"philosophic" poems
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!
7.9k
I
There is a house with ivied walls,
And mullioned windows worn and old,
And the long dwellers in those halls
Have souls that know but sordid calls,
And dote on gold.
II
In a blazing brick and plated show
Not far away a ‘villa’ gleams,
And here a family few may know,
With book and pencil, viol and bow,
Lead inner lives of dreams.
III
The philosophic passers say,
‘See that old mansion mossed and fair,
Poetic souls therein are they:
And O that gaudy box! Away,
You ****** people there.’
6.8k
My love for you is not a tragic beautiful love story such as Romeo and Juliet.
My love for you is like the love story of the moon and the sun.
My love for you is a dying star ready to burst and create a giant black hole.
My love for you is like the universe, a beautiful enormous unknown.
My love for you is an unexplored galaxy that fascinates the most philosophic poets.
My love for you is like Venus, too beautiful for the eyes, but, come closer and it will burn you to the ground.
My love for you is like Neptune, too distant and too cold.
My love for you is like Pluto, even though people don't talk about it anymore, he's still there, screaming for recognition, screaming "please, I'm still here, notice me", a silent cry that makes you wonder that if a planet as beautiful and as unique as Pluto can be forgotten, why can't I forget something so fragile and small?
My love for you is like the love story of the moon and the sun.
The sun dies every night to let the moon breathe.
They will always love one another but they will never touch each other.
They love at distance. They rarely meet, they rarely have the chance to be together.
But when they do,
they create the most gorgeous phenomenon that you will ever see.
Someday the sun will explode, someday the moon will disappear, someday their love will die and there's going to be nothing here to tell the story about how they loved so fearlessly.
And that's how I know that our love is like the sun and the moon.
Too distant to touch.
Too beautiful to go unnoticed.
Too cold to burn out.
Too sweet to be bitter.
Too precious to not be treasured.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.
Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.
To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.
What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.
4.6k
The good thing about being a gypsy
is its wild sativa;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its tamed alcoholic.
The good thing about being a gypsy
is its endless freedom;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its slavery to freedom.
The good thing about being a gypsy
is its philosophic heart;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its down-regulation of joy.
The best thing about being a wanderer
is its search for silence;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is its capacity for noise.
The best thing about being a wanderer
is the free meal;
the worst thing about being a wander
is the free meal.
The best thing about being a wanderer
is the love of night;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is the love of day.
The best thing about being a gypsy
is the wandering heart;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is the gypsy heart.
The best thing about being a gypsy
is its magic book;
the worst thing about being a gypsy
is its accumulated curse.
The best thing about being a gypsy
is its varied muse;
the worst thing about being a gypsy
is its lack of one.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
Daughter of Jove, relentless Power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and tort’ring hour
The Bad affright, afflict the Best!
Bound in thy adamantine chain
The Proud are taught to taste of pain,
And purple Tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
When first thy Sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, designed,
To thee he gave the heav’nly Birth,
And bade to form her infant mind.
Stern rugged Nurse! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore:
What sorrow was, thou bad’st her know,
And from her own she learned to melt at others’ woe.
Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
Self-pleasing Folly’s idle brood,
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse, and with them go
The summer Friend, the flatt’ring Foe;
By vain Prosperity received,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.
Wisdom in sable garb arrayed
Immersed in rapt’rous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent maid
With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend:
Warm Charity, the gen’ral Friend,
With Justice, to herself severe,
And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
Oh, gently on thy Suppliant’s head,
Dread Goddess, lay thy chast’ning hand!
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
Not circled with the vengeful Band
(As by the Impious thou art seen),
With thund’ring voice, and threat’ning mien,
With screaming Horror’s funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.
Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philosophic Train be there
To soften, not to wound my heart.
The gen’rous spark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are, to feel, and know myself a Man.
3.5k
Hail to Thee, Immortal Three
Knowledge we sing on laud
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates
Philosophy, to be human awed
Teach through time, consciously
Nod not, what others fraud
Socrates taught, Divine Being
God not of brutal Athens’ passions
Entity of Beauty, Truth Seeing
Goodness unseen in day’s fashions
Soul for unalloyed agreeing
Lessons humanities’ compassion
Talk eternal justice, everlasting life
Socrates’ Sovereign Right of Reason
Clearly mind deceived sense’s strife
Invincible perfection be God’s season
Thus, our key to knowledge ever rife
Priests who find this, absolute treason
No church or Socratic school
A barefoot man roamed to teach
Socrates mocked for looking a fool
His speech not one to simply preach
Plato witnesses a martyr’s drool
Cruel hemlock, words did so breach
Handsome aristocratic youth Plato
Followed Socrates’ Eternal Wisdom
But soon to find his own credo
In Medara to find Euclid and freedom
Egyptian geometry to provide dado
To Plato life, expression; not a system
Eternally an artist, Plato did develop
Philosophic circle in Academus groves
Bring Athens, world knowledge envelop
Discretions of sensations, be not oaths
What man may be, an animal jealous
Plato’s allegorical cave found in droves
As Plato once be Socrates’ disciple
So too, to Plato would Aristotle be
Passing comprehension archetypal
Successions of genius’ visions do see
Aristotle taking it step further, as vital
To science of hands-on discovery
And this is where we see a parting
Of two distinctly opposing philosophies
Plato being at odds, with science starting
Aristotle’s truth, finding no apologies
Things not happening by chance imparting
Frivolity of duopoly, dichotomy to Socrates
But a new era has surely now dawned
Science exploring an invisible atom
And the seen and unseen correspond
So to Aristotle’s, Plato’s, Socrates’ datum
Brilliant new philosophies have spawned
An abstract notion of conceived stratum
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
Some may consider you a pagan god
But you are the most handsome lord
You are blue in colour
And are invincible in valour
You reared the cattle
But led a pierce battle
You are the darling of shepherd women
And you are undoubtedly supra human
You play the flute with divine melody
No poet can extol your musical prosody
You are a thief of butter
No one can describe you better
Like Jesus you were born in a cattle shed
Your divine word the whole world spread
You are most romantic and highly philosophic
You are beyond the purview of any religious critic
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 6:45 AM UTC
My mother recently took me to another doctor
she said, ‘her condition is becoming outrageous ,
she hasn’t laughed in a year, avoids any talking,
never leaves the house until the night draws in. ’
And I think the sun should rather concern her.
Burning things don’t make good companions.
Bought a ticket for a train, northbound at night,
my eyes hurt from the condolences of daylight.
Went back south in September, I surrendered,
had to promise to be good again and presentable.
Indifferent on life, did I suffer from depression?
It’s not been an illness but a philosophic decision.
One Sunday, it was quiet during breakfast time,
somebody from town recently took their life.
Rised brows behind the newspaper’s edges,
secretly, I admire the courage and recklessness.
But I act eager and am polite with relatives,
at holiday occasions I behave and give kisses
until one proposes a toast to life being a gift.
I say nothing in exchange, I feel guilty to exist.
It all changed one day, when I found me a lover.
He sins for amusement while I sin to self punish.
I love that he’s mortal, of a perishable texture,
hope to be buried, rot with him in the graveyard.
We agree on senselessness without any pity,
he watches me fail life and thinks it’s poetic.
We can’t hurt since there’s nothing to heal from.
A physical love wich in it’s essence is platonic.
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 5:54 PM UTC
Making manic impersonations
On a momentary scale
We ride on the echo of cymbals divine
Decanting data into philosophic wine
Perceptive perspective manifesting matrices
Unknown --
Uncontrollable, undeniable, imminent &
Haphazardly perfect;
The essence of our yesterdays & tomorrows
Etched, in passing, into the
Particulate framework
-- Momentarily --
& yet
-- Eternally --
Manifestations cloaked in the veil of time,
Laced with intentions self-concocted,
The tides exchange,
Endlessly blurring the line between
Creator and Created
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
i used to wake up with sore eyes and black bruises i've never seen before
i'd look for long cigarette butts half full beers and forgotten liquor drinks
i had two cow licks that stuck up like horns
i had thick cigarette smoke like peanut butter and puddles in the kitchen that leaked from the trash bags into the rug
i'd paste cardboard boxes and ripped up comic books together with my drawings
in permanent marker and scribbled edges of ballpoint pen and colored pencil coupled with
writings of philosophic schizophrenic machine gun word salad
that ran off the page and
onto the walls
i had slippers i'd worn out months ago and shirts i washed in the shower
with dish soap
i had flies that flew around in circles until they got smacked or fell dead
i'd climb up on the roof in the afternoon
throw bottles in the street and **** off the side
i welcomed the dirt the bloodstains and the deep cough
i loved it but mostly hated it
and i'll never forget it
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
Benedict turned the page
of the Dostoyevsky novel.
His brother puked in the bidet,
too much cheap wine,
Benedict thought,
but he’ll be fine.
He immersed himself deeper
into the Russian world
of ****** and fear
and dark corners.
Crime and Punishment
was one good tale all right.
Even the book cover held
the attention, he thought,
turning it briefly over.
His brother’s moans
interrupted the puking.
Benedict asked an
are you all right?
There was a groan
of response.
Benedict recalled the time
he had been in that condition
in Yugoslavia the year before,
same cause: too much
cheap wine.
And that beautiful guide
came to his room
to see how he was
and sat on his bed
and all he could think of
was when would
the puking end.
No thought at all
of her presence there,
her body so close,
her perfume making him
more nauseous.
She was Croatian,
he thought, pausing at the page
of the Dostoyevskian novel.
And that waitress
he and his brother had liked
in the restaurant
at the Yugoslavian hotel.
***** Yes, that was the name.
Got no where though.
Just the luck of the draw.
His brother returned
from the bathroom
and flopped on the bed.
The puking over maybe,
Benedict thought
and his brother hoped,
pale of complexion,
perspiration on brow.
Outside the window
the Parisian streets
echoed with life:
Cars, coaches, buses,
people, natives, tourists,
males and females.
Tomorrow they’d be out
on the streets again.
Sit in restaurants where
the famous once sat
over coffee or beer:
Hemmingway, Sartre,
Picasso, Henry Miller
and the others.
Art thrived here.
Ideas born
from philosophic minds.
Benedict book marked
the page and closed
the book and put it aside.
Some one laughed outside
in the street, another sang,
voices of ghostly singers
of the past, breathed
from the walls.
His brother returned
to the bathroom,
more puking.
Benedict thought:
poor brother.
Of course, he mused,
gazing at the Parisian
night sky, they’d never
tell their mother.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
you are so annoying...
you are so complicated..
you bring drama to my life..
you laugh at me...
you laugh with me...
you know all bout my crushes...
you know all bout my life every single detail..
you make me smile...
you irritate me..
you are my "philosophic talker"
you my ******** taker"
you give all wrong advises..
you scream at me with CAPITAL LETTERS..!! :)
you make me smile with all the "awwww..."
you are with me day and night..!!
and wen u get upset with me nothings all right..!! :(
even if people call us "lesbians" I DON'T CARE..!!!
because i know we have our share of crushes...lovers and admirers...that v both only know of..!!! :)
you have seen me in my bad..u have seen me in my best..
you have seen me going "tomboy " to "girly" for a guy..!! :)
you criticize me...i abuse you...and that is what makes us Best Friends Forever..!!!
i know i have ******* you royally..!! i know i have irritated you no end..!! thank you for bearing it all...thank you for standing by me!! thank you for taking my **** and lastly...thank you for STICKING AROUND AND LISTENING TO ME..!!!!!
LOVE YOU LOADS..!!!
P.S : We are not BFFs... WE ARE..
: Best Friend For Life Like Sisters And Always I Love You..!!!
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
i so wish these poems weren't such afterthoughts,
words either labored, squeezed off a pained heart,
or a strong gush of stupid happy emotion as in farts?
neither pretty codified sonnets with essence in parts,
nor crisp, concise haiku's focused like targeted darts,
not the sophistried zen, oft hacked philosophic verses,
and the petty patterned words unmovingly affecting,
i despair for us to read a poem from brains turmoiled,
confused,unwritten words,unexpressed feelings,in divine madness!!
dance the unknown poem if a poem, to music uncomposed if music,
why cant we live them **** poems! so we dont have to **** write them!!
-every fellow being is a poem unwritten I feel, lets live them? Can we?-
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
They had a love for the boundary wall
Where occupied round the seasons
Their frames slender or substantial
Meditative eyes in philosophic brooding
Till in the sunset years or sooner
They disappeared beyond that wall.
Many of them have warmed those bricks
When the night’s chill forbade to be outdoor
But the restless ears strained to hear
Brushing of body against body
Till their blood warmed in the moon’s heat
Covered the delirious trek to the dawn!
Now have come up the fence of iron spears
Burying the joys and yesteryear’s tears
And the restless ears can now only hear
The cold bricks groaning in the night’s lull!
Quietly bids the time for the transit
Beyond the boundary wall!
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
It's definitely gotten
Weird enough for me
Strange days-
An understatement
So what choice do I have
But throw in the towel
Cash in my chips
Buy the farm
Kick the bucket
An eye for an eye
A truth for a lie
The philosophic problem of revenge
Is always on my mind
Yet I've no counselor to console
I guess no one ever does
Atop the mountain
We're all a mystery
No one, even ourselves,
Wants to solve
Disenchanted souls
You know they'll worship your tombstone
But not until it goes in the ground
Running on a two-dimensional rainbow
In a schizophrenic sky
Has God shown you his face?
My only trigger is a finger
And they're calling me
Insanely cheap
But in their midst
I quietly understand
In my own alley
They talk about free will
But all I see is witless swill
The same ol' people
******* the sun
Glad you weren't here to bear witness
You must have known
There's only one way to be Earnest
When all your friends
Are dead people
No other choice
But to turn inside-in
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 7:18 PM UTC
I was asked something today,
and at most I could only leave the subject at an indifferent tone.
It left me to question the tolerance of my own tradition.
"What is happiness, what is truth?"
Imagine getting inquired with something so philosophic,
at such a time of disarray.
Happiness-- such an abused term.
Every human is in pursuit of it,
it is natural,
it is what we strive for.
Yet, being faced with the blunt, simple question;
"What is happiness?",
I stumble.
"What is truth?",
the ability to think-- existence.
What is thought?
It is everything that we (as humans in nature) prosper in.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
I know your final days,
my son, by mental rote,
from Thursday to Monday,
from being unwell
to the last seconds dying,
like a child learning
a new nursery rhyme
note by note,
until it's unforgettable,
stuck in each particle
of cells and brain,
bringing thoughts
of disbelief
and punch hard pain.
Sleep seems
the only comfort,
that lying down,
snug between
cloth and warmth,
mind drugged to
a doped up
momentary
forgetting or easing,
but still it's there
when we awake,
the sense of loss,
that utter disbelief,
that deep down
cannot be hidden grief.
I wish I were
more Stoic like you,
my son, my deep philosopher,
my silent one;
wish I had some
philosophic remedy
to cure the ache,
to soothe the mind,
some crutch or stick
to tap around like
one who's blind,
but I have none,
none that will ease
or remedy the ill
of your departure,
none to fill
the huge chasm
between you there
in Death's hold
and God's grace
and me left here
sensing loss
and the cold breeze
of death's breath
in my ageing face.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
Hey sad souls,
what are we to do?
When we're all so down and blue!
In our beautiful minds,
(Because,that's what they are, you HP people)
join your hands, together as one,
with similar kinds,
of people.
Men and women,
need each other,
sister and brother.
Feed each others spirits,
to take you beyond all limits.
This isn't a poem,
with the American dream,
this is for hearts and minds,
that need inspiration,
at times of desperation.
We all need to feel good,
gratification of our existence,
with a constant persistence.
Encouraging one another,
telling life that ,'That I love her'
She holds me captive,
her spirit bounds me,
In her arms, I'm held in awe.
surrendering unconditionally,
Like a puppy holding up its paw.
For life,
throws tribulations,
catastrophic,
philosophic,
cataclysmic,
rhythmic,
euphoric.
And with each moment,
we should pray for another,
this gift of life,
to make us content,
a limited time we are lent,
cannot regain what has been spent.
Look up into this abundant sky
and smile that you are here.
When many cannot,
and many have not.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
Your eyes beneath the summer breeze,
Your glance before the mountain range,
A philosophic walk through earth,
Your heart inspires me to change.
A change of heart, a sudden turn,
My soul has left and come again.
And though with flames my passion burns,
I must show patience and restraint.
The second act of my own play:
The second I read out your name
I knew that something was at work,
A Holy plan, so I proclaim.
I see you with a solemn glance,
While I pretend my heart is yours,
Yet trapped as in a lovesick trance,
I realize I'm by my own.
Will it ever change, my fate?
Or shall I be confined in love's
Unending forest, and await
In lonely tides without your love?
I pray that I don't just move on,
But live with you in heart or truth,
And age with bliss and love forgone,
Forever hidden in our youth.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
*"That one body may act upon another at a distance
through a vacuum without the mediation of anything else,
is to me so great an absurdity that,
I believe,*
Every massive particle in the universe
attracts every other massive particle.
Force directly proportional to the product of their masses,
inversely proportional to the square of the
distance
between them.
Spherically-symmetrical masses attract and
are attracted as if all
their mass were concentrated
at their centers
There is no immediate prospect of identifying the mediator of gravity.
Attempts by physicists to identify the relationship between
gravitational force
and other known fundamental forces are not yet resolved.
Many attempts were made to understand the phenomena,
but there was nothing more that scientists could do at the time.
*no man who has in philosophic matters
a competent faculty of thinking
could ever fall into it."*
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:09 AM UTC
There is a man, who sits on the bench down the road. During the day.
He looks like there is a world he has seen, touched, tasted and felt, and dreamt to reality, but now he has, nothing and nothing to say.
His skin, is sagged and loose, there is a gullet of old age in his neck.
I turn my head away out of sheer respect.
There are tears in my eyes.
I want to hold his hand and ask him, 'What happened? Did you see her? Did.She.Leave? Do your children still call? Is there anything left of you here, anything at all?'
I sit here and weep and i wonder what he saw.
Whether i had seen it too, and done it and missed it, and missed it because of you?
My eyes they are tired.
More tired than my back or my pain.
They are tired from saving the day, and from walking in constant rain.
I picked out some bullets from old scars from way back when,
there were hit with some fine target practice of fine 'love' writing in the dark with the punch of a pen.
So i sit here, and i wonder if one day he will be me.
Wonder if he sat and wrote little dittys for a world, that he could not see,
for people he never met, for lovers who had up and gone, for those who had no story, no strength, no howl or battle song.
There is this old man, and he sits and he waits.
I want to ask him, Is there a future in this world that he awaits?
And i don't so i sit here and casually think of him awhile.
Before my mind turns to someone else, i can think of and love,
in my own spectacular, unique, philosophic, apathetic style.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
The giant’s ruminations could once demand
Salvation, the order of the universe in hand.
Now, all His awe and glory’s come to naught
And man cries madly, distraught.
In black and white, His word and song is made,
And in this darkened night will never fade.
Who are you to say we must submit?
Who are we to give our spirit and quit?
Great Lords, and Pope, alike, have written what men think,
So who am I to tell you when to sup and drink?
Millions upon millions, the critics ponder fate by wit,
But hasn’t it all been said, hasn’t it been writ?
I tell you no certainty, give you only proof,
You must read those great volumes to which so many are aloof.
I sing praises like as David, a song that Solomon would want,
Of everlasting truth, without a philosophic taunt.
Salvation is not my message, repentance not my ploy;
I wish to give you knowledge: teach your mind it’s not a toy!
There is no great illusion of the means of life on Earth,
There is no puzzling mystery in death and life and birth.
Whether God is at your side, or rejected wholly through,
The only one to chose your fate is overwhelmingly, singly, you.
Gloriously glorified, stained no more with sin,
To live a life of Glory, is glory given Him.
Whether purpose given, or purpose thrown aside,
Whether admit he’s risen, or deny he did abide;
Travel the less-trampled track—the path less trodden down,
For the destination matter less when the road is filled with crowns.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
you may permit me in
we make exotic dishes of laughter and shared values
over talk of philosophic rapport
childish banter
and gestures of tender philanthropy on each finger tip
on every pressed lip
but you wont give me a key
though it's where I live
this is my home, you've made it so, just for me
you showed me in
you courteously carried my persona into your door
you do me the greatest of services
those that would make any soul well-lived
if I removed any trace of my exsistance you would despair
as you have
but you refuse to give me a key
and without it, it makes it as though you dont really,
actually,
want me
and what most anguishes my mind
is that I always gingerly close the door from the outside
if it werent for my soft touch, and attentive eyes
I'd have reason to believe that something is wrong with me
or my love
when, seemingly, it was made to our advantage
I do the best to support your virtues
and those that disturb the peace
This is where my belongings know their place
This is my home
where I linger after I wake
where I loose myself in the silence
where I drink myself into a stuppor
because my lover wont give me a key
You leave me broken up
but you gather my peaces by light of kindness
You don't understand, I'm hitting a wall
I'm hitting your good heart
your good, muddled, heart
I'm hitting a wall
a hard hard evaluation
of a disturbing
heart-to-heart
of which I never learned of
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC