purpose
With a chorus of praise, my song is made new
I will dwell in the essence, of a godly point of view

Chorus

Written by Geraldine Taylor ©️
Sabila Siddiqui Mar 2018
A web of thoughts in my mind
Coursing emotions in my veins;
Leave me indecisive about the action to take.

I try to find a balance
only to discover myself in a tug of war
between the impulsive-fragile heart
and logical brain.

Doubt, chaos and fear
Overpower certitude, tranquility and confidence
Leaving me feeling ambivalent
about my thoughts and emotions
that overplay and overstay.

Because
If I don't act in accordance to my mind,
I face consequences.
If I don't abide by my heart,
I remorse.
If proven wrong,
I criticize myself.
mind, heart, indecisive, ambivalent, impulsive, discover, balance, thoughts, emotions, consequences
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.i'm not even sure whether i'm right or left on any particular spectrum of politico, given the current events, but... how did politics become as engaging, as a rugby match?! now that's ******* bewildering... but i have a motto: keep the left hyper-sensitive in terms of hyperventilating, in subvert terms of: keep them talking, keep them excited, these people need the fuel that drives their a.d.h.d. mantra... the right, on the other hand? keep them tame, keep them sedated, keep them lock stock & barrel, making fetishes from being trigger-happy... real deer or imaginary deer... keep them focused, level-headed... but sure as ****: keep the left entertained, hyper-excited, give them the necessary momentum; given, after a while... the momentum exhausts, and subsequently consumes the vector, that instigates it.

**** me... a whiskey in the afternoon,
as the saying goes:
no gentleman drinks in the morning,
perhaps drinking in the afternoon
is some variant of a faux pas -
       but the sun goes really well with
miss amber...
          ah miss amber...
       my memory's fixation,
and a medicine for headaches and bad
memories...
    my amnesia prescription...
              funny... i'd love to write an epic
about memoria & amnesia...
like i might write an epic about
thanatos and hypnos...
   but alas... not to be... not to be...
although...
in the list of names...
      a Kantian ref.: shadow, something cold...
in the critique of pure wisdom
schematic (volume 1)...
so? the list:
    Nyx, Erebos, Geras, Eris,
            Nemesis, Apate,
      Charon... and the son of Charon...
****... sorry... the daughter of Charon...
Σκιά...
   ooh, played with fire, the Greeks did...
such a beautiful alphabet,
but they, really, really had to overplay
toying with the diacritical markers...
in translation that alpha, does indeed have
an acute symbol hovering above it...
but...
               But...
no... that's now how you account the word...
does a semi-wit of non-Roman descent have
to tell these people:
that's nice, nice... you're over-doing it...
look at ****-naked Britain!
i see room for potential,
a metaphor of Eden!

     Skíā             (because you're hiding
a sigh, along with a H, com, com,
   compre, pre pre, hen hen hen...
   comprende?)

       because why wouldn't i?
          first person in the family to go
to university, and what a bad idea that was,
thankfully the Labor party was in power
and the tuition fees were, an astounding
£1350 a year...
                  spotted a major tsunami of
English toffs,
  plus some English crumpets...
killed none...
          got a ****** degree in chemistry,
then inverted the periodic table on its head
and started spotting "sub-atomic" particles
in diacritical markings,
totally missing in the English language.

but beside all of this...
no... i'm not letting this observation pass...
screamers (2016),
and it's *****-mother
                    of lose plagiarism...
  the blair witch project...
  
                 i love, i love horror for
the theater, the dance macabre,
the exaggerations, the romance music...
the cenobites (covert word for monks)...
something pressing about
a disgruntled love, or memory,
or something to add a quintessential
theater....
                      even as impure as evil
becomes in the film hostel...
or how easily people talk about
the Holocaust... when not being involved...

i can stomach that ****...
but when there is no banality of evil?
rather, a canvas of the banality of life?
and there is a sharp, syringe precision
hovering of a dot insertion of
the cheapest form of evil?
            that **** gets me...
     i turn the volume down....
the images don't scare me,
          but couple that with music?
who the hell orientated themselves
with the suggestion that males were
primarily optical creatures?!
which evidently explains Mozart et al.

that sort of cheap horror?
   no theater, no art, the nitty-gritty?
the everyday diatribe?
                     i started to forget which
was the horror and which wasn't...
the dross of the happy-campers
with very subtle interludes of:
**** my pants shrieking like
playing the violin with the blunt
side of a knife for a bow...

                         ...
             did i wake up remembering
a dream? i swear i didn't think this up...
i'm pretty sure i was explaining
to someone the effects of the drug
Naproxen as an alternative to
sleeping pills...
                                  let's face it...
almost all pharmaceutical innovations
collide with
                              an artifact of derived
from Hypnos - sleep...
   Hypnos is the equivalent of Prometheus
when it comes to pharmaceuticals;

but Skíā, the daughter of Charon?
what could be darker
than the depth of night,
if not, a man casting his shadow upon
it?
(ah...ah...ah...ham eye white...???)

***,... and he looks...
     SAY WHAT??? just like me???,...
     absolutely NO WAY!!!,
would this sensitive,
     respectful, "FAKE" veejay
quiet-natured, mindful,
     loving, kind, underplay
justice invoking, hew today

mainly, gentle, friendly, "I say"
enlightened, democratic chap redisplay
any besotted abominable,
     blamable, culpable, quay
esse chin hubble
     despicable, execrable prey
dot door formidable,
     inhospitable...overplay

ying faux indulgent,
     NOR be mistaken
     to assay, betray, convey,
display, expressway more fay
     writ his'm to
     gainsay hearsay, inveigh
jaw dropping "FAKE"
     yuge weak accusations

(by a long shot), sans
     basket of conspiring deplorables
     attempting to assassinate
bigly believe me tubby "stupid"
     winning loser to berate,
who doth unequivocally create
mine substantial vocabulary rumor,
     versus 4th grade reading level

     trumpeting librettist - thee great
test Don Quixote
     (as falsely sung with hate
full sotto voce), and ramped up
     as ill suited mate
a minus [sic] zero *****,
     which doth hapt
     tubby incredibly tremendous

     disservice to bona fide classy idiots
     with a lot of money
     (like the millions and billions
     of my golfing confrères)
given bent iron golf clubs
     used by crooked Hillary,
     when former Secretary of State
     ideal for Putin on the Ritz

by far less exciting, with
     Bill Clinton's flirtatious flits
trained pudenda purse
     sin null property
     of intern (NO FALLACY)
     topped as southern delicacy dish
consume mated with buttered grits
     pricked prurient peccadilloes licks

suddenly recalling seminal kicks
starting, how with Little Rock kits
he received assistance,
     sans starts and fits,
eventually then nubile
     ingenue Monica Lewinsky
     called time out, cuz at her wits
end once assisting helping

     express his "naughty bits,"
when done completing
     *** mincecd secrete mission
     blue dress draped
     expensively furred

(i.e. tricked out) in her
     "FAKE" minx hiding
     sable animal spirits,
when animal rights
     activists vehemently protested
     out-coming result
     slapping former president
     with a PETA file.
courtesy prescription laxative AMITIZA

and found (me) zee papa pooped out,
thus embarrassing communiqué I post,
a reasonably rhyming poetic shout
to air grievances
concerning outsize bowel movement
hoping (fat/slim chance)
Mike Rowe happens tubby about,
though shadow of doubt
he will avail himself.

**** eyes zing thee
nightly dump for yesterday
January 31st, 2022 - whereby
plying plunger in vain, cuz suction
barely helped obstruction give way
I nearly lost me life and limb oy vey
oh my dog, the same asinine outcome
which spurred poet to get underway
matter of fact, a replay

of excretion almost occurred today
and thus an attempt to describe
a tragicomic scenario
regarding bowel movement size of subway
an urgent message to maintenance person,
yours truly must relay
overflowing ***** nearly
found yours truly quay

king, yet impossible mission arises to portray
unsightly situation, the
juvenile elements of harried style
I hate to overplay
odoriferous subject matter
nsync with constipation
since laxative delineates,
expedites, facilitates,... née

posits heavy load emanating out ******
quite amazing what smelly waste exits out me
necessitating captain my captain
to signal emergency mayday
posterior end, a dime size orifice,
which malfunctioning sphincter muscles
one moost never be lackaday
'though kids and adults

laughed back in the day,
if and/or when Danny Kaye
tactfully poked fun
at such critical ****** phenomenon
equally important as a jackstay
to keep afloat body electric
'curse with auxiliary accouterments interplay
analogously precise as

Swiss made timepiece
said system responsible
to expel ****** toxins
upon which sitting on porcelain throne
one can softly utter hooray
thankful to experience relative pleasure
until one becomes feeble minded,
whereat sixty plus shades of gray

matter allows, enables, and
provides enjoyably foray
into the bathroom, which entranceway
hoop fully not barred nor off limits
cuz that primitive urge one best not delay
lest one requires lower
gastrointestinal intervention
especially if blocked up

***** matter turns to clay
unless of course one doth
cause damage and betray
respect toward well
oiled human machine
exercising and eating healthy
avoiding backside skeleton musculature issues
yes... I reckon during twilight years
control over bowels doth slip away.
and found (me) zee papa pooped out

**** eyes zing thee
nightly dump for yesterday
July 8th, 2020 - whereby
plunger helped obstruction give way
I nearly lost me life and limb oy vey

oh my dog, the same asinine outcome
which spurred poet to get underway
matter of fact, a replay
of excretion almost occurred today
and thus an attempt to describe

a tragicomic scenario
regarding bowel movement size of subway
overflowing ***** nearly
found yours truly quay
king, yet impossible mission

arises to portray
unsightly situation, the
juvenile elements of style
I hate to overplay
odoriferous subject matter

nsync with constipation
since laxative delineates,
expedites, facilitates,... née
posits heavy load emanating out ******
quite amazing what smelly waste
exits out me

necessitating captain my captain
to signal mayday
posterior end, a dime size orifice,
which malfunctioning sphincter muscles
one moost never be lackaday

'though kids and adults
laughed back in the day,
if and/or when Danny Kaye
tactfully poked fun
at such critical ****** phenomenon

equally important as a jackstay
to keep afloat body electric
'curse with auxiliary
linkedin kickstarting jazzmatazz interplay
analogously precise as

Swiss made timepiece
said system responsible
to expel ****** toxins
upon which sitting on porcelain throne
one can softly utter hooray

thankful to experience relative pleasure
until one becomes feeble minded,
whereat fifty plus shades of gray
matter allows, enables, and
provides enjoyably foray

into the bathroom, which entranceway
hoop fully not barred nor off limits
cuz that primitive urge one best not delay
lest one requires lower
gastrointestinal intervention

especially if blocked up
***** matter turns to clay
unless of course one doth
cause damage and betray
respect toward well
oiled human machine

exercising and eating healthy
avoiding backside skeleton musculature issues
yes... I reckon during twilight years
control over bowels doth slip away.
for the umpteenth time
during spate to sit scrawny buttucks
on porcelain throne id est
videre licet toilet bowl...
with toxic water brew threatening
to overflow onto the floor,
and hence found yours truly (me)
immersing himself in the holistic experience
for the pure love of bucket flushing
since applying plunger to no avail

found me able, eager, ready and willing
to whoosh upon a star to enlist
the entrepreneurial daring doo doo  
of eldest offspring to design a corkerasp,
and found (me) zee papa frankly
zapped, pooped, fatigued, et cetera out,
thus daring poster boy afflicted
by recurrent bouts of constipation
to share embarrassing communiqué I post,
a reasonably rhyming poetic shout out

to air flatulent grievances
concerning outsize bowel movement
hoping (fat/slim shady chance)
Mike Rowe happens tubby about,
though shadow of a doubt,
he will avail himself
**** eyes zing thee
nightly dump for yesterday
September 2nd, 2024 - whereby
plying plunger in vain, cuz suction

barely helped obstruction give way,
I nearly lost me life and limb oy vey
oh my dog, the same asinine outcome
which spurred poet to get underway
matter of fact, a replay
of excretion almost
occurred earlier today,
and thus an attempt to describe
a tragicomic scenario
regarding bowel movement

the size of subway tram,
an urgent message to maintenance person,
yours truly must relay
overflowing ***** nearly
found yours truly quay
king, yet impossible mission
arises to portray
with unsightly turgid prose
and cons of situation,
the juvenile elements of harried style

swiftly tailored, I hate to overplay
odoriferous subject matter
nsync with constipation
since laxative delineates,
expedites, facilitates,... née
posits heavy load emanating out ******
quite amazing what
smelly waste exits out me
necessitating able linkedin line
O Captain! My Captain!

I signal emergency mayday
posterior end, a dime size orifice,
which malfunctioning sphincter muscles
one moost never be lackaday sic cull
though kids and adults
laughed back in the day,
if and/or when Danny Kaye
tactfully poked fun including that girl
at such critical ****** phenomenon
equally important as a jackstay
to keep afloat body electric

accursed with ****** ammunition
auxiliary accouterments interplay
analogously precise as
Swiss made timepiece
said system responsible
to expel ****** toxins
upon which sitting on porcelain throne
one can softly utter hooray
thankful to experience relative pleasure
until one becomes feeble minded,

whereat sixty plus shades of gray
matter allows, enables, and
provides enjoyably foray
into the bathroom, which entranceway
hoop fully not barred nor off limits
cuz that primitive
urge one best not delay
lest one requires lower
gastrointestinal intervention
especially if blocked up

***** matter which turns to clay
unless of course one doth
cause damage and betray
respect toward well
oiled human machine
exercising and eating healthy
avoiding backside skeleton musculature issues,
yes... I reckon during twilight years
control over bowels doth slip away.

The Essence Of A Corkerasp.

(which fictitious object contrived
by my then twenty plus year old
third year college student,
(who will turn twenty eight
on December twenty second),,
but SHE would never admit
to birthing such an offal bit of drek.

The essential name arose
from preschool, predicated,
precocious person, and the words....?

Whenever constipation a pain in the ***
just maneuver this lightweight
metal contrivance made of brass
no matter if anybody
considers this action crass
apply corkscrew motion
up the alimentary canal
to remove human waste,
which most likely
will be thick like petrified paste

stuck deep inside
bowels of sphincter muscles
and solidly encased
causing severe cramps
within lower gastrointestinal tract
inducing one to wince nonstop
from being ***** matter packed
and no amount of primal groaning
doth loose this hard fact,
nor does imagery of freed ****

ease formidable **** plight,
no laughing matter
despite how absurd
squeezing does nothing
even applying all inner might,
thus necessary to incorporate
un-natural intervention to un-clog
****** blockage + uncomfortable bloating
swelling **** the size of a hog
disabling bare derriere

ease to stand let alone jog,
yet tis essential
per extricating what feels
like one swallowed a log,
which could presage demise
of sufferer, whereby epitaph
twill induce impossible
eulogy spoken language
where tongues wag in Prague
every ounce of effort required to bend

over gingerly affixing
plunger end of device
to business of rear end
best accompanied in tandem
with close companion or friend
this ***** deed done
dirt-cheap trick will ideally rend
rock solid excrement to roll and crash
(on par traversing highway
to hell) soundcloud, I

without fail regularly out the ***** send
upon bathroom floor
possibly inducing tsunami
seismic waves less or more,
whereby toilet bowl water will pour
over the sides akin
to white caps near sea shore
without doubt making
gluteus maximums extremely sore.

— The End —