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He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.

He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.

He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.

He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.

He's no poet.**
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.
I am not good at this. I just want to express my pure gratitude, appreciation and awe for you.

"I am no poet. Never thought of myself as one. Just a guy dabbling clumsily in words"
Yet even, everything you do amaze me.


Thank you all wonderful people on Hello Poetry. I just realized this moment that this poem was featured as Daily poem yesterday.  I have never imagined any of my work will be posted as daily. Thank you all for the hearts, re-post,share, comments and messages. You really made my heart and soul so happy. :)
And most of all, thanks to the man who inspire me to write this one. :)
(04.14.2015)
Adrianna Aug 2018
I despise social media.
It's ugly, to state the obvious
Our lives are posted, retweeted, altered, reblogged, perfected, and photoshopped to exactly how we want to be perceived
We have the freedom to be exactly what they want us to be.

It starts with a few edits doesn't it,
pigmented our skin to seem smooth and sun kissed,
that would seem most acceptable right?
Maybe an extra like for the skinnier waist.
More reassurance for brighter colors.
Some more filters will hid the emptiness you feel with your friends
   Another like
Flashier clothing, phones, shoes, cars, other simple words our eyes have latched on to
     Another like
We urge ourselves to portray the life of leisure and effortless beauty, happiness, success,
       Another like
But what are we enjoying?
         Another like
Views of our changing world through a 3 by 8 view.
           Another like
Events pass by swipe
             Another like
and swipe
               Another like

And when we managed to unlock ourselves from this grasp
We always come back
Like flies to light, more like scratches to a scab
Festering we find ourselves getting ****** back in
To an imaginary world, that if destroyed, would have no physical effects on their fictional beings
For without this world, maybe eyes will open
We will step past the boundaries,
and start to love our beings
unfiltered
I really do not like the social norms of having the staples of social media, it is a toxic area that traps us in an infinite loop of trying to upgrade one another
Harmony Thomas Apr 2015
Her long fingers grasped
the midnight blue pigmented stick of oil,
pulling it across the sand coloured card
as if nothing else existed.
The way she focused on the piece of art
she was creating-a piece of art
much like herself,
was exhilarating.
On the card was variations of
shapes, colours and shades-
much like herself.
She wore a prominent frown when she drew,
shaking her head and muttering things to herself when she went outside the lines,
making her hair fall into the middle of her shoulder blades.
Just like her masterpiece, she was
made up of
shapes, colours and shades.
Eyes a large oval shape
her nose a  triangular sculpture against her soft features.
The skin on her nose and against her cheeks were a darker shade of olive,
compared to the rest of her imperfect countenance.
Hair like black coffee cascading down her back,
merely reaching her frail waist.
A sense of nostalgia surrounded her small frame.
The masterpieces she creates show sentimental meanings,
hidden with oval shapes and midnight blue pigmented sticks of oil,
much like herself.
Angelina Mar 2016
Color, one word, thousands of references
It is an illusion, science perhaps may explain it
But people have utterly transformed its definition over the past decades
Is it pride? Is it wealth you carry within you once you are born precious yet so fragile?

Define it for me
Release the inner load of prejudiced assumptions
Passed down from generation to generation
Do not be afraid to speak your mind
For you are enlightening me
Go on, define it for me

Red, orange, blue and green
Purple, pink, white and colors we've already seen
Came in touch with, and accepted for what they seem
Whom we do not hesitate adoring, whilst waiting for what more of them there is to see

Colors, beautiful bundles of joy
Billions of them undiscovered
Yet willing to view
And yet unwilling to embrace one another solely because our skin tone is a shade darker, or a shade lighter?

I'm sorry, I thought we loved the thought of not having to unlock our gates to gardens full of plain, light pigmented roses
There's got to be the darker pigmented ones, and the yet to blossom ones
The ones that are yet to be labeled
By humanity's impaired vision
Allania Berkey Jan 2014
The mirrior is my adversary.
My eyes variance, what others don't see.
To the word I'm adequate, crowning , spotless, and skilled

Every morning I wake up, get ready and cover my lips in red majestic mac

Red lipstick seems to illuminate confidence in the eyes of many,
but to me it is merely a pigmented shield of secrets.
Humorous isn't it?
Every unmarred life, seeks to relive its pigments
Fears, self-doubt, imperfection.

Mirror, mirror, mirror on the wall..
Who's the thinnest of them all...


The sound of battle rumbles
Conscious at wrists ends
Bawling in me

Fat,
Fat,
Fat,

Yours tricks are foul, you tauntful mind
Vision is blurred from reality,
Oh mind how you love to frolic

Your sheer joys leave me unpieced,
The snickering of my mirror,
Damages my frame.

Sorrowing fades my red lipstick
Pigments revealed,
Vulnerable,
Unworthy,
Marred to the bone

Quickly I learned that the mind is the enemy, filled with con

Staring in my mirror and all I see is fat.

Red lipstick always seems to fade by the end of the night.
Silver Lining Apr 2014
It's funny
How a simple black line,
A pigmented powder,
And a plastic line glued to my eyelid
Can make me feel pretty
Makes me feel presentable
It makes me feel like I'm worth something

But even so-
It's false.
Synthetic.
It's all a lie.

Oh how I wish I could stop lying.
I don't feel comfortable leaving my house without full make-up, no I'm not a 'cake face' I don't plaster it on. I wear it simply, but I still wear it.
Afia Jun 2018
I feel ugly.
Like,
the dark spots on a full moon.
The burning skin under the crisp sun.
The harsh stain of vibrant colours on a canvas.
The violent shade of the monsoon cloud.
The rustic smell of an old key.
The sad wrinkles on a tree trunk.
The tired stretch marks on a shabby body.
Or,
the birth of a life.
I feel less. I feel pigmented.
I feel lost. I feel strange.
This is my beauty to taste.
To embrace.
For years. people have been reminding some of us that how unattractive they look. Beauty can never be defined according to ''their'' perspectives.
Amanda Stoddard Jul 2015
I place my hands three feet above a restricted area
three feet above the vulnerable place I have built for myself
the safety that was once such a zone of comfort
is three feet away from my grasp again
and I am on the loose.
Crush it-
remind yourself what it feels to be alive
and crush the weight upon your chest
because you must break muscle to rebuilt it.
You must lose yourself in order to find yourself again-
these bones are built to repair the brokenness.
I am reminded every single time these knees
crack on impact of the ground
because too much pressure
has been placed upon my feet
that hurt is always temporary.
That feet will feel the wrath of your entire body
weighing down upon them
but they never notice when you get heavier-
they adapt to the force that has been built upon them
they were designed to sustain inconsistency.
Just as these days were designed to have an end
even when endings don't exist.
I placed these two hands
three feet above my sanity
and asked God what am I living for?
I never got the answer I desired
so I took five steps away from faith
and six more in the direction of pill bottles
accompanied by the Jack Daniels
and remembered why 7 is such a lucky number
because that's all it took for me, a week.
A week to remind me the weakness living in my bones
is just another metaphor for this **** I'm tired of writing
these problems I get exhausted from depicting
because I have ate what is left of my old self-
used it as fuel to power the person I have become
and I lost who I used to be again.
She's hiding somewhere along fault lines
awaiting for a break in routine-
waiting until I trip up and give her a change to shine
but nine times out of ten it never happens.
So she withers amongst the neglect-
lets herself become one with the demons again
because I won't let anything control me.
Crash and Burn-
remind yourself why you write these words
remind yourself of all of the people you can save
and then remember you are the most important.

I've always wanted to write something beautiful-
to make these words I speak not just some letters on a page
but rather a picture painted inside someone's mind
a story no one has thought to tell
but I realize that Mark Twain has always been correct
nothing is ever original and no idea is just your own.
So take the things pigmented to fit others
and formulate a tone that coincides with yourself.
Build yourself a new glass case of currency
with metaphors and similes
so I am reminded why these words speak to me.
Crash and Burn-
because it was the best thing I've ever done for myself.
Crash and burn, repeat, repeat and repeat again
until you find yourself amongst rubble thats to your liking.
One man's trash is another's treasure
but look in the mirror and we're all trash to ourselves
treasure will be found among us again.
Everything is lucrative-
so flee from sanity again
it's the only freedom of currency you have left for yourself.
the quote that is the title inspired me so I wrote a really weird poem based upon it. This poem is so abstract...
Jonathan Lian Nov 2010
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.

We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.

We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.

We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.

We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.

We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.

Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Lora Lee Jun 2017
words fell
    like broken
        glass
                from
your lips
                onto
bloodstained
                       carpet
lacerations
              searing your
bruised heart,
      transplanting
              its jagged rips
into mine
  beats sharply feathered
like injured
                wings,
angel eyes
   pigmented my color,
    blinded by a
cool sheen
hiding behind
                 tears
You are but a child,
young fresh entity
yet know the weight
of heavy
    and suddenly
nothing else
       matters
only your light
in my world,
however
         dark you get
nothing material
can fix it and I will
stop it all
to press
the button
          of time
and give
you
the
       world
for my son
Calvin Hill Jan 2015
You are black; we put you through that white school so you won’t be a stereotype; but I hate it out here; they’re expecting me to be this and do that but that’s not me; you can be whoever you want; I want to be grey; great black leaders and their followers struggled so you won’t have to; but what’s a leader if he isn’t reluctant; they had the support of thousands and all i have is you; you always have God; have faith and he’s there; I lost my faith long ago; I am just a number, and when I end, I will be forgotten like half my family and the war that kept them there; as much as I differ from myself, I am still the same as you; I am who I want to be not what old people want me to be; I just want to be treated caucasian; I try to move on but B.E.T. and Worldstar drags me back.; call me a Jaden but a culture as complex ours confuses me, so treat me caucasian; pure as a fresh start, I won't get any glares if I walk by a gated community; i also love being black; the music I listen to could only be black; never let anybody tell you how to feel, but that’s childish; what I think will make people see me as different but if I was caucasian, i could say what I want; be your own human is only something yeezy could have taught me; what I think now could only be temporary just like the vapor; I just want fit in the box you offer because my ideas I carry are irrational, obscure and should not escape from me; I could say what I want now but it’ll cost me my life later; I love being black: we all have a past to fill twenty million books but no one wants to check it out; I love being grey; stupid dumb teen with nothing good to say; I love being white; my words have enough meaning to have a writer to ask me for words; I see and have every future I could imagine yet I have no future; I'm not a gangster, I don't play basketball so what do I do?; I can be better than myself and I really mean that; I am the Internet with all of its weirdness but I am black; the good posture and the way I greet you is caucasion; what makes me what I am?; the person I want to be isn't what the world needs; like the open road all possibilities are endless and I'm taking all the backroads on my skateboard; free as if I'm on air but that won't last; man the world keeps me confined without telling me the charges; no, no, no, no, they can't feel what I feel; why? why? why? why?; I remember when I was important, that I was a friend; now I'm just a minority that was just imported; I am vapor; as temporary as I am, I will leave no trace of my existence; I am just another number in some census; if being black means having life without you then I am just a figure of pigmented cells; someday I'll mean something; someday I'll be something; the door is there and I'm opening before opportunity knocks; I am just a piece of paper that shows I am competent; 12 years of school and what else is there for me; I am annoying without saying a word and I can move you by just living; only if you know what I think; black is the Africa I don't want to know; there is nothing there for me or any where; just a ***** or am I a person?; the water is tasteless but has a mountain of favors as a caucasion; I don't know; its cold outside and I don't know what to wear; the world is cold; full of life and still desolate; the world is black but is best experienced if you're colorblind; the world is cold and all this ice leaves me blinded; people give me a topic that limits me; fenced in my own jail cell; laughed at for your amusement; put me down for your enjoyment; leave me alone; I want to go home, no ones there to guide me home; school isn't what I thought it would be; life isn't as good as I thought it would be; leave me alone; leave me be; I don't need but I want human interaction; I don't know; I only know how to be black; it doesn't matter what I know; better if you decide; better if you choose; I am black and I am wrong; I am black and as temporary as vapor; my idea black isn't your idea white but you sure think so; you can be proud but hate yourself; no one taught me that; I wasn't brainwashed; I saw a better world being grey that treats each other white and makes culture like black; that's cool; oh but like I don't say anything and all of this has no meaning; that's cool; I am quiet and I have no voice; I have an i.d. but I have no identity; my name isn't copyrighted so what's so special; I wish to pitch myself to the world again but as my voice shakes, so does their heads; I am only human let me make mistakes; being black is one of them I guess; yeah I could pilot your ideals; I could follow your plan but what is my purpose?; I contradict myself and I have no point; such a waste that is; such; a; waste; you have no value to us and as your employer, I terminate you; ha!; that get rids of that peon; yeah he was just dead weight; good call! hahahaha; they're **** ups but they're right; what's next for me?
My teacher said I couldn't go to college after reading this
Jaide Lynne May 2014
When we were young we used coloring books, full of black and white outlines just waiting for be made into something beautiful, waiting to be brought to life with colors.

When we were young the reaches of colors had no limits, we didn’t stick with what colors we are told were correct.

When we were young the princesses could be purple with green hair.

When we were young we didn’t know that the world is full of grey area, we didn’t realize that when you mix too many colors together all you get is a terrible shade of brown.

When we were young we let our imaginations run wild. We let our colors sparkle in the sun.

But, too many years with the sun beating down has faded our colors. Powerful beams slowly bleaching out the colors of joy, and sadness, rage and love. Until all that is left is white with little tinges of what used to be the worlds brightest hues turned grey.

We began to listen when we were told that the colors we had chosen were wrong. That a boy’s favorite color couldn’t be pink, that the trees and the grass had to be green, and the ocean was always blue.


The most pigmented personalities and the most vibrant people have become pastel, because it is easier to blend in with the crowd than stand out.

This world is not how it used to be, all of the color has been drained.

But, I think everyone has the potential to be filled with color. Everyone can be a light show at disney or fireworks on the fourth of july, everyone can be an easter egg, or a glow stick. Anyone can be a rainbow, they just have to let their colors be louder than the negativity of this messed up world.

So, spread your colors, blind everyone with your light, like that one teacher that doesn’t warn you before they turn on the lights. Play your music too loud, make sure that if they can’t see your colors they can hear them. Write, spill your heart out in words, stain the pages red with passion, or yellow with joy, or black when you are feeling hopeless.

Paint this world how you want,

Make the trees pink, and the grass blue,

And don’t color in the lines, because the most interesting pictures really never do.
Mercy Jul 2013
enter a white room
white victorian furniture lines the white walls
white frames holding white art
hang beneath a white chandelier
while the gleaming white floor
reflects white light
back onto the white walls and ceiling

i stand alone
in the center of this white room
my pale limbs are the only pinch of color
streaming from beneath my white nightgown

it's funny
you never seem to notice your breath
until its unsteady pace
becomes your only companion
(as it was mine in that lonely room)

as white blends into white
my heart pounds vigorously within my chest
and i feel the walls begin to close in around me

a tortured pain arises
as i attempt a scream
yet nothing emerges
but white noise from my lips

i charge towards a towering white wall
but the closer i get
the further back it retreats
so far, in fact
that i can no longer make out
the white sailboat on the white lake
from the white picture inside the white frame
hanging evenly on the white wall

as i now exist
(a pigmented dot in a white universe)
i am lost and alone and anxious

the walls have long since gone
taking with them the white furniture
and any hope of return
to my colorful past

so here i sit
writing on white paper with a white pen
a poem in white ink
(dare anyone tries to decipher it)
about a white room in a white world
that has trapped this pigmented girl
in its cold, white grasp

(but other than that,
death isn't too bad)
Daisy Rae Jul 2017
My mom once told me that freckles were angel kisses
Because around age seven other kids would ask me why I had dots on my face
As I grew older I soon realized that freckles were not actually angel kisses
I found out the cause of my freckles was from the lack of melanin I had in my skin
Every time I went under the sun, the rays would dot my face with brown pigmented circles
I used to absolutely hate my freckles
They covered my nose, my cheeks, my forehead, my arms and legs
I hated when people would compliment me on them because I didn't want that to be the only thing they noticed
After a long time of hating these brown specks scattered throughout my entire body
I finally looked at myself a little closer in the mirror
I noticed how they made my face pop and my arms look like a masterpiece
For the first time in my life I didn't see my freckles as an ugly connect-the-dots page
I saw my freckles as artwork
Unique paint droppings made by the sunlight
I no longer cared about the people who thought they made me look ugly
Because I started to think what if they're just jealous
Jealous that they have too much melanin so all they do is tan
Jealous that they cannot have this piece of artwork painted on their skin
Jealous that I have angel kisses and they don't
My mom still tells me to this day that my freckles are angel kisses
And I believe her.
Catrina Sparrow Nov 2012
i lick the rain from my lips
and kiss the moon goodnight in hopes of tasting the stars that you dream under
when you're lucky enough to sleep beneath a clear sky
and for your sake
i hope the clouds will always part for you come nightfall

and i wish the sun to dance across the apples of your cheeks as you smile
as sunbeams dot your face with pigmented music notes
and constellations waiting to be named

i hope you're smiling now
and day-dreaming
of rugged landscapes fading to rust as the thunder whispers the blues through the stillest night

i hope you smile when you think of me

seated around a cluttered table with extension cord lighting and a cheap beer
or rambling down a dirt road
or a metra track

don't forget that i'm magic
and that you are too

i hope that your favorite flowers bloom in fragrant plumes wafting high enough to cross the heavily guarded walls you've resurrected

i hope you won't spend a single second scared
or lonely
out there in the "great wide open"

but mostly i hope you'll never forget the road back west
to the desert dust i flourish in
Vivian Nov 2011
Moth eaten land
thrown on water.
Strings of thread tie them loosely
together.
Pigmented
red and green
embossed with hilly sections.
Thin air
thin words
thin reflections.
Kelle Feb 2012
They say where ever your birthmark is located on your body
Is where you were stabbed, shot, hung or whatever other means
Of death are plausible in your past life.

I have come to the conclusion
That I am not human.
I do not have a birthmark anywhere on my body
A patch of pigmented skin different from the rest
This is both englightening and very very very dissapointing

This means there was never a low blow to my calf, a karate chop at my neck, a gunshot to my ankle
Nothing to symbolize that I once maybe had another life.

A life where I was the cracks in the sidwalk
or the wind gently stirring up chaos on days when I just **** felt like being noticed
or maybe i lived out my seven year old dreams of becoming the sixth member of the Spice Girls
or even an NSYNC groupie

I will never know.
I never emerged from my mothers womb
With a scar baring my worth

I was never blessed with a kiss from an angel
As other mothers told their children

I was never born with a birthmark,
and while this is perfectly natural.
I am very dissapointed, beacause maybe I was never given a chance.

Maybe I was crushed before I entered the world
A womb filled with disgust and hatred

Maybe I preferred to stay as the cracks in the concrete or the wind
Because I'd rather deal with the simple casualities of life rather than the mess humans tend to create

Maybe I was never given a second chance because
I never made something of myself here first.

Or just maybe there is a possiblity that I'm immortal
and if that's the case.
You are all invited to my 106th birthday party.
Àŧùl Dec 2012
This Cleverly Clawed Society,
These Painted Persuasive People,
With Their Apparently Sweet Talks,
They're All Eating Us Alive!

This Hyper Humane Society,
These Perpetually Punishing People,
With Their Evidently Sugary Eyes,
They're All Feasting Us Alive!!

This Sweetly Sociable Society,
These Poorly Pigmented People,
With Their Heavily Sharpened Teeth,
They're All Gorging Us Alive!!!
My HP Poem #22
© Atul Kaushal
Aiden Williams Jan 2013
Dynamite, dynamite
Put the light out.
The pigmented ones
for their freedom devout.

Dynamite, dynamite
Douse these flames
Years they have tried,
Converted their names.
Though we are the same
but differently tamed
to put out the fire
is their only desire.

The fuse shortens,
Heat ensues
Fear protrudes.
Douse the flame
before dynamite explodes.
H A N A Jun 2018
My life is like a dandelion
Spending my days under the sun
Then he came holding a little crayon
With his jet black sketches undone

My heart's been doomed since then
In moonlight, it hued to a dark silver-grey
He was the brightest among other men
"Please pick me." I repeatedly pray

He did and instantly, I was blissful as gold
Days are short but bursting into intense joy
But then his eyes turned blue; so dark, ice cold
Was he a trap or was he a perfect decoy?

My glows are gone but still, the stars shine
I lost my beams and my wandering mind
I will still grow and be completely fine
Believing that I was a rainbow, and he was color-blind
Because for once in our lives, we've been to a point where we couldn't see our worth. And when you start seeing your worth, you'll find it harder to stay around people who don't.
Tessitura, psalms, and songs of praise, they branded atheism when singing Christian psalms in the streets making ineffable groans, where the exordios looked from the back with Delphic prose, where the dart that opens the curtains of the hallelujah tormented, with darts that rubbed weathered in the tentative to rise of the stores of Sanequerib. They are relatives of Incipit Psalm 69. " Saint John said as they continued to climb the Calvary of Profitis Ilias, but this time in the company of the Help of Isaiah, with a great spirit of being from the cavern of Elías in Haifa, at a flat point at the time of the Benedictus. Already the Assyrians were returning the same way they came, as Isaiah prophesied, in the morning with ejaculations that ended with the crass rottenness that could end the day without a step other than an anti-Jesuit one. Prayers go and implore the Omnia Vanitatis, the moment when the sun honors, taking you towards the close of the day with the perpetual antiphon. The vigil was reaching the lines of Isaiah does not rest, in Trinitarian doxology. Where is the darkness, where is the glory to see you...? If the stars collide with each other in Baptismal frowning, and in the mystery of Vernarth that lies a complex, tied to becoming that never begins, and what was Christic history of a morning introit.

Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth express in the Trinitarian doxology: “Through Christ, with him and in him, to you Almighty God the Father, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, all honor and all glory, forever and ever. Amen"

The triangular taxias of the Hetairoi made faunas that came cutting themselves with the wind of the "incipit" of Psalm 69: "My God, come to my aid;" Lord, hurry to help me ", by the Keras or wings of the site of Arbella; or Gaugamela rather said…, sonnetized by some Pazhetairoi, made up of 32 Syntagmas, as units of sixteen revived Falangists from Court V of the Helleniká Necropolis, bilocated on Patmos, a few feet from the Mandragoron project. Thus the triangular spellings of war were formed again, to the astonishment of all those present. Alexander the Great, already graceful, was over-trained in irrigation and supplications, he was consisting of 128 Syntagmas, with 62 Falangists covered by the Cinnabar that subdivided them into bones by sixteen of the Lochoi or guides. The Syntagma bipartite was enlarged by two Syntagamatarchos captaining two units, all with their semi-open belly, re-liquidating their viscera by the Ghosts of Shiraz, the Saltimbanqui Hydro comes from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), from an underground channel which carried spring water to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Shiraz. Here he has to mend the propellers and water ropes to do his acrobatics on the water, with greater songs in the poems of the Poet Hafiz. When he bites his tongue, they repair it with the verses of Hafiz's Koran, there are three hundred creeds, three hundred hectares to irrigate with his wheel the sadness of those who cannot have the gift of the rivalry of Montenegro and Monte Blanco, to overestimate the liveliness of the caravan that trembles with uncertain doubts here on Patmos "

Saltimbanqui of Bascule says: “We are Epi ghosts, green in reverie with tutelary ropes, to jump through the trapeze of the photometric units of the heavy Almeria of the highest Mirror of the Sea. Will take you back to Limassol. Curiously to the same ship as the Eurydice that sleeps in the swings of the sea, and in the arms of the petulance of Dionysus in a new awakening of lethargy of theorization of the superstrings of Anaximander, here is the intrinsic speculation of science, already that this is not just purely empirical research. "

In between them, they form even and odd rows. The horizontals were tinged with the Red Blood cells that became volatile and surrounded the Xyston lances, for thirty soldiers of the Diloquia, with their dismembered arms that began to take them back with their hands tightly girded by the song of the Theological Shemesh of San Juan, which subsequently rescinded last in the sum of two taxiarchies, constituting a Syntagma. The units rose with the sickle that cuts definitive death, to reconstitute it in five thousand that should tread through the hierarchies of formations, amid the frolics of the Phalanx, where Vernarth protested to all “Khaire, Kalos irthate apo tin kentriki, Welcome from Hell !"

Thus the Phalanx was constituted among the Syntagmas in metaphors of the Falangists. In this way this antiphon was revealed martial, denoting synergies of the Sybilla Herofila that conferred to the world of Trinitarian Doxology, among ashes that remained by a solid cobblestone witness of the reluctant troops that testified to the sense of interpreting the law of bringing to the world what to their lives it owes them. The prophecy shone from an intangible Isaiah before all in this concomitant episode, and to the degree of the reign of Judah, here together with the prophet Elijah, they faced the hardened fragrances of blessing as oracular teachers of so many goods, and of the benefactor that protects by inspirational mandate, making laws for the end times before closing his own eyes without having prophesied them.

The rows in “V" contrasted with the corridor friezes in the crowned troops of the Hetairoi, and in the syntagmas that became appressed from the triangle that opened the three-quarter proportions of Athenea's physiognomy in Pergamum, subjugating Alcineo, so that finally it was forged in constellations of equanimity in the fifth courtyard or "V" of the Necropolis of Helleniká in the allegory of Vernarth, stopping the plausible dogma of the initial that glosses the Law in Vernarth's "V". This in turn in double syntagm of the Syntagamatarchos guide, in the high sky of Patmos, and in the medrones growing on the antlers of the proclamation of Wonthelimar, which made them a twin "W" in the star that shines in the medrones of the Ibix, in the Cornacabra and in the Cornucopia, with certain docile movement, adhering to acrostic and prehensile preliminaries of the Isaiah saying.

The Phalanx Alexandrina Heterochromatic of Alexander the Great volatilized between the villi of his Falangists, climbs the Holm of Zeus and causes a "Gore" or horrifying reflection, allowing the rhizomes to become a hundredfold, which will make the nominal order of five thousand, for each member of the Syntagma, in an astonishing quantum that reproduced itself to materialize before Him. Then he tied each one of them as Prometheus chained to each of the oaks, from an Akane grocer, incontinenti withdraws a sharp dagger and opens each one's veins to free them from the isolation of so many years settled in their last heterochromia of the War Iridium that he conferred on them, to endure the visit of the spirited Grim Reaper. This causes liberation, in this way they re-install themselves in their bodies, with Iridium or iris that made them see before their optics in two biases of Hoplite alter egos, impacting half of their body. Alexander the Great, being the philanthropic heir and of Platonic legacy, made them superfluous in the melanin that fell from the Epíchisis or libation vessel, to taste the effluvia of Dionysus with the maenads, with wide ambivalence filling them with viticulture, so that they would flow through the veins of his soldiers, and to revive them with the Dionysian must of melanin to the left eye of the Hegemon King Alexander the Great, with Jasper in the left, and the right with ultramarine from the bottom of the Ionian, on the banks of the washed banks of Patmos, in high swells of Greek alcohol that was distilled from the Mosacism of the stones when unraveling the peripheral forces from the prefectures of the great native of Pelas. They ordered areas of all Greece under their heterochromia flow that gave life to the Perifereoaki, or periphery for Central and Western Macedonia that came with great vigor, with Epirius central, western Greece, Peloponnese, and Crete. East Macedonia and Thrace, Ionian Islands, North Aegean, and Thessaly, later they would go for the Aldehyde alcohol that summarized and epitomized Dionysus taking him with four eagles that distilled the unprisoned Syntagmas of the lines of 16, 32, 64, etc...., for purposes never to start on an omega all the way to the Ionian Islands from Corfu.

Alexander the Great, went near the pre-urbanization of the Mandragoron towards Vernarth, somewhat dizzy, and before attending to him he presented himself first to the Zefian; who looked at his iris like a foreman who re-divided his visuals, by prevailing in eagerness to restore his soldiers, to help in the construction of adventures of life, and to assist in building the Megaron, which still rested in the myopia of mythological vision of the Gods tied in animosity with the Titans. Overwhelmingly, he highlighted the clouding or turbidity that was seen beyond the radius or visual field of two realities, found in visual refraction and interference with refractive statisms of the periphery that led him to the other world in Babylon when death imprisoned him...? Here the root revived, it became parallel in a unique world with divergent lights, which entered his Akera or right-wing of his soldiers, bringing visual acuity that brought the perchlorate volatilizations that hovered in the boots of his soldiers, when they marched in awareness of the retina and of the mean light, that for the first time was clarified in true holistic and political from a Parthenon with the musk of mortals and immortals of neo Hegemonic ophthalmology, which he was already re-leading by his command, where he was going to invest his greatest and most spiritual elemental Commander Vernarth, with his Himation.

The rays of his eyes seemed distant, but they were diffuse and alternate, they wandered through the lens of his clouding, which blinds a partial of the left Akera, or flank of the Hypaspists that dazzled Parmenion. Here the optics of Alexander the Great, remained in the diatribe of the small eye next to another that was enlarged, being hyperopic of a mysterious confine in the severity of Dionisio when confronted with him, in light effects of the high liquid vineyard, refracting meridians in his troops next to the Hexagonal Primogeniture who observed them behind the magenta image, which was the one that flashed from the Clouded holm oak and eclipsed by calm heat movements, and rising air masses that were in the opportune station of good sense. When being aided by the Maenads and the Herophile, they were teaching from a parent, who now sponsored the entire political and spiritual will of the Hoplite side, made up of the King of the World Vernarth, together with Alexander the Great, after receiving the photocoagulated lightning bolts. of the officers, under redeeming and reduced of the metabolic, and of the oxygenated preeminences of new lungs for each devout consecrated body, towards Saint John, the Apostle, pigmented and mechanized with aggravating heterochromia, and extensive in the bodies raised in new parallels that have to confront an anonymous or semi-god by turning for his own.
Antiphon Benedictus III Isaiah / Syntagma
Grace Jordan Jun 2013
You look at me
I smile
Its funny how I lie
Its funny how you tilt your head and I make excuses
Its silly this feeling
This green light far darker than Gatsby's
the envious undertones of a pigmented leaf
poignant in its search to be perfect
Its silly to feel  I'm not enough
but I'm silly
And I love her
So I smile and pretend
I'm not inadequate
Darren Oct 2014
My cushions bow where I've taken sleep
And tossing sheets along their creases
Sameness come the time I upright-
-To the days I reap

Same hours fly and crawl eavesdropping on my mind
White flowers pigmented by waters where they drink
I endure until I can retreat
To long suffer a recess I am always close to find

The springs in my mattress know my weight
Their creaking a sound as lullaby
To rock me in same exactness played-
-In every end of day

The flip side has married wooden frame
Coupled till the death of mine will break
Wrap me with pleated lily craft-
-So we can always stay

Same hours fly and crawl eavesdropping on my mind
White flowers pigmented by the waters where they drink
I endure until I can retreat
To long suffer a recess I am always close to find
Originally written on October 14, 2014.
Sixth poem for the Hundred Theme Challenge by The-Poetry-Cafe.  Took this one for an ironic take on the topic, but I am also almost at the deadline for today so who knows what I write in my panic.  Hope it came out alright.
Information: the-poetry-cafe.deviantart.com
Profile: monocephalized.deviantart.com/
Theme: Break Away.
Jordan Oct 2013
We never obliged ourselves with any sort of passion or alignment with natures splendor, we just flip-flop'd about like disenfranchized plastic pieces of footwear; Fleetingly and disparingly as we float adrift through a toxic sea of consumerism, entranced with the notion of celebrity, swirling and whirling around until we undoubtabley wash ashore onto the pristine beaches of someones elses uncorrupted, isolated and darkly pigmented subconscious. Ready and willing to establish order in the magnitude of exploitation and apathy. As we scream freedom from tryanny, TV to TV, a bunch of muted and silenced over commercialized under adulterated humans trickle fed lies through screens. Everyone knows but who is speaking up, As Miley Circus flies across the manufactured dream a handful of youth stand up and puke as they throw there hands up like the ones before them and say "this isn't my scene!"
Bhaskar Dhakal Nov 2014
Darling, let me love you,
the way I want to,
the way you want me to.

let me spill all my feelings,
all my love,
my everything to you.
Let me be the morning dew and you,
be the petals of the loveliest rose.
I'd touch you all over,
the faintest touch of my lips,
all over your soft divine skin
would make you more pigmented
than you already are.

Let me tickle you and arouse you,
and make you want me more.
You’d try to push me away,
but avert me from falling too.
And I shall run wild over you,
just when your thirsty lips drag me rapidly to you.
And as I get closer to your lips,
I would see a shy smile in your rosy face.

I would hold you tightly,
give you the kiss of the millennium,
and you would want me more;
as if the feeling is new.
My every touch, my every breath,
would make you feel more complete,
like you’re discovering yourself in you,
via me.
Never has been your body caressed,
never have you been to this utopia,
as I show you the doorway to paradise,
and you would not want me to stop.

So I would go on,
Quenching every thirst,
again and again.
And you would be there,
soaked, all wet.
Right at that time,
we would be two bodies as one.
Your identity becomes mine,
and mine, yours.
And when I see you again,
I visualize no shyness in you, anymore.
I see, love, affection, satisfaction, and moreover,
a complete lady in you.
And I would shine,
like a diamond with you.
And that’s when the world sees,
an epitome of  beauty, in us.
Sparkling dew drops in a blossomed rose.
visit my blog:
www.bhaskardhakal.blogspot.com
www.bhaskardhakal.tk
Robyn Kekacs Jan 2013
I'll have my thought-provocative chamomile island
Hold your breath if you'd like
As long as it lasts, I'll pull you to the pools
Where the warmth doesn't sink nor spike
It bubbles with treasure awaiting
Marked as rubble that keeps procreating
These caverns, they'll be warm as a mother's arms
The sea life will smile back, warm
As the breeze that will dry your walk home

This is sand I could sleep on, sand that couldn't exfoliate, it's
Smaller than your pores
The roar of a ******, the waves arching spine
Sighing as the loamy foam symbolizes sweet decline
Rind of the ***** sun
So ripe it could puncture with your own thumb
Heated juices soak the soil
Feed the trees, learn your new roots
Swaying palm leaves lap your back
Laughter breaks out in the mouth of the land

Pigmented petals kiss your core
The trustworthy breeze tucks around your form
Of course you'll be staying, even though you never went
We'll pass our days more perfect than the prior hours spent.
Lucanna Aug 2015
I light a flame in protest
Waxy comfort, my rebottle to this
credentialed crisis
--Wildfires slither up to my terrain
And me,
The fire caught me years ago
I look out to choked sky
My disposable golden rod environment
finally surrenders and declares--"yes, me too."
I whisper back under smoky breath--"it's about time."
Blinking away ember tears...
I'm still blinking them down blue cheeks.
My face has been striped wet for so long
I'm pigmented in bubbled weariness
Underneath my epidermis
I block each volcanic bolo punch,
loving masochistic movement
My lush goodness taps out to
Core's tectonic intensity
My earthy green
Covered with licking ***** lava
My maroon sadness seeps through
Every ******* time
My tears blamed on the Tetons
"Blame it on the Tetons" Modest Mouse
Montana Feb 2013
I returned to the place
where I use to escape
from the pedestrian affairs
of life in suburbia.

Many nights spent
collapsed on the pavement
swapping humdrum stories
of teenage angst.

It was the end of a road
just north of town
with nothing but swampland
in two directions.

Far enough away
from the sprawl of the city
to understand quiet
without getting lost.

An abundance of stars
made us feel insignificant
and the freedom of isolation
gave us confidence and strength.

It was balanced and beautiful
like we were, back then,
just the right amount
of elation and confusion.

So then it was silly, I guess
for me to expect
that a place like that
would still be the same.

It's a strip mall now,
sleek and amalgamated
and the unkempt sawgrass
replaced with pigmented mulch.
Zoe R Codd May 2015
strong spirits

welcoming in nature-

powerful in instinct-

trying to find a moral compass-

one that they can believe in,

with all of their ****** hearts

searching for complete harmony

in a static world, charged by the sun.

their own saturated, sturdy bodies

learning to not know-

experiencing the now-

accepting that simplicity is beautiful-

realizing that no life has to be so complex.



no life needs to have so many thumbtacks

stuck in its cork board,

hanging on its bedroom wall-

only to be stared at by its owner

to distract from the present-

to keep sentimentality afloat-

to compare and contrast;

to remind a tired soul

of better moments and feelings

in its personal history.

but when those tiny memoirs

are reminisced upon,

the soul becomes vulnerable-

susceptible to reminding itself

of memories it does not want

to have as its own.

memories most likely forgotten-

blocked, and left somewhere

in the owner’s brain-

lost, due to lack of importance-

deterred from its conscious-

pushed back into its energy’s

open life storage, unconsciousness.



those memories like sharp tacks,

metal tips, dropped and unseen-

abandoned in a grey **** carpet-

left there so many months ago-

waiting for their owner

to decide their fate-

to either lay its bare foot

upon their thin metal,

creating a river of crimson-

so they may be finished with

their metaphorical life-

thrown in the trash can-

or they could taste the sweetness

of not being crushed-

of having one more day

to become as best as they can be-

to enjoy the soft, scraggily **** carpet-

to be unwanted, unfounded-

to aide in the growth of the now-

by refusing to resurface.

those memories, remembered or not-

are locked behind the purple indents

above the owner’s cheekbones-

below its red, puffy eyes-

violet crescents-

slowly caused by sleeplessness

and lack of nutrition.



if the past was not meant

to be consistently remembered,

why does humanity constantly try

to decode the future?

recorded history is meant so

living beings will not

repeat previous mistakes-

the human race is a cycle-

history will repeat itself-

mistakes and all-

the future is completely unknown.

predictions are never certain-

why spend the life one was given

trying to figure out why humanity

exists the way it does-

when in actuality, the researcher

is missing out on humanity as it is.

why try to figure out what happens

when someone’s energy is depleted-

when a mind is laid to rest, dead.

while searching, one is losing out

on actually being alive-

no one knows exactly

what happens when mortals die-

humans have been searching

ever since they developed cognizant

abilities, conscious minds…

the future will happen eventually-

people will experience it when it is time-

it is wasteful to spend one’s life

always looking for the answer-

instead of celebrating, and exploring

the earth that has given humanity

endless opportunities to love.



ghosts of creative minds

walking amongst the living-

ghosts encased in flesh

with no memory of their past lives-

their auras radiating-

saturated with ambition and kindness

following different dreams-

floating toward their goals

in a similar manner,

all with the same amount

of vigor and curiosity-

young (old) spirits;

hoping for their fellow

outspoken, anxious specters

to listen, and notice their potential-

to make their words understood-

to show their many points of view-

to let go of their pasts-

to stop worrying about the future-

to live in the present.

intelligent, brightly glowing entities-

the ones with flowing energies,

pigmented with color-

the ones striving for positivity;

the ones who really wish

for just one simple thing-

only for their peers

to consider clarity

as a degree or two on their own,

individual moral compasses.

to love this beautiful world

with no bias, with equality,

with excitement, and with

virtuous appreciation of life

as a common mystery-

one that would end a lot better

if it was left unsolved.
I did this after having writer's block for about two months. One night a few weeks ago around 3 a.m., I started to write and the words just bursted from my fingertips. This is probably the longest poem that I have ever written. (First draft)
Robert Zanfad May 2010
settle, then, in serpentine
words once heard when
mixing roses and turpentine -
tales spun again in oils
flung on canvas sheets
always stretched too tight.
tonight a frail frame
might break
before colors make pictures.
It's only cheap pine
that holds it all together,
old bones with thin skin
you'd see through were
it not for the layers of
pigmented emulsions of
emotions trying to hide
the white, wordless,
grinning death waiting
underneath
Emily Mary Oct 2013
Dreams,
symphonies of sounds, and arrangements of metaphoric surrealism
the hibernation of ones mysterious thoughts and deepest actions
a psychedelic wonderland of white rabbits frolicking down holes, a time warp of madmen
the thought of being chased by dark shadows in the mind of monsters that hide under the foot of the bed.

Dreams,
a stew of emotions boiling and biting at our ankles, a *** of acid-spiked visions so unclear
a world where billows of color mix and mutate
the tall man chasing us young children through scenes of disruption and everything within us as mortal beings
where buddhist pray and the sun shines, leaping over peace pigmented hills, filled with hysteria and delirium
the dreams that have left me uneasy and the dreams that leave me wanting more
Your soul has grown,
But so hasn't mine
Seemingly along the pigmented,
aging forest,
of despair.
You breathe deep,
Just one leaf,
Among the chipping branches,
Of what you thought was your escape.
You grow.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the following additions will seems like plastic
surgery,
               and in turn will put the encompassed
poem under much strain,
  but as i will say: a 48h marathon can do
that to your narrative "skills"... well... techniques...
   esp. given it's winter in the northern
hemisphere, and two nights and two days
actually feels like three nights and two days,
given we're into our second day, and i've already
experienced a night-time this morning looking
at the clock.

  italics will be pleasantly omitted...

        instead... a maxim style akin to la Rochefoucauld
will be adopted... to merely insert
             toothache when otherwise the ***
is sitting on a leather sofa and thinking what would
be a better chance to juice up the brain with a
psychoactive sedative-effect, i.e. with what liquid?
    coffee on the brain is a sahara, as is famously
known: arabs love their coffee... and their
  baklava dressed in balaclavas - or as we say in
Europe: there's enough water, so we drink alcohol.
    turns out diabetic rates only go down in arabia
if enough sports cars are imported... must be
the g-force diet.

         but hey! look at the title! the title was always
going to to resemble the final version of
the preliminary work, the sketch, of what went on
last night...
                   beginning with the scariest film i have ever
seen: a horror movie without anything to do with
night or its aura (i was about to say aurora, never mind),
a movie from 2002... which ended being more scary
even it almost bagged the lead role an oscar...
        and then what i can only claim to be better than
gaming these days... taking graphic novels onto screen...

which brings me to a question, and if i ask the question
with a mature enough wording,
i might actually get a serious debate going...
     namely? x-men, first class...
         and i share something with this theme,
did you know that people remember far away from
Chernobyl parks being pigmented, where
   there were segregational duo-incisions in the trees
from the radiation? it happened nearing when i
was born, spring, and the women were told to drink
iodine... that 2002 film shows iodine treatment
   on "mental" patients, you pour enough iodine down
the nostrils you get a better understanding of
epilepsy... ah... the magical things people could ever
think of doing on another human being, let alone
   a courgette, or a steak...
                well, yes, in parks, half the trees were
the colour of spring, all green and asparagus juicy...
the other half were brown, and decaying,
    almost potato skinned, if not simply: potato skinned.
      as i said, i was a foetus at the time,
and apparently some Scandinavian got a microcosmic
whiff of it and panicked... let alone those exposed
too close to Chernobyl, a radiation-pH spectrum
emerged, of who and how they were exposed it...
    cancer, for example, is prevalent in Poland of
those who don't get to experience a midlife mental
disorder of buying a yacht... lucky them...
   which fits nicely into the seriousness of graphic
novels, as that film unbreakable clearly demonstrates...
  all realism of graphic novels actually stems
from batman... my favourite... no super-powers,
plus i had a simulation of being orphaned and raised
by my grandparents for 2 - 4 years while my early
psyche developed, and then redeveloped utilising
a different language, then went back to settle old dues,
and then went back again: charged with having read
    antoine de saint-exupéry on a year long
hiatus that allowed me to watch the 1998 world cup
              in a dark-lit room with my great-grandmother
and see France win... with such jubilation as if
Napoleon just came back from Elbe for seconds.
this is not the point, i said i would word it maturely
and not look half as an ***:
    why does francis xavier sympathise with
max eisenhardt, but belittles james "logan" howlett?

   all things start so small, i just remembered listening
to this song that allows you to lay down words like
bricks in a wall (prometheus' 9th - the man who swam
through a speaker)...

  why does he, is francis xavier just ******* that
one of logan's mutation counter-pluses is his ability
   to regenerate health and vitality, while at the same time
creating a amnesic hinderance to apply his psychopathy?
i guess it is... max on the other hand as unchanging:
fixed memory coordinates, because physically:
he's unscratched... up to a point of how this debate
runs its course... i just don't see how francis has to
belittle logan... just like henry "hank" mccoy is first
belittled as simply bigfoot... the problem with
amnesia is that even you have the capacity to
engage in telepathy (rooting out distant pathologies
rooted deep inside your psyche that never allow
you to reach a full potential - or what's Freud's
case of postulating receding pathologies and subsequently
creating a forward looking theory to work with
in creating uninhibiting constructs -
       francis xavier? nothing more than a psychiatrist...
in the modern sense, without iodine treatment,
or electric-shock-therapy... rather the guy that
says everyone is special via talk-therapy...
  and all psychiatrists have this child in them:
they all want to be telepathic... just like all
manual labourers want to be telekinetic) -
           the oldest chestnut, if there ever was a hazelnut
to boot.

       original, as except of what is to come...
  i mean, what i started off is now bound to italics,
  just to make a point that after watching 48 hours
of things, and having finally looked at symbols,
    i could only write so much coherently,
before donning what looked like some poet's clothes,
and stepping into a foggy highnoon for
  a bottle of beer, a bottle of whiskey, and
     a prescription of insomnia pills...
   well (they're called anti-depressants for old people,
who prefer to treat their "depression" - if not
merely old age, while they're asleep)...

no one would ask for this type
of hiatus...
       some would call it:
being an american spy,
      getting caught in soviet
russia and enduring interrogation
techniques -
    yes, a "hiatus" of nearing
48 hours: of being constantly awake.
       or what certain former
east europeans going back
   to see family members might
ask about, when Lithuania, Estonia
and Latvia are under a national
sway of general jittering paranoia
as reported by English newspapers
   and later established by
            an American president's
tour of the region -
                         or how Crimea
is the 37th or 38th or whatever no. it's
now - or whether it's
           Tartar autonom oblast -
but indeed, nearing a 48 hour long
insomniac "hiatus".


            and i can sympathise with francis xavier
experiences when max eisenhardt is first encountered,
this sharpness of a psyche, rather than its automation
or literal non-existence... this is why i could
            stay up for longer than 48 hours if i wanted to,
but i can see so much in being awake for so long
that natural consequence is that:
a. i have lost the capacity to dream,
  b. i have translated the capability to dream into code
(namely the letters you see before you)
   and
c. i have found a "safe-space" to recuperate from
the pain i feel...
  meaning
      d. i know with what ease people acquire a substance
known as a soul... and with what ease they can
think in this substance, like a fish in water...
    what i'm talking is a lobster a boiling basin,
where your exoskeleton can mean a lot upon
jumping off a cliff, but when your inner flesh,
starts to be almost eaten by the mutation of protein
from tapeworm larvae into edible meat?
      i know this substance, i have experienced it...
and i know that i dare not put a soul into a foetus
that doesn't have a workable tongue, bladder and ****.
  i think it's time to end this preliminary "work".
Onoma Feb 2017
Why are you looking at me like that?
'So one day this tenebrous look will repeat on you as an
unsheathed star, and in the aftermath of that
luminous wound all the angels of my intent
will leak therefrom.'
'Having seen--your heart will assume that wound,
and my music will come out of your eyes!'
A music whose movements constrict, a time-lame
twine only a serpent may undo--you knew!
How went the all, how went its nothing...that diabolical tune?
I hear it through feeling, it's so haunting I look over shoulders
I never knew I had.
You left panning cameras half-blind, live with feed, to every
nuanced detail.
Your minute release of messianic trailers doomed to never premiere,
neglecting to bow your head, and proclaim: It Is Finished...)))
It was more than the lay of the land, such was your art of survival,
hence war.
It's messier than they story--when two human beings come together,
what's gospel cross references  googleplexes...all but to betray a lack
of designation...human, being?
The poppies are everywhere, I stuff their dreams!
I see hearts skewering hearts--lights out, lights in...their
truest sutra: "form is emptiness, emptiness is form."
Our decline was so steady, you said you saw the beauty in ugly...
so now we're both transfixed in near catatonia.
The poppies are everywhere...I see you chopping off your locks
at odd angles, listening to Tori Amos--hoping they won't follow
you cursedly...your face waxed in eye-melt.
So erriely sentient, surfacing glimmers of nonlocal breaks of news.
You roared down that Kansas highway, one foot on gas, the other on
dashboard...that flat, unending highway where we saw the eastern
sun set, catching our dust-black wind as detracted distance.
Where: "kyrie elieison, down the road we must travel" sooth-said through the radio...ahead, the poppy-pigmented end of the line,
warning the last of the sun sets west.
That night when we retired to that Kansas motel, we were never
more parched in our lives.
Yes, and like the pickled western crawlers you can purchase in some
gas stations...the devil was in the details, a poppy between his teeth.

Today, I fell into a dead stare on the sun, (unblinking) as I write this
the pen emerges from a neon-green orb, blotting letters.
As this sight settles...I will like to tell you how I saw the
sun rattle its rim, and flicker its pregnant bulges in messages,
that cradle ripples to havens of purity.
Today, here--now, the sun will set east nor west...with love, nor
hate.
The sun has set...the poppies pause for a moment of magnanimity.
olympia Jun 2013
I was born and raised in cement.
only slightly porous and pigmented grey
with mold and mildew seeping into unsuspecting cracks
and flowers and lilliputian trees sprouting here and there

the sunshine caused the heat to rise
and my skin burned soles and souls to touch
making me undesirable
making me poisonous  

the snow caused my skin to freeze
causing backs to breaks and people to die
making me hated
making me alone

and yet I cannot escape my home
I have grown to love its lethal walls
its sinister and dangerous pout
its hard and familiar structure

I am one within the cement
I am stronger than bone
I am indestructible
I can survive and I will outlast all
Ella Snyder Jul 2013
I have three birthmarks.

One on my ribs shaped like a hammerhead shark pigmented into my skin speaking like shadows on blinding days. Protector of humans, night hunter, and forever growing teeth.

One on my thigh like tea barely seeped, a water mark bleeding through the picture and the point. Only seen in the brightest of light and only revealed in the darkest parts of the night.

One on the curve of my hip like a cherry blossom. I am as ephemeral as a bloom. Beauty like roots breaking through sidewalks and death like a handful of sand and gravity.
Emily Mary Dec 2013
Dreams,

symphonies of sounds, and arrangements of metaphoric surrealism

the hibernation of ones mysterious thoughts and deepest actions

a psychedelic wonderland of white rabbits frolicking down holes,
a time warp of madmen
 the thought of being chased by dark shadows
in the mind of monsters that hide under the foot of the bed.


Dreams, 

a stew of emotions boiling and biting at our ankles,
a *** of acid-spiked visions so unclear 

a world where billows of color mix and mutate

the tall man chasing us young children through scenes of disruption and
everything within us as mortal beings 
where buddhist pray and the sun shines,
leaping over peace pigmented hills,
filled with hysteria and delirium 

the dreams that have left me uneasy and the dreams that leave me wanting more
Quentin Briscoe Aug 2014
Periodically put pass peoples personal perceptions
Physically Pass Pompous Proprietors possessive profits..
Passive pupils perform persecutor's pineal priorities
Problematic Pastimes produce poorly processed plans..
Police purposely Prosecute pigmented Powerful Personas  
Peers, Perceive, Portray, Procreate Positive Progression  

#micromoments #6x6challenge #PtothesixthPower
Take the 6x6 Challenge!!!!
poetic fractured retractions
   gnashing night prayers,
scribbling braille,
     written sideways
 dipped amid holy water's retention,
compromising statements
     of disbelief's proclamation
spinning music the color
     of nakedly sick ******, yet
burnished souls keep on ticking
   half past total trade-offs
   in a spoonful of smoky reflections
         sans sugar's acid trip,
anointed of rose red
        ****** false pretenses
dancing off center
       in disillusioned
   pirouettes of pseudo redemption,
whirling out of control on
         staged tapestry's loftiness
surrendered ballet slippers
        in blistered half promises,
as twisted metaphors sprightly
       tuned out spun anomalies
below birds on a rusty wire tweeting
     admissions of blue's cobalt execution,
rendered inky alterations' inquisitions
        'pon pedaled pink fluff profundity,
exhaling paroxysms of engaged poetry
    in vehemently enraged deliverance,
naught one is ever as they seem
  through pigmented film 'neath
    figment's imagined looking glass
           of ingratiated grand delusions

— The End —