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Evynne May 2013
A place in which I know nothing about, an unknown world
A world unlike any I have ever known to exist, an opposite of this reality
A place only to be traveled to by deep sleep or sweet reverie
A world of pure innocence and raw creativity, a world of adventure and fantasy
A place where you can fly into the cosmos
And soar through the universe until you become nothing but sparkling stardust

A realm where blood isn't pumping through your veins, but rather what flows through is stardust
A world within a world
A realm where physicalities are meaningless and existence lies within the cosmos
A world that causes you to question your own rendition of the word "reality"
A realm that both defines and illustrates the meaning of the word "fantasy"
And is inherently bigger than any one dream or reverie

Something like that of an endless reverie
A myriad of universes and ever-glowing stardust
Something like that of an endless fantasy
A myriad of imaginings and an ever-growing illusory world
Something like that of a castle in the sky, nothing like that of harsh reality
A myriad of thoughts that turn into pictures and skies that turn into the cosmos

Have you ever journeyed into the cosmos?
Through shut eyes and intense dreaming or through glassy eyes and pleasant reverie?
Have you ever left this reality?
Joined the entities of another realm, disintegrated into the galaxy and became stardust?
Have you ever traveled to another world?
Became another entity, fully embraced a potent fantasy?

I wish to travel to this place and immerse myself in the fantasy
I want to become one with the cosmos
And escape the physical world
I wish to travel to this place and immerse myself in the reverie
I want to become one with the universe through the merging of our inner reaching stardust
And escape this tugging reality

Nothing is more terrifying or confining than what I know as reality
Nothing is more appealing or liberating than what I know as fantasy
I am a soul and I am stardust
I am the universe and I am the cosmos
I am a dream and a reverie
All within a world outside of a world

A place existing outside the lines of reality, a place within easy reach of the cosmos
A world born unto fantasy, a world fueled through reverie
A realm overpowered by stardust, a realm that is not of this world
Sestina
kfaye May 2012
And there it was-
I'll tell you all the truth you ask of me-
Let all of my hesitation- reservations- love-
Pass by unnoticed- unheeded- misheard-

Be it strange- or be it my aptitude towards the unholy,
Whether the soft touch of the willow-fed irises-
Or the half-life glare of nighthawks, posed aloof and aloft-
In full conscious awareness of their physicalities-
With willful composure- and heads turned just so.
Phoenix Rising Dec 2014
A voluntary victim of life
Parasites called eyes
What we see are lies
We learn to segregate our intuition from physicalities
You gotta unfold inward
A paradoxical lesson of how to 'wake up'
Carlyy May 2017
Let it be luck or fate
You and I became legends
Us against the world

With each battle,
Enemies came to fight
As allies made appearance

Wars are ongoing
But they hinder
From time to time

Young and optimistic,
We were not yet burdened,
With heavier dilemmas

We enjoyed our time
With each passing season,
Our dreams became bigger

We were the same
But different in pace
We became a comparison

No one warned us
That we could defy
One another

After our first few quarrels
We used the word "forever"
Often as we overcame obstacles

Like poison seeping in
Quarrel after quarrel,
"Forever" fell short of itself

There were more stories
Of us and our memories
Than memories being made

Maturity and experience
Changed everything
From our minds to physicalities

Sharp pain resides in my heart
Orignated from comparisons
I hated everything.

You recieved praise
And lost yourself in it
I lost my voice and will.

Mind tricks of my own doing
Distance flourished
As did I.

We were aware of ourselves
But we expected more too
We were no longer on the same page

Something crashed in us
It left marks and bruises
Left us broken and in pieces

Unsure of what was next
Our blades were drawn
Wounded each other with deceit

Haunted with hate,
You became headstrong
I took myself faraway

Time slowed down
The storm calmed
Everything softened

My sun grew confident again
Beaming from above,
Into what was left of me

The shadow casted
Showed me some truth
My mind cleared and spoke

Aren't we peers,
Or the least bit, equal?
When will you learn?

Look at me.
Who do you see,
If not someone found and free?

Words fled quickly
From my tired being
I justified myself for you (again)

You say you understood
But your skull and bones thick
With stubborn and pride.

Spiteful knives sharpened
By shared secrets and confessions
Tell me what part of me do you target

This new nature you claim
Doesn't not suit you well
But maybe the colors are true

It might be time
To take your turn
And make a realization

Patience is my life
All I have is time
But I'm growing

I am not the pity you see
When you look at me
I am beyond that
and so much more
I don't need anyone who doesn't need me.
tiredsmiles Jun 2016
i despise being pigeon-holed.
seeing myself through the circular looking glass
having one singular personality trait
based solely on my physicalities and class.

cute.
that's my descriptor
has been since I was a child
but I would walk miles to escape that word.

i am as multi-faceted as a kaleidoscope
i need no rope from another to pull myself
from the ashes of my failures

do not question my abilities because I have the eyes of a doe
or the body of woman.

i can move mountains with my hands and create worlds with my fingertips
hours of song can escape my lips
riddles and mathematic equations lay not in my hips
but in my mind.

i despise being pidgeon-holed
for my worth does not equate to my weight
and the space I'm allotted on this Earth does not count my appearance as a deciding factor
my strength as a human being does not relate to my gender
so you need not distract her
for she has goals ranging up to the sky
and down to the bottom of the sea
I am a woman and I will be free
of being pidgeon-holed.
Both sides of the Arbela militia remained frosty, failing to tear the wrath of the throne from the depths of the charter and from the expropriation of the votive temple, in view of the strength of leaders who were reinserted and rewritten from the plaster of Parnassus, where the beatifices Mortals are seen competing without having references or additions in the washer that predominated by chance referring to athletes and gladiators who were not, but today they could be spiked in the crushing Syntagamatarchos table, captaining two units all with their abdomen semi open, re liquidating again the entrails by the Ghosts of Shiraz, who came from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), from an underground channel that carried water from the spring to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Profitis Ilias, from where until then they were commanded, with dispatches of their designs before a voluntary prodigy that emancipates a perplexed Meltem i that he was haphazardly swirling in the funerary fields, but descriptive of returning to the fields their souls, which abstained after ephemeris towards a knowledge resigned to abide by it, and to get rid of transcendental limitations commanded by his blowing, and not his body that was clouded before the conspicuous epistemological reason flashed and relaxed when comforting them for having to calibrate their bones when they returned to Mosul. The Colosso pedestals were breaking when it intimidated everyone to flee to their homes, in this way it calmed them down from the quicksilver of the world that was no longer their typical dwelling, from a dwelling of transit to a story that deals with the flys that are they hover, pretending to be the same, banishing themselves from the pain that rises up the cervical spine and that dismisses the ridiculous voices of Aeschylus with their acting choruses that they seemed dilapidated in cries impossible to personify. The ******* brave pieces of deployment began to drain from the secondary positions of the penultimate physicalities of suffering that one felt without being affected, rather it manifested itself in the contents of an essential muscular container, of the subsistence of the cosmos installed in what does not think nor decide on its retraction. Vernarth and Alexander the Great knelt in front of the larnax of the torments of mercy, like ***** language that lashes out rhetoric in rebellions of thousands of hoplites who expiated themselves from their hands, empty spiked race contained in the perjury of Zeus, enrolled in apocryphal images in tombs of those who were going to be faced with pseudo refractory that was recluses of the fleshless breath, but anarchic when trying to return to their places of origin of warlike Tikun.

The traits of annihilation were shed from buried reanimates that became slime in the reverie of a mythological God who never accompanied them and invited them from a cohabiting sun, which was only the fantasy of irresistible permutations. It should be noted that the subplot was in intangible interfaces that would never be stitched together as an annexed story, but the words of parapsychology were captained by themselves more than the sub plotline that transcended the apostrophe of death, and the Pronoia of the Peri Kousmos. The doors of Patmia were finally released and speculative vines re-flowered were Lotos and Astragalus, as courtesies of Operandi and impairment that replaced the ****** elderberry, with chalks that made the winter raging when Persephone rampaged what was merely monthly erratic of those who exiled her. The senses of Patmos were the property of his Institution, which was what it is and is not, for a holistic consequence of fast ideology but of minimal intuition, which lay in multiple reasons for tissues that were filled with crop fields, animals in Magna prairies that agreed to serve the man who loved him, in which the causes were two meters before the limen that sent her off the cliff in other causes of confusion, in a real creation of zoological Hellenic neuroscience, where all forms of mythology were made of submithology, always at the side of man but this time redeemed from the origin and cause, they only persevere to offend a certain space of ignorance where the like all prevaricated by large amounts subordinate to their lineage, in the kingdom of paradises from which only animals protect the doors that only Cerberos and Cherubim open, scrutinizing food for them and making use of them.

Patmos was remade of all the waterfalls that completed the rigors of the precept, and not the chaos that subordinates cognition to make night day or day night, pouring specimens that were and will be ignored but extremely useful for the preservation of the body of the unsupported objective and sumptuous, but of a systemic nature that does and sustains it. The Souls of Helenikká and Trouvere graced all the inhabitants towards a comprehensive evolution of the ***** of dreams, giving it the fruits of conservation where the lords of the future will have to bow to the laborious principle of the Mashiach, conciliating the arrest of the stars and not of what is reactive of an invasive action. Thus ended this subplot rhetoric of intuitive formality and metaphysical channeling character, leading them through plumbing that led from what was coming out from the Raedus Codex, from the wind tunnel, and what was coming in from here identical to its elevation towards the direct apotheosis of the Megaron that was splendid in four composition buttresses with more than two drops of laudanum, which will be insignificant ***** to save the cosmos from falls of vitality in the conclusion of Vernarth.

Saint John the Evangelist after several sleeping episodes of his spiritual experience, reappears in the sucker of modality and intentions that the drops of laudanum manifested to fill the pain of Vernarth's tragedy, and those that are manifested to him that they became resurrected entelechies of component solutions speculative, that were reborn from certain internal devastations, and that returned vague automata to the Achaemenids that emerged from the depths of this professorial subplot, to bring them with the simplicity of lexicons that were loving realities that would lie behind the veils of illusion, transgressing properties of a totalizing daphnomancy. Due to his parliament, Áullos Kósmos eliminated himself braided from the road when he expresses fatigue and regret, calming the reasons in the flight from himself. He starts from demoralization and hidden impotence of the Hoplite that would not come out of himself, because it is a frenzy of consternation that makes him start from the unshakable grief of his compassion, without reaching the surface of the ethical plane.
Battle of Patmia Part VI
Xienab Aug 2014
She loved him not for the way he looked

He was more than that.
He was more than piercing blue eyes and               an inviting smile.

She loved him for what she discovered beyond the physicalities.

A disarming amount of charms & sweetness that could make a girl want to fold herself as small as possible so she could be implante to just sit in his heart.

She loved him.
And he loved her too.
But just an image of her,
Not the girl attached.
Commuter Poet Apr 2016
In my sleep
I will dream of unborn
Realities

But now
I have woken
Though am I still asleep?

I am wrong placed
This expected place
Unexpected

Someone has taken my body
And I am in theirs

I am attached
To this experience
In a most disconnected manner

We ancient beings
Travelling within fleshy physicalities
Are novices

Wading through miasmic soup
Holding our breath
Plunging for meaning
Nothing but ambulant meanderers

Rays of energy
Pass unnoticed
Through our cartilaginous joints
And groaning sinews
As fellow bipedals
Led by hemispheric glossities
March army like
Into diurnal rhythmicals

Heart warmth
Lifts deep dungeon dwellers
From their plight

And sweet juices of hope berries
Revitalise the old

This is the Eden foundry
This, an altered nirvana
This but a displaced unreality
Is our temporary
Habitat

Our strange
Fangled
Home
27th April 2016
Jamie Treavish Jun 2022
Exonerated for a face no mother could love
Misconceptions and interjections of societies
misguided approach to beauty
Appearance is more than the physicalities
or the emotional travesties it causes
None of whom can ignore the plush bodies
in magazines or the hours spent looking
at hour glasses on silver screens
Smiles which gleam whilst those without
dentistry miss out on destiny
It’s not what you say, it’s what is projected
albeit subjective your standards are selective
Pavement crawlers to body bags, a failure to
understand grace runs deeper than
the vanity of man.
@jamietreavishwrites
Let us love
the bodies that
we sit inside

run up the
hills and enjoy
the fast gallop
the slow tread and
the graceful mercurial pirouettes
that make us lose
our balance and fall

Whether we are
full of laughter
at our sudden drop to the
ground amongst the flora
or whether we are enraged
by the spontaneity revealing our
evident lack of
control

Let us love this physicality
these hands
–this–
these hard and
soft breaths
that carry us into
the deep valleys
and crevasses that
form around our eyes

May we hold in esteem
all that we are
Gr8Ryzyngz Apr 2019
An awakening spirit
Prisoner of will
Enamored by
A captivating morbidly resting soul
Crystallized energies
Prohibiting thermic effects
Necessary to absorb
Expended physicalities
Trapped in amberesque
Prehistoric mentalities
Rebellious knowledge
Attempting excavations
Of unadulterated wisdoms
Not acquired oratorical rhetoric
Separated by oceans of Disparaging indespensible essences
Passed through generations
Heirlooms of distorted truth
I embark on an eternal Internalized tumultuous journey
Of protecting ME from ME!!!
The empires of the world collapse and unleash hegira of instigation, the dynasties become obfuscated and lost among the instigated themselves. Vernarth was still intertwined with the figures of light that were reflected in the personal back tent after the expansions and debits of faith, looking for the limbs that vanished in the exotic stubbornness of everything from now on being only his dimensional air that would continue after infinity that marks lines that freeze at the end of the Vóreios, and are scalding in the average of the Mediterranean, later when the Kassotide is the environment of Helleniká transhumating the resistances that were from the shady gap of the Seventh Cemetery of Messolonghi. This Ellipsis would mark the final epilogue of Alexander the Great who would now be in spectral form with Vernarth. They were going to face the sequence of this parapsychological ellipsis from 326 BC. In the Battle of the environment and stonework of the river that resembled spirits of sooty ignition such as Bumodos, but being the Hydaspes who managed to notice this duality of parapsychology as the serum that pretended to be divine blood, for a fortuitous exhaustion of the physicalities that crossed in true existentiality through rivers of final blood, as it would be in the Hí Emphasis to volatilize with the ethereal mixture of blood that ran through the rivers escaping from a forced destiny, which was only based on colonization of areas that would burn like Carmania or Bactriana, being now Grikos and Skalá between latitudes that would laud in regulas and helmets, collapsing on rings in how many lives of beings that could hardly bring the biosphere of expedited death or euthanasia in the Katabasis, where the decline and redemption of successive struggles would be definitively marked, to fall in the dizziness of the fumaroles of the eruptions that carry him unscathed in the psychic depositories of a messiah a going to the true Messiah, in addition to an early biological dysfunction to later be reborn in an agitated spiritual life where empires of antiquity are founded to give the first ideological falsehoods that would change the climatic atmosphere, since the Kassotide source was extinguished, quantumly uniting the An ancient period with the ipso facto moment of the sacred word that gives glorification to its roots, to understand that the heights of the Thuellai and all its genetics will bring the new vigor, lato and the prefigured that all blood that spews a dejection or a geyser, which is the homeostatic sublimated of the colossal body of the world, which resists by all its extremities, when its scriptural postulates are concluded or disallowed from flaming among the dissipated lineage of a ****, bordering on the projection of the opinion when it dies alone, the body also and a piece of that extensive mind that becomes part of the rotating mist of all that in covers the existence of a Hoplite, further away than the elegies of Saint John the Apostle, which would appear considerably real to avoid any unconscious gradation or destruction of the Hellenic patrimonial, discarding all vulnerability of beheaded frustrated genes, for whoever was a Hoplite with all that he conserves and cultivate, if you can treasure it? It would be the symbolic significance of the transient wandering in all its echoes and screams in unison through the shouting of the Kidron Valley, where the antichrist looks at the stream seeing that it had blue eyebolts, in its feverish fiery ardor on the upper metacarpal end, remaining in the opacity of the light that soaked immortals and that at the same time was a hindrance or utopia of a refutation of the dawn that never had the origin or destination of its transient sunrise. The holy complacency of the sanctity of their thoughts has the tendency to be ruined in the middle of the city of Jericho, or in an ugly situation in parallel that would bring it to those who amplify their tonnage of immanence in the face of a particle collision situation that they had alone. The target of the omega blade was instantiated in the omega storehouse.

Says Vernarth: "Because if the Anemoi extends north all humanity follows ...? because mercy rushes to where someone ponders the latch of the lazaret when whoever brings salvation cannot wait without holiness ...? Because the immaculate is multi-sacrificed with the life of an unborn if the passing of the millennia is who should do it? Why does writing travel thousands of light-years from the celestial pretenses without hesitation or stopping, bringing writings that renew the heart that sets the scene that a writer can progressively revive in the word and the body that is the essence of God ...? Because centuries pass in a second, and fewer and fewer centuries remain without being able to tell what someone omitted in any of them if the light or ink that should be stolen from the night is scarce, what the secret of her and only her could testify that a Being of Light can write with the light of its lights, as it would be then and perhaps before, fleeing and forgetting or not dare to take the fountain pen or an eyebolt, which surrounds him while the figures from the unforeseen they inspire the being who writes ...? "

Everything that glittered in Vernarth's Epiphany and Linkage shop was summed up in the finesse of the memorial, traversing the neuronal Katabasis of the emotional subclavian, exterminating emotions that carried no greater weight than an artery capable of penetrating all its bearing, where the light shone. adds as in a cruet on the table of Apollo, and no more than writing that should do it for him, since it is exempt from having emotional extremities that replace everything that comes from the darkness opposite to the Light, being written with calamus and with living blood.
Katapausis
Blondie Dec 2021
My mother would often tell me, “don’t let a moment ruin any more moments. That is time wasted you will never get back so why waste it.”
So with that and sidelined pride I learned apologies are more believable if you smile and that people are easily tricked by false confidence
Moments spent to buy moments better lived I suppose, maybe I was only chasing a concept
A metaphor mistakenly taken seriously but who will ever know for my moments won’t be divvied out to the explanation for more than these few breaths
So may similes often feel like physicalities and moments be no more than moments
Since why would you want to let the past hold onto the future for more than you allow ?
- Moments now dedicated to the woman I will forever be willing to give more moments to
Yenson Aug 2023
From their sources
all the hysterics, histronics, dramas and operas
from this view
nothing resonates, nothing is remotely evocative
nothing triggers nothing
the clone in their crosshairs
so far removed other than perhaps the mere physicalities
this was Chris and Joan's 'Truman Show'
sanity was and is never never a party to any of all this
and The Emperor's new Clothes meets Pin the Tail on the Donkey
and people are led down the garden path
who said 'you can#t fool all of the people all of the time'
and do you think crminals are sometimes called Racketeers
because they play Lawn Tennis, of course, Not
Anyways,
say what you like, but
at least our gangsters are nefariously adaptable
when Chris and Joan smeared their lies
they were sure the target would run away soon into the aftermath
who is going to brave Hell
he didn't run
and he faced Hell full on
So its his fault if we keep on making it up as we go along
the charade continues
its psyche warfare, its Neuro-linguistic programming
its perceptions Assualts, oh its Sensitizing, no its Anchoring
no, no, no try Haunting, how about just Bullying and Harassment
Whatever,
who will tell them they are fighting a clone
I just have a Front Row seat
and I'm munching Cashew nuts
reverie Aug 2020
without time
i discovered myself in my prettiest prime
clouds raining down flower showers
and only with you
heartbeats turn into forever hours

without touch
lingering fingers and such
physicalities straight redefined
incapacitated mind, I’m turning blind
rational thinking now staying behind


and still
without doubt
i cite one thousand whispers,
all that I‘ve vowed
all of my love
my whole being throughout

— The End —