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H Mar 2015
People keep asking me how I’m doing.
If I’m getting better or if I’ve taken the time to process what’s happened.
If I’ve sought professional help for the metal percussions induced by my career-ending injury.

In all honesty though, professional help is futile. It can’t save me now.
I’m walking through hell and sitting in a ring of fire discussing the temperature of the searing flames would be idiotic.

Why would I allow the flames to dance along my already seared skin longer than necessary?
I know they’re hot.
I know I’m in hell.

I know the pain I feel every day is real and crippling.

Talking about this pain wouldn’t end it. It wouldn’t diminish the heat. It wouldn’t help.

I need to keep walking.
I just need to keep walking.

My crippled body can’t run anymore, but I’ve got to keep walking.

Others continue to rush by. Frantic because they’ve never felt the flames.
They aren’t familiar with the burn. The idea of being in hell is novel.

They are novices.  

But life hasn’t been kind to me.
These flames are familiar with every curve of my body and they dance around with trained feet.


I’ve been in hell for years.


People continue suggesting I find the light at the end of the tunnel, but that’s near impossible here.
I’m too blinded by the brightness of a vehement flame.
Sizzling with an angry vigor for the lack of gratitude I bestowed on my past life.

It mocks the speed at which I used to be able to run. It laps sardonically at the feet that used to run cheer-inducing speeds without thanks from their owner.

But crowds don’t cheer my name anymore.
I now stand on the sidelines and watch my team play.

I burn alive for the game I used to breath and as I watch each and every game, the deep breaths of oxygen only continue alighting the fire.

There’s no way out it seems, but I will try to keep walking.


Because talking is futile.



Note:
Spinal diseases are crippling mentally and physically. Watching the body you've sculpted for years turn to mush because you can't workout is dilapidating .
The despair and helplessness are unfamiliar feelings, feelings that can't be overcome. Disease is disease and sometimes it can't be stopped. Sometimes, it just becomes a burden to bear.


And sometimes people aren't strong enough.

It's different when careers end after four years of college. An expected end, an anticipated end. But when things you love are taken from you abruptly, before your finished. The pain is exponentially worse.

Exponentially. Worse.
Kay-Ann Feb 2014
Your music is sensual, dark and languid
Mysterious and ****, hypnotic and sultry
The slow tempo and rumbling bass drums are a heavenly mix
I close my eyes and let the forlorn echoes immerse me
In a sea of falsetto vocals and stuttering percussions

Your music is enigmatic, puzzling and seductive
Pacifying and troubling, calming and cinematic
Your champagne crooning is a movie in itself
Telling me the tales of a gloomy ***-infused hangover life
And it connects to the depths of my soul
Even though I've never experienced it

Narcotized slow jams filled with samples of punk and rock
Transports me to an actual dream world
Your subtly crafted harmonies and beats are celestial
And your lyrics a painkiller
That numbs the wounds in my soul and takes me higher...

Your voice is R&B; but your lyrics are ***** rap
You take such vile words and turn them into something beautiful
and I adore that.
Stu Harley Jan 2013
when God claps His hands
the sky plays woodwinds
while the clouds play
the percussions and
the ghost of
Athena plays
her golden harp
in the precession of
the blue-eyed storm
Chalsey Wilder Oct 2015
She broke a barrier,
A wall
Funny how tricks look and sound so real
Love, the idea seems so trill
Except when you lose what you wanted and it's better to let go
I swore she was beautiful
But my perception was cloudy when I was swearing
My final perception of her is fake
Fake is just an ugly imitation of beauty
*But, on the positive note, at least it's nice to look at from the outside.
Perceptions Perceptions
lize kingston Sep 2013
Im pondering and walking when its dark at night
You can see me in the shadows dippin dodging light
Its like I hit the booth and spew until I maul the mike
Its like I tell the truth and then you simply call it life
That’s right im bonefied
really here to expose em and since they know that im chosen
They stay provoking my motives but ima hold em high
Show em im focused on growing
Get these vultures off my back im just to strong to be folding
So I prepared for it gradually when the time came
Who’s the best my Name
Was the only one to rise like yall scared of the gravity to define change
Never watching the throne
If you wanted to be King you should be watching your own
If you wanted to be me well then that option is gone
you know I stand alone, forever now and then later
I left my mark upon this earth when I stepped out of the crater
Now my powers are greater used for devouring haters
And though I **** em in minutes I still take hours to savor
Every pound of the ****
If we going pound for pound by the end of the rounds I’ll use and ounce of my skill
And no its never luck
I struck a deal with the Devil so I could level the vessels
And then he sent me a message its time to settle up
Now its me and him, and neither one of us scared
Cuz on this path to destruction neither one of us cared
So everyday, it’s a battle inside
Just Forget the horse play and grab the saddle and ride
And every point I make is valid in the balled of mine
Im thinking now is the time
in the palace of my mind drinking a chalice of fire
It’s a slow burn
And yes im hot to death but there is no urn
Its from internal combustion
Causing a surge in my verses to let me ****** percussions
Never preferred to be frontin though now it seems it’s the norm
In a world of mass lies simply needing reform
Where everybody and they mama’s simply dreaming of ****
Everybody with a smartphone feels the need to record
Then they post it to the web cuz they seem to be bored
You need to realize
People use they persona just to conceal lies
So I step out on that limb second guessing again
This is far from the end so let the lesson begin
The first impression is in
_______
GONE
Graff1980 Mar 2016
I leave them behind, staring straight ahead despite their pleas. The starry night beckons me. It promises to set me free, so I leave. Cries of anguish echo in the nether realms, part past part hell, where the darkness instills itself.
Nighttime brings terrible dreams, but daylight is where true nightmares come from. My boots disturb the grey cement kicking up clouds of dust. Smoke obscures the empty spaces where ****** faces once laid. Scarred flesh painted red with life’s fluid.  Blood oozes and drips down the now cooling skin, then flows forming a small red river with tiny tributaries. All this is captured in a greyscale distortion.
I missed the moments of violent percussions. The sounds of man-made thunder crashing and smashing everything in sight. I was only here for the aftermath. Still, that is enough. Dark blue body bags hold the terror of two twins decimated. Gaping wounds appear as if something had been chewing itself free from their stomachs. Normal skin rolls into mangled and exposed muscle then becomes bone. What a sick alchemy of flesh.
Their faces follow the same empty stare. They almost look alive. Eyes open in accusation, pointing in a parallel direction. I can feel the full force of their claims as they silently scream “Why.”
I cry, but my tears come just upon the edge of numbness.  Anger, and sorrow so extreme that my mind cannot handle it. I disappear, pretending that these are merely photos. I immerse myself in the delusion that this is a thing of the past. I am not here. They are not there. With a digital click, the camera becomes my emotional filter.
I stumble, a step away from losing what is left of my sanity, then cross the threshold in reverse, till I am outside. A small woman cradles something in her arms. It is a charcoal baby doll. Tears streaming the woman screams, holding that incinerated thing, but it’s just a doll. Black flakes fall, baby doll’s clothing turns to dust. I cough it in and out choking on the musk. I am grateful that it is just a broken doll.
I feel fear bringing me to edge of insanity. Her screaming seems strange. Her eyes look deranged. The doll’s legs have little calcium protrusions. Do burnt bones blacken? It’s just a doll. Scorched porcelain doesn’t look like skin, but it’s just a doll. Please let it be just a doll.
I pull myself from the situation. Detach what is left of my impartiality from my sanity. This is just a picture. This is just a job. Auto pilot takes over as I keep clicking photos, leaving any sense of self in the past.
AndSoOn Nov 2014
C’était encore un de ces mois incertains, indécis, entre l’hiver et le printemps. Comme s’ils avaient choisi de nous laisser dans ce froid fatiguant , tout en nous permettant de redécouvrir les couleurs de la nature, Mars, et peut-être Avril, étaient mes mois favoris. Par ma fenêtre, je voyais la nuit endormir en douceur le monde extérieur. C’était encore tôt. L’été s’approchait et la nuit se faisait de plus en plus tardive. Quelques fois, j’hésitais : étais-ce un supplice ou un bonheur ?  La nuit était pour moi un cocon où le froid, les cris et les colères n’étaient pas présents. Et soudain, le vent soufflait dans le jardin, forçant le bois de mes murs à résister, comme pour repousser cet air presque violent. Je souris encore en entendant le craquement du bois contre le vent. J’avais ce sentiment de paix. Peut-être était-ce moi qui redécouvrait les petits plaisirs de la vie ou tout simplement le bois qui me montrait son soutien et sa présence par un petit chuchotement comme un signe de vie. Dans ces moments, je m’enterrais dans mes duvets d’hiver que Maman allait bientôt remplacer par d’autres moins chauds. Que je détestais ces duvets si froids, si plats et si peu accueillants. Mais pendant le mois de mars, ou le mois d’avril, je pouvais encore me blottir dans les gros bras de ma couette. La solitude en devenait moins pesante. Il y avait moi, le bois, le vent, mon duvet.

Ce que je préférais c’était les orages. En plus du vent, les murs de ma chambre devaient combattre la pluie et le tonnerre. Ce concert de bruits naturels était un de mes meilleurs somnifères. Ma chambre était sous les toits. Elle l’est encore. Allongée sur mon lit, je me laissais bercer par la fatigue, perdant mon regard de plus en plus lourd dans les lattes du plafond. Le bruit de la pluie résonnait si délicieusement dans le cocon que je m’étais construit. La pluie sonne encore comme autrefois : un bruit de clavier ou de triangle. C’était un bruit exquis, rare et faible. Elle était là la beauté de ce son. Sa faiblesse le rendait indispensable. Les instruments à vent s’ajoutaient avec magie, suivis des percussions tremblantes créées par le tonnerre. Et l’orchestre devenait apaisant. Je pouvais sentir la pluie s’infiltrer entre les tuiles. Je l’entendais glisser comme au ralentit jusqu’à ce qu’une goutte imaginaire tombe sur mon visage.

Je n’arrivais jamais à complètement apprécier ces moments. J’avais tant envie qu’ils durent à jamais que je résistais au sommeil jusqu’à en souffrir. La fatigue avait cette force que la pluie et le vent ne possédaient pas. Elle pouvait me rendre si lourde et si crispée. En m’en souvenant, je la trouve en quelques points perverse. Elle est à la fois celle qui vous endort et celle qui vous maintient éveillé. Je ne pouvais que garder les yeux ouverts tellement l’envie d’écouter ces sons merveilleux m’obsédait. Mon corps se fatiguait à défaut de pouvoir se crisper. Et je devais abandonner, dans l’espoir que le beau temps ne s’attarde pas. Malgré cela, je pouvais encore rester là, à peine présente, perdue entre la léthargie de mon corps et la vivacité de mon esprit. Je pouvais imaginer avoir les yeux ouverts, les oreilles attentives. Enfin, la paix reprenait le dessus.
Inspired by Proust
Lotus Dec 2012
On piano bench ivory sit I
Carved stone keys beneath my fingers
Fall and die
Savory sounds to my ears rise and fall
With them seep speechless calls
Accompanied by peppered cries
Inside me touched desires sigh

In slow motion fall
My finger-tips connect
With carved stone keys
Yawning out low pitched
High screeched
Sounds
In contrast
My thoughts shallow and lone

I drown deep up
Shallow down
In the
Percussions of piano keys
Each of which tease
The buzzing bees
In these empty seas

Drown deep up
Shallow down

Shallow down
Drown deep up

Wake up
Wake up
Sean C Johnson Sep 2013
The familiar wrenching in my gut when you speak of love
The acidic burns and aches I keep bottled up
Become a flashflood
Rushing through my veins, poisioned lines constricting and forcing my extremities to spasm
You cast your words fruitlessly into the chasm
The indescribable void that lies before us
My hands scraped and bloodied from tearing down the nails that keep your heart boarded up
I can never break through the barrier you have erected
I leave myself vulnerable to your outlashes, you remain overly protected
Sheltered from the reality that is the extension of my love through every action
Every emotion you stockpile and ration
Maintaining a craving in the depths of my essence
For your ill fated presence
You bask in the symphonies that expel from my eyes gazing
Hear the strings and percussions playing
Without every fully repaying
Any emotional debt you may have accumulated over time
Fingers dancing along every line
I have written vast and true as the moon above
Yet I feel the familiar wrenching in my gut when you speak of love...
Butch Decatoria Sep 2018
Who could condemn the clouds
for its dream and rendition of heaven
in vanilla cotton canopies
like steam trails from wishful
twilight's great sleeping

who could refuse the stars
that connects distant years from space
to wonderment's eyes here,
gazing up tonight agape at its mystique

when the machine mach march
of industry and city din spinning
in smog loud air - percussions down
to the edge of the shore

where silver sheen of onyx
black stillness of the water laps
licking the earth in its soft reality
the moon-glow and darkness

with its unseen places keeping slumber
in silent throes or weeping woes
still, I ache to cease the gnashing
of teeth - Barbary and conquering…

those who are unseeing in great haste
With worry and loss of a moment's look
theirs given to everything
outside themselves, mistook.

Who blames heaven, not knowing how
we lead a song yet never loving its vow?
Search for more of offerings
yet not even aware of how
blessed we are
here and now...?
Revised
I worry for
the man who
will one day
want to love me

I worry that he
will not know
that my love
burns like the sun
and rages
like a storm
out at sea

I worry that he
will not know
that my darkness
is only temporary
and that it comes
from living
in an ever consuming
pitch black night

it lasted decades

I worry that he
will not know
my spirit
cannot be broken
like an animal
that cannot be tamed

it lasts an eternity

I worry that he
will not hear
my arrhythmic heart
it may sound like
a whisper
but it bangs
and slams in
these ribs
like the percussions
in an orchestra

it will play songs
just for him


I worry that he
will not hear
me when I
cry out to him
for I am not
transparent
do not look through me or
past me I
am right here
before you
with
universes to give

I worry that he
will not feel
the moisture building
in my palms
when he grasps
my hands
out of fear
that he will
never
hold them again

I will hold his
like others
hold a bible


I worry that he
will not feel
my head
against his chest
like the
safe haven
I have
finally found
after all this time

I worry that he
will not see
the stars that
shine in my eyes
when I look
at his face
like the world's
most wonderous
landscape

I've traveled so
long and so
far just to see it


I worry that he
will not see
the way he
can make
every muscle in my body
fall into a
meditative state or
electrify with excitement
with his presence alone

I worry that the
man who will
one day
want to love me
will not appreciate

that I am
a complete human being
with or without him

that I am
divided between
biology and whimsy

that I am
both the
sadist and *******

that I am
broken but
the architect

and that
I do not fall
like an autum leaf
I fall
like an **avalanche
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
Jhanvi Tiwari Feb 2014
Glitterati

You,
You ***** me.
I,
I survived it.

Percussions you will feel,
Of Hiroshima- Nagasaki attack.
In clumps of what you shall say,
Sandy storm, Tsunami Zatak.

So please, hey please,
let me rip-**** you this time,
with poverty, global warming and famine
Elioinai Aug 2015
My wrist is laid
down
alone
upon a table
large well formed feet
visible beneath the glass sheet
that's chilling to the skin
blood recedes from distant hand
until it gathers in a puddle
between the ulna and radius
a bruise of vague percussions
spreading up my little metacarpal
as it smashes vainly upon resistant stable
trying to steady the dancing toes beneath
a barrier so clear
the dust from last week's walk from work
are seen around a sole
that won't decide
where it wants to go
or if going can be defined
while blurred blue engulfs the cloudy witness
to my pointless movements
ontop
beneath
behind
the glass table
Adam Zalt Jul 2010
Something phenomenal calls!
Its voice is like a gushing waterfall.
Endless continuums of percussions resound
The rhythm infiltrates my consciousness and my veins.
It becomes synchronized with my heart and brain.
I writhed like a woman in childbirth.
Struggling, I sought to cast out this rhythm and the source of this call.
I wanted to sit. I wanted to crawl.
I wanted to smash this thing against the wall.
Enduring until the sound dissipates.
Drenched and exhasuted, I wait.

Eternity is ike an endless mile.
Mortality is a second in a day.
A new dawn beckons.
As the rhytm crescendos,
I surrend to its beat.

I am a newborn on the stage of life.
Is this my scene to make as I wish?
I am a fish out of water drowning from air.
Yet an Oscar awaits the moment I participate.

The choices I make reflect on the past.
Who have I cast, but myself?
Constantly, I am prepared to tangle with each day.
Reaching out for help, I am pulled from the fray.

Like a rose that forgot to bloom,
I am struck with the onset of gloom.
Counting the years, I have left, can I make the deadline?
Fate screams, "Get in line!"
It is my turn to shine.
I have resolved that I just need to be me,
Be courageous, be open, be free.
Allow life's paths to converge.

The blinding light of life has turned green.
I am revved and ready,
To make my grandest scene!
Property of AJZ Inc. A company owned by Adam Zalt.
ryn Apr 2020
I will remember
the song that my heart
played percussions to.

I will sing the words,
with no one else,
to a song made for two.
Pertrusions thrusted upon truths disembark on a journey that ceases to empower the over abnormalities of the norm
The fever created from a sweat of sin cause the truths to lie deep deep within
The boundaries of alignments shattered by glass windows from ignorant reflections of unknowing people
cast among those innocent and naive
But despite these conclusions one may think they know,  the oldest of percussions is the instrument of irrelevance that no one ever did know
yeah I got followers like Jesus so Jesus
please back up off of me
before I react violently ya see
that I couldn't make it
so I had to take it
make it soo funky
ya swear James Brown
on the track
full of soul.
so ya know I'm black n stacked
with money clothes to hoes
got all sold out shows
to videos
even appeared on tv cameos
got my critics in slow mo cuz my mo jo
got em stuck now what
ya wanna do
I went from here I go
to the man right chea got ya in a stare
from my rhymes I'm
keeping on taunting and hunting
*******
up the game
got ya fall back
like LeBron james
hairline
I'm the sunshine
bringing eternal light
ya don't wanna see me fight
once my rhymes ignite on Mic
nice smooth
bound to be be a fight
so jump off
once my ***** of papers
hit the air
women over here and over there
bumping my ****
ya never hearing crickets
after the meal ticket
fight fire with fire .keep rapping til Desires
my body and soul
taking control
I'll never loose
all I have is my word n ***** .
so back back back
the **** up
n stop trying to bump up against the wall ya keep bumpin

once I hear the sound of percussions
rhymes start busting
no hushing
boys n girls fussing
trying to figure out
what I'm about
if ya wanna know
just check my clout
rolling with killers
to drug dealers
in the hood it's understood
I had two options to live by
either jail or die
in these cold streets
as ****** repeats
another wrapped in white sheets but I beat and cheated
death move to the left
when the bullets Go right by
I'm super fly funky
cold as medina
serving lyrical subpoenas
once my *****
hit the track
bounce back like juvenile stuck in the wild
problem child
so ya know I'm foul
spinnin heads like an owl
can't dodge this
I made my own bliss
similar to ludacris
coming for number one spots
cuz I reserved my slot
I keep ya jumping lyrics pumpin
always into something
switchi g up my tunes
never spitti g the same
so I'll always keep a flame
can't put me outno doubt
no limit
keep my money on emits
no surpasses as the beat clashes
with my lyrics
too deep in yamind
can't clear it hear it
over nd over
true soldier
made for the war
never sold my soul
******>y'all critics gimme fifty feet or else I sweep
ya off ya feet
like a broom
sounds go kaboom
blood all over the room
can't heal these wounds
once I attack
they try to hold me back
but can't keep me on the wall but...
perpetual percussions
signals the onset
of the annihilation of my unconcious state
i awake between death
in this liminal verse
i am only senses now
i can trace inhuman constellations
with my eyes closed
for they exist only in my own isolated darkness

i see mutations of identities
i may have once conversed with
but i know them no longer
for they are dancing unearthly dances
and they inspire my escape from myself

i see the birds, the birds in the sky, that is no longer a sky
in fact they are not even birds, for they are empty and blind
they are wraiths
doomed to encircle the withering skies
in their meaningless sojourn they cry
but i hear them only in my heart
Nabil 'Akif Oct 2014
Whereas individuals corresponds to light and some only commemorates the sun

Beats and rhythm are heard only when instruments are played neglecting the percussions in each step we take

Whereas credibility is judged by the eye lashes, contours of jaw lines and skin tone, a mask potraying a transparent persona

We evolve as a whole, enabling us to calculate the distance between rock bottom and stardom or the existence of umbra of the sun, still some are left behind taking no umbrage of the insults the society bring forth

Whereas, Dialogue is to articulate ones perspective in accordance to the culture but the unique individuals that are indifferent using slang are often deemed as ostentatious

Whereas a picture speaks a thousand words, the accoutre depicts a thousand lies
We resent what we reap, repent and repeat

We acclaim the mere seconds of glances and likes we obtain
The frivolous joy shifting our molecules as it really is ,till we lie in dirt and turn to dust, nothing.
Vernarth, after rescuing Valekiria, entered the Sacred Planetary Path, right here and later before 700,000 thousand souls who were lost in the Forest of Hylates, they were released from prison and they were given the offering of flowers in their hands agreed by a goblin on a Sycamore, going to the vicinity of Kourion, and then attached to the ship Eurydice, where the Auriferous Medallion was.
Hylates, was a worshiped god compared to Apollo, his name obeyed Apollo of the woods. Being a god of the forests, who were ritualized by their knowledge, they were condemned for harassing Vernarth. Much of this site of worship had immense monumental gardens, an atrium leading to the architecture of the Kourion and Paphos gate columns surrounding the grove sanctuary. Vernarth bathed in circular leaves in procession after Valekiria's chimera, after indulging him in the bath of golden holm oak flakes, which were shaped in dihedral cloisters of an invisible abbey. It was the appendix of an intuitive poetics molding the titanic epic fibers of Hylates and his spiritual nervousness that was extreme in the tectonic conditions of various continents on his sturdy anatolic layer; peroration of the afiolite rocks of the Troodos mountains, adorning itself on the oceanic mantle, as an idealistic geological process in the Hexagonal Birthright as a testimonial zone of Judah, which would be elongated from the earth's crust, here shortening and thickening by deformation and fracturing as a consequence of lateral tectonic forces. In this ****** over the Hylates Woods, the apparent calm of the island was seized, in earthquakes that Vernarth captured under the soles of his feet, taking him to the ocean bottom where the medallion guarded by the Christians rested. The concomitant range is a rigorous hodgepodge of cliffs and very heavy cliffs, incoherent and scattered that hung from the edges of Mesorea as a backdrop. The beauties he possessed were found in his hidden villages, nestled in hollows and valleys on the slopes, some rich with apple and vine trees, others higher up, covered with ferns and pines. The Troodos mountain range, once green abode of gods and goddesses, is now green with Vernarth Hetairoi.

Alikanto circles the foundations, dancing on them and their groves of sacred trees, procreating archaic altars in votive flagstones with their hooves, digging up terracotta and ceramic figurines with their hooves, riding below on a long street that goes from south to north leading to the Temple of Apollo Hylates, which was built in the Late Classic or Early Hellenistic period on the ruins of the Archaic temple, close to an arena where Alikanto cut off small roots of jubilant hemlock, trying to join the lacerated dance. Vernarth was still surrounding himself with his steed, in him he was overwhelmed by periphrasis by a sacred garden pilgrimage in alchemy of Hylates, that the priests who would carry from the treasure to the bottom of the sea, down the Eurydice with new codes of life.

While he could Vernarth brooded with the Mandragoras that were bellowing, dislocated by the black poplars and the willows that were linked to the winter solstice, and therefore with Pluto and Persephone who made solicitous incantations. But the nearby wells were burped, smearing the wooden and stone columns, causing structural damage, not being harmful determinants, only generating romantic and incorruptible their Christian apology.

Some decay falls in the temples, the reborn species collapse enslaved by the wealthy, unbalancing the mystique of Judah. Macedonian figuratives interviewed the epic narrative of past customs, based on familiarity and didactic Ionic customs. Vernarth illusively begins to decode the architectural relevance, to concentrate it on Patmos, fostering Ionic art, an ineffable inheritance after the arrangement of Etrestlés in the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, to the effect of the capitals that were preening again, since he generated it in the background sailor to approach the theologian. Vernarth as a builder and bricklayer retouches with his golden hands the public agoras, the pritaneion for the Hexagonal Progeny, in accordance with theaters of epic and religious scenic art, to render them to the funerary emissary. All this typology will be specified in all the circular planes, some called tholos, to be rectangular in Patmos with the prototype of the temple of Asclepios - epidaurus; God of Medicine, who will help him for his subsistence and final recovery of his epic chest. Here is the prosaic typewritten sphinx, which tends to bind him defenseless from his scattered objective time to the joys of building, badly shaping the inadequacies of fallen works, a product of his worn out neurotransmitters, a remnant of the most utilitarian and unencoded for greater time and investment of utility of limited period and space. They are felt in some surrounding areas, drums and major percussions, noticing how the changing of the guard of the Eurydice gold medallion took place.

They fall from the vital instruments of Asclepios, secreting certain neurotransmitter synthesis substances, giving Vernarth the peace of mind to stand inspired, as parallel to the exogenous architectural, to vindicate the architecture of his body shaped by lymphomas, receiving circular and rectangular axo shapes, traveling through the torrent of their innovation that wounds the iron of the fractality of their hoplite neuro architecture, having to redesign themselves before they travel to Rhodes, using the target stock target that stimulates their immune system. Upon being freed by this immediate precept, he communicates with the theologian Saint John to take note of the lines of architecture that will have definition once they are presented to Procoro on Patmos.

Says the Theologian: “the diffuse window that we have opened here in the forests of Hylates, characterize neuro-architectural communication, the destination of clairvoyance on other distant unofficial Eucharists. What ceiling supports the ubiquity of its origin, if the temples do not communicate with each other? Outside the dogmas and the interstitial space of the cells with agility they make the concessions demanded earlier, they are cells that carry missives between torrents of senses of nervous love, that neuro-build the bodies according to nature and the body that identifies the substance. We have already synthesized the phylogeny and that of its pre-classified chronogram in Gethsemane, now we will be teleported theologically through the ramifications of the Olive Tree Bern, towards the vesicles, which hope to be precursors of the body and soul of our progeny”

Etréstles joins the Ionian synapse channel, a precursor of sensuality and sensory politics that will end the ideological stores, releasing the parasitic cells that would drive the thick limestone and terracotta embankment that Alikanto had unearthed, of all the calcified particles that spread over the membranes of the Bern Olives, phosphorizing in the ranks of Christian gladiators, who emerged from the sea after the change of the medallion guard and their filamentous seats, unleashing the overrelief of the vices that fell from their moistened bodies, depolarizing and reacting with openings inhibitory to those who tried to observe them, as if hiding them from their past of slavery.

Leaving the Forest of Hylates, in the chronological sense of the classical orders of the Aegean, the sea currents moved like rafts towards the Cyclades, leaving the gale torrent of the Animoi and the Meltelmi, leaving the memories of the primogeniture graceful slender, like a great Canonical example burning in its stay like an acropolis, carrying the distant peculiarities of all molding, to touch a new one when passing through the winds massing on the boceles and enthais, anointing itself with occasional prismatic pieces, which made it seem the outstanding union of Trees with columns with stone roots base. The Ionic gaze of the forest of Hylates was modulated by channeling in the psalms of Saint John Theologian, like a filet of poetic urges increasing the size of their oval prayers, which intervened in the coral lights, engaging the sixth order of primogeniture, before of going for the medallion, causing the superimposed escape meditations of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who were still entrenched in their purposes, and of the rivalry with the Saltimbanqui, staggering through the submerged architrave, bathed by faint waves, transparent in the near the middle of some temples that could be seen submerged, a few meters submerged in the Kourion bay.

Heartless and devoid of new stereotypes, they passed by crossing the garlands of the Eurydice, which was already getting ready to install itself in the mask, Raeder and Petrobus perfectly recorded the images of the ship that floated on the string that held its bow together, pointing to the neat symmetry that met the expectations of being reunited with the precious gold medal, showered with new feats to those who redeemed it. Raeder was flying on Petrobus, but this time they plummeted to the bottom, where the massive gem slumbered, giving them praise for all who lined up like a great Miracle anchored in Limassol. They leave the Forest of Hylates, drenched in the golden sun, staining the sheds of the upper hatch that the Eurydice exhibited for them, with iridescent colors to take their captain.
HYLATES  FORESTS
Alayna Mae Jul 2019
Tired winded soul passing through,
Feeling safe, feeling content, even when head was at brew
Percussions get judged, no matter the sentiment
Feeling different, feeling lost, even when heart feels at tenement

Music bleeding from one voice to another
Being brave for things you cannot control, what you can smother
Seeing the change, seeing the destruction never feels tamed
But every single second of negativity was just you being framed

Walking around like you are full of mystery
Clenching down of the lust for courage that time has made blistery
Fighting the temptation of going fully dark
But waking up everyday just to breathe, just was not a special spark
we're going to speak
the language of love
all through the
night
we're going to speak
the language of love
until the dawning
light

it'll be so fine
talking in a familiar
lingo
we'll voice it
in an intimate
tango

the meeting and meshing
of close
dialogue
an imbibing with
a special
monologue

let's commence our love
discussions
there is much to these lyrical
percussions

it's so powerful
in the message it
communicates
our linguistics
will enjoy the highest of
rates

we're going to speak
the language of love
all through the
night
we're going to speak
the language of love
until the dawning
light
I hear a chorus within you
Percussions and woodwinds
That hold no answers
I read these lyrics within me
And none of these words can help us

I’ve seen the eyes that are empty
And the past that is filled with my envy
I have discovered my darkest enemy
And I regret to find that it is me

I’ve touched the heart that is hollow
In search of a better tomorrow
With hope that sings songs of such sorrow
And your time which I don’t dare to borrow  

I’ve crossed the land wide and narrow
In search of what you can’t seem to feel
I’ve touched all the sand and the water
And I still cannot tell what is real

I’ve cried out to ears that don’t listen
No sound would come out of my mouth
I’ve begged for you to forget me
But that’s not what this poem’s about

I’ve rocked the cradle that holds her
The will that flows through my veins
I twisted the strands made of soft gold
I watch as she waxes and wanes

I’ve kissed the lips of true evil
And braved through what I see in my dreams
I’ve built up the courage to love again
But this time I’ll use it on me
Star Gazer Apr 2016
I hear tunes in my head,
It plays to the tunes of Beethoven,
Then slowly ceases to silence.
I hear tunes in my head,
An imagination of what your voice
Sounds like to me.
If I were to choose between the two,
I would always choose the latter
Because I can dive into my imagination
And because nothing can move my heart
Than the sound of symphonies
Orchestrated to sync with the beat of my heart.
I hear tunes in my heart,
The brass that is your breath,
The stringed instruments that ties my heart,
Percussions that matches the beating,
Of my once silent heart.
~Not dedicated to anyone.
Ree Bunch Feb 2021
I remember the first time I heard your symphony playing at 143 bpm and it made my heart skip a beat and float to your composed musical notes.

We were in sync from that moment forward.

Surely, I had heard a symphony before, but there was something indescribable about the rhythm of yours- It was the most beautiful musicality that I had ever heard, and I had a front row seat.

Abruptly, the harps, cellos, percussions, and violins stopped – with baffled looks and sadness strewn on their faces, the orchestra quickly rose and cleared the stage.

Is it over already? Is it any chance that they’ll come back to continue the effortless harmonization that once was? I thought that we had 12 more weeks together to create, compose, and flourish.

You passed on too soon my son, leaving mommy’s symphony playing without cause or passion. My heart will never forget the intricacies of your composure and movements.

----------

Science says that the heart only consists of valves, ventricles, and arteries; but what else can bridge an invisible rope to another’s sophisticated rhythm and fall straight in line.

It can shatter without breaking; melt, but continue to beat; harden, but still capable of giving love?

It has to be more…

It has to be...
You were only here a short time, but you changed me forever. 9.3.19♡
Looking at the past memories of my dead homies
It's photographic and graphic streets are mastered
By death and destruction once the percussions start bustin'
The blood begins rushin' I'm just a common man like David Ruffin'
Ain't no bluffin'
Over here I seen tears behind tears expose all fears
As the rain drop and the sunshine gotta keep on grinding cuz hataz ain't minding
They own biz took notes from the wiz
And now my kids gotta gig to dig as my thoughts fume
From the smoke of an e'cig and yeah the game is rigged
Just look at what they did to all revolutionaries
It varies and enemies carry the same disease please don't sneeze
Cuz deaths love to bless you soon to stretch
The world we livin' in is cold as I'm on a mission continya to roll

And I remember when God's tears flooded the Earth's atmosphere
Cuz had to wipe out sin to see a picture more clear
And here I am still not giving **** about Uncle Same
Paying taxes on top of taxes **** got me tilted like an axis
Satisfaction guaranteed I'll give you what you need
Make your enemies bleed indeed once my index finger squeeze
Enters the heart of another brittle soul
As his eyes rolled in soon to be rolled
Off Into a hearse sorry but I had to break the curse
Though the Bible's done much worse
Check out Leviticus look how they did us
Learn rules to the game changed my slave name
It's Yosef now coming as a soldier I thought I told ya
I'll never roll over hataz jealous like Jehovah
Keep the gat cocked back like a cobra
Ready to strike this world we livin'in is cold
As I continya my mission to roll

Elders used to say black blood is all family blood and looking at the rise of the young thugs packing them slugs
But I still got ghetto love cuz my heart's above
The ******* though we may bump heads
I'll never give ya up to the feds we gotta enough on our plates
See they hit Bill with the ******* cuz the homies was finna take
NBC for a billion dollar currency blacks folks know you who ya enemy
Is and take care of our kids we all we got
Until another brother or sister drop
By the crooked cops keep them pistols cocked
I'm yelling **** the law from my maw
Raw as my grandpa packing a saw
Off shot gun
Catchin' cases without a run leave my foes stunned and shunned
See what my legacy done
So with that said this world we livin'in is cold as my mission is to continya to roll
Carabella Jan 2019
The mountain is firmly planted in the radius expanse. Snow caps the peak with luminescence: a bright dream or hope lies in the shallows of its caves. The long walk is reminiscent of songs or percussions. Ebb and flow of notes like rising tide or adventures in the woods. Treacherous at times, yet kind. Cradling every juncture and goal with delicate hands. Strong, steadfast, and grounded like Capricorn. Set your intention for the year ahead. Use your intuitive faculty to guide you; to guide you to your higher and most greatest form of self.
This poem came to be through guided meditation on the New Moon in Capricorn-womens circle -Trevallyn Launceston TAS

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