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Andrew Rueter Nov 2017
We are a puzzle with missing parts
That is why we make art
It is a healing start

We are all dream chasers
Until pencil meets eraser
Until boat meets glacier
Reality we must face her
When we sacrifice imagination
For societal integration
We search for placation
In lonely play stations
And through vacation
We experience migration
When the results are doubtful
And the response a drought mold
Because people are skeptical
Until there's a shiny scepter sold
Then you're put on a pedestal
And have your pecker pulled
By various industry tools
Loading you like a mule
With expensive jewels

Art must be the only motive
Not climbing any totem
Because once you're dead
Your art can still be read
Audiences may still be fed
But there's a frivolous influence
So you must be vigilant and prudent
To cut that from your life
So art may be your wife
That works to end strife
Yet that kind of help
You can't put on a shelf

I strive to make my art timeless
Though my pockets are dimeless
We live in a world of depression
That carries the risk of regression
My art could help push past it
Now that would be classic
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
https://www.amazon.com/Icy-Andrew-Rueter-ebook/dp/B07VDLZT9Y/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Icy+Andrew+Rueter&qid=1572980151&sr=8-1
Andrew Rueter Nov 2017
There is a fight
It is internal
There is a plight
It is infernal
There is no light
In this ******

There are many things people callously say
Like I'm the last person they'd expect to be gay
Delivered like a compliment
Burning like a sulfur vent
I have to remember not to say thank you
To save someone some discomfort down the line
When it's easy to let these sentiments internalize

You'll see this in the homosexual community
They don't face the hatred with impunity
Some call themselves masculine
And blame their plight on the effeminate
But no matter what
They'll still be called degenerate
So the community internalizes marginalization
Though this prejudiced stop is no original station
You'd think your own kind would allow vacations
From the population of an uncaring nation
That will never grant us any veneration
Because of the nature of our *******
Yet we **** ourselves for their placation

There is hatred within
This hatred imprint
When we fractionalize marginalized groups
Into the "good" ones and "bad" ones
We say the bad ones are the reasons the good ones must be hated
Whether they're cops or criminals
Christian or Muslim
Gay or straight
We find reasons to hate
When we live our life in the grime
Of the negativity we've internalized
Robert Jackson Feb 2010
Please forgive my hesitation
at instigation of flirtation.
Did I ensure my elimination?
My romantic assassination?
I'll gladly partake in any placation,
for any chance of indoctrination
to the centralization of your concentration.
An operation of admiration.
A correlation of inflammation.
Your gravitation brings animation,
exclamation and elongation.
My specialization is duration.
Not to hint at a connotation,
but I feel a certain *******
by an obligation to a certain destination
where your presentation gives me restoration.
Petrification?
Total mind evacuation?
Would clarification bring fascination?
Stimulation!
Salivation!
Gratification!
Insinuation of fornication?
A simple salutation to syncopation.
Would a single bright carnation
be enough of a motivation,
for a two way relocation?
Would poetic recitation
be sufficient lubrication
for collaboration?
A consolidation?
Or an exacerbation of isolation?
Please hold no reservation,
I've only got one aspiration.
To achieve a higher elevation;
by means of inhalation,
or a certain recreation
involving a bit of perspiration
along with physical communication.
Does this seem such a bad situation?
Or are you ready for pure elation?
Andrew Rueter Jul 2018
There's a contentious subsection
Of the homosexual community
That go in a different direction
Hoping to find social immunity
The word masculine
Is the mask they're in
To live life saccharine
Wearing a plastic grin
From the sensation
Of over-compensation
Actuating placation
To differentiate
From the effeminate
They say they're separate
But really they're just desperate
To be accepted
By their own dejectors
To not be rejected
They become defectors

To avoid ridicule
They stack their deck with nothing but physicality
Their mind minuscule
The albatross on their neck is a lack of personality
To please those that compare them to *******
Internalizing their homophobia
An infernal mighty cornucopia
Creating an over abundance of rules
One must follow to be a proper male
But we should jump out of the pool
If being miserable is what that entails

The more genuine version we see
The happier we all should be
Then we might all be free
But if I were to show glee
Someone might call me a ******
And I don't think I could hack it
When the rest of society backs it
With an approval that is tacit
So I convince myself I'm avoiding identity politics
Using total discretion
To make no impression
But my friends and family would know that's not what I'm doing
So why not tell them?
I haw and I hem
Because the underlying ghostly shame
Is the true nature of this social game
When you have the fame of the flame
You're told to get in a lane of the same

Erase my ******* sin
With the title masculine
There are practical reasons to hide it
But how much time will be bided?
Will my life be derided
Until the evil are delighted?
Andrew Rueter Apr 2018
To kiss someone's lips
Or grab them by the hips
One must enlist
In the power dynamic
Inside every relationship
There are surprises
Of different disguises
I must ignore the lies of
Reachers and settlers
Stalkers and meddlers
Those who are aloof
And those who are goofs
The process never foolproof
When animals hide their hooves

I took that dubious bet
I thought it'd be fun
A game of Russian roulette
With a fully loaded gun
There were unfair rules set
That's how you won
A one hundred percent threat
I'd be hurt a ton

It started effecting my health
When I couldn't be myself
Because my self emulation
Amounted to self immolation
So I sought your consultation
For the vacation
Of placation
But you took advantage
At least from my vantage
I could see your rampage
Straight from the Stone Age
Like a time traveling mage
That summoned a cage

There was a pattern
We kept going around
Like the rings of Saturn
Until I hit the ground
You made me foolishly wait to test me
And then hated when things got messy
Now you claim that you're a blessing
For what you do after *******
You must be jesting
Confidence cresting
Never confessing
Or addressing
The emotional underbelly
You just like to undersell me
Saying that I'm underwhelming
I'm talking to a tundra telling me
That it makes me a better me

Apologizing not part of your plan
You tell me you don't understand
You must think I'm stupid
To treat me so putrid
My patience you've used it
So the dead weight loosened
Once I let go of your noose hand

You come back begging
You incorrectly pegged me
As forgiving not petty
I guess you never met me
Or at least said goodbye to the best me
After never acting on the behest of me
And making me think less of me
You've become a pest to me
Not part of my destiny
Just part of the generic sea
Of those I let be
jeremy wyatt Jan 2011
When dough is in short supply,
puddings get nervous, I wonder why?
They tell their parrots to take to the air,
to see if there's more hidden anywhere.
One flew out to the north Atlantic
his efforts brave and quite fantastic.
The dough of Icelands polar bears
was safely stored and waiting there.
One parrot flew to the Snow Queens wedding
for dough, and to try his wing at sledding.
He was so tired when he took his dough to the station,
he was forced to use his powers of multi - placation
for the guards were nasty and horrid and grumpy
and almost  turned the dough all lumpy.
I tried my best.....
Andrew Rueter Jun 2018
They nickel and dime me
So money can't find me
While debt keeps climbing
With inconvenient timing
A note reading foreclosure
Spells my doom
As a realtor's brochure
Sells my room
Poverty looms
Over my head
As everything is taken
Even the bread
And what I use to bake it

They come with a gun
Demanding that I run
They tell me I can't stay here
Police presence engenders fear
So this place I once held dear
Will no longer be near
And the bank
Maintains rank
Over the poor
Locking the door
So I hit the floor
Hatred in my core
I adopt an attitude
Of eat or be eaten
This simple platitude
Will get me beaten

Money isn't that hard to make
If that's all you're trying to do
Yet they take all they can take
Like they've got something to prove
They don't mind
Separating bees from the hive
Power is control money buys
So the rich are seen as wise
Even if they're destroying the world
Forcing families from their homes
And now the rocks they hurl
Are delivered by drones
From lethality to loans
We're stripped to the bone
And feel all alone
On a planet of exploitation
It's tough to live the full duration
When we're stuck at a bus station
Called placation
Where the wealthy do what they want
Because they have money to flaunt
Giving them status and power
To build their ivory tower
By evicting delinquents
And bombing huts
A dog-like sequence
We're treated like mutts

The cumulus accumulate
Usurping heaven's gate
Creating a second rate
Decrepit estate
For us to deflate
Into a state
Of hate
And wait
For a mate
To feel great
So our slate
Has low weight
But once it gets late
We ask for a rebate

We run for the frivolous
But that fun is insidious
And it's slowly killing us
From emptiness filling us
We withdraw into shells
Of similar mundane hells
Until the bank comes knocking
Then into the streets we're flocking
While they're progress blocking
And pistol cocking
We kneel and worship them
Begging for mercy
They're the problem's stem
Yet we wear their jersey
Which is absolute insanity
But money controls humanity
Michael W Noland Apr 2013
Intrepidly neglected, of my lessened reasoning, I am dissected, of my insurrection, from the blessed beens of yesteryear's glints, dancing, parading, and burning, in layers, stages, and fazes, fading, and melting, the plastic faces into the smelting heap, that has come so far, just to inspire me.

Always.

Always you unto me, spiraling, indefinitely into the deep, where ceased is the times, with bloodied hands, and laugh lines, laughing one last time, while glancing toward my watch, under setting suns, and rising stars, smiling faces, and in tearful goodbyes, i realise

The sky's limitlessness

And in all the glory, and all the bliss, the eloquent stories, and the gentle drifts, my imagination uplifts, in wisps of gentleness, where i submit to reason.

Bless-ed be, the one who garners to my support, from a vortex of euphoric antidotes, of mindless quotes, and animated emotes, pulsed, from straight faces, and lost hope.

Ill tell the truth, you can go with nope, in whispered breaths of gun smoke, lathered in lith-dope.

Just trying to cope with the flow, until i crash upon the shores of nevermore, and, explore these holes in my soul intent, ascending from the contempt of bent perspectives, and twisted concepts, letting the blood of the peasant from my arms of harmony, trembling blankly to sleep.

To you a *****, to me tranquility, as i sink, into the world i knew, so that it may be seen, casing the well being, of all the things, and pixelated dreams, from a thieves keep.

Deep, down, below me, in obscurity, i seep, through the soil of my turmoil, until my hand reaches out, from beyond my doubts, and clambers from the shadows, outside of myself.

I am born, of mud, of muck, of the stuff, you're afraid of, and all i bare is love, love to shrug the shams astray, vacating the placation, and dichotomies, unifying light, into one me, shining in the rainy streets, of my deletion

Until my completion
Completely
Erases me.
Lee Oct 2013
That Soggy Winter Night,
when the rain beat heavy on the old wood of the cabin
and the air smelled like dust,
and candles,
and fresh moss,
and wilted leaves,
and anticipation.

It all started with us listening to the rain through an open window.
Those hours of morning when the sun still hides,
smoking cigarettes ,
and smoking homegrown,
and drinking water ,
and whiskey,
and sharing unmistakable looks,
that both of us where too eager and scared to put words to.

So we pretended to both be tired.
So we could lie down together,
and huddle close,
and save warmth,
like burning coals rapped together in a blanket of ash.

This was the hesitant placation of our urges.

But it had to be more subtle,
more drawn out,
than both of us wanted it to be.
So I waited until I couldn't stand it anymore
reaching out a single hand from the opposite side of the bed
to see if it was ok.

You grabbed it,
and pulled yourself closer,
as if you were pulling yourself away
from the brink of a deadly mountain’s cliff.

We stayed wrapped together all night,
the mess of your hair sticking to my face
because I stayed wrapped around you.

It wasn't until the sun came up
that both our heartbeats settled
and my muscles and mind relaxed
and our breathing slowed
and we could slip into a dream
with bodies weak from wanting.
Luc L'arbre Jun 2013
Burning daylight inside incense sticks
meditation tricks in a psychobabble circle
pull what is mine into myself let the rest
                                                                    go

flow  
     as streams of vinegar placation
lazy over the surface of those
             worn-torn-skin-leather rocks.
it's over and you barely felt the drop, as your black-faced angel
    [sweet messiah]
pulled you from the edge of that advancing ocean
    yourself
        undefined.

It's easier now to live through the TV
  swirling static crystallising
thumm-humming against your ears
as nothing more than something you can really
    feel
  [in choreographed 30-minute blocks]

  now you have your beginning-middle-end
go to bed
  forget about
  your empty heart-head-porcelain shell
and the way that it bends
     till it snaps,
like bramble in a fire
so full of heat it must explode
     or
branches under fleeting feet
a hunter dreams asleep
atop his pillow
   "of ******" (I'd say)
"of the chase" (would he)
    "they are the same" (spoke God)

And left us silent, stunned.
... so I set the trees aflame and ground the mountains to sand, "it would have been lost," I thought "by my hands or another's. But I have come to love the smell of smoke and unsettling horizons."
Michael W Noland Apr 2014
I see the lot, denominated in slots, automated in spots, weakest to the plot, and I'm not, convinced it is wrong, nor minced in my longing for a song, a song to the sum, to the sun, to the one unto the ones unto none, nada, nothing, but a hum from beyond, a rumbling from a haunt, stumbling from a heart, belonging to a spark that departed a long-long time ago, where it started, and I'll go-go back there for the harp, for the halo, for the art of it, standing on the stars, apart, but a part of it, I'll go for the horns, for the dark, and for the parts discarded, I will, try my hardest, to remain in progress, a battery that charges for the harvest of the starkest of the larvae unto the fiercest flies, unto spider webs in fragile skies, finite lines up high, where I'll die knowing I flew, die knowing the truth, the use, the abuse, the ruse, the heights of my sight, igniting in the lie, in the cries, so distant now, but a distinctive growl from yesteryear's child so mild, so wild as to be outed by a new sound, so profound as to drown the complexity out, and simply shout from anyone's mouth, reading out-loud and clear, my cloud, my thoughts, my fear, left right here on a single space, where I placed it and saved it away in the seventh day of this resting case, that is all but closed, a screen saver transposed as knowns exposed, and I'm aroused in knowing the doubts are clothed in lace, soaked on display for my placation's of our days, the daze, hazily grazing on the safe, the fates, locked in a slate, for later placement to a shape, I'm hate, wrapped in a hopeful taste, waiting for a saying to say it all,  ~ I'm spaced.
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2012
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
A Simillacrum Nov 2018
So.
Tell me, what's love?
You seem to me,
able to enter
the infinite.
You seem to me,
able to find
absolutes.       >>just fine<<
But.

That's ******* boring.

Love, perfectly fit for broadcast.
When some, like us, are out on our ***.
So. Define love.
Because my love is pain, thankfully,
but you manage to sing it so sweet.
So. Love and peace?

For me, love is heat.

And if the heat is missing,
are you asking me?
That Love's placation.
And placation, I'm learning,
isn't my driving force.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2013
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
Dylan Halvorsen May 2016
Long elective count to meager
As thought throughout the countless, eager.
Wanton cast and a dredge of river
Sometime past, came to crab and sliver .
Wrought the rest carried littoral to rocks
Bent on the watch to release limbs of locks.
Sought abreast a squirmish glean of hand
Slaved to field, a dry-mouthed harrow of land.
Trees come forward to shade separation
We seep, never coward, to breathe such placation.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2012
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
0o Aug 2016
Inside the cats stretch and purr, lick their fur by the fire,
With practiced indifference to instinct and desire,
Outside the birds rise and sing as the baby birds die,
There were bound to be casualties learning to fly,

Below the sirens ring out, cities burn in the night,
Watchers watching the watchmen with no vision in sight,
Above it all, the airwaves deliver electronic placation,
As recreational outrage replaces conversation,

Before our horses were fastened to the carousel tracks,
We felt the wind, rather than the wall to our backs,
After all, we all got older, tied with time’s rusty chains,
Fingers wedged into ears, souls sedated by stains,

Either we’ll fall to the seduction of safety’s allure,
Clutching at cobwebs and killed by the cure,
Or we’ll rediscover that small voice we tried to ignore,
And remember some battles are still worth the war.
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2013
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
Liam C Calhoun Nov 2015
PROLOGUE –

Silliness becomes a later suffering, if only tinkered by potion –

PART I –

A contractual moment whilst halos best remain hung on the hat rack since devils taste so much better. Bitter but belated, ritual yet related, so to in avoidance, fleeing anything that’d mimic life, “ideal;” perfect being a, “nine-five,” during which, “monkeyed with,” comes to a peak and a valley’s once more, a lack of control. A tailspin wherein one truth can become just a shy more intangible mere seconds later – We can see it, we can smell it and we can almost touch it – so allows the specter, the hand holding drink, and later, permitted, for our nakedness to play once more.

PART II –

Four more down and a few gin-fueled gestures later, we stumble upon but one edible truth, an apple and, “sin,” repeated thousand-fold – so succumbs you and a parallel I atop our empty and, “precious,” wants carnal. We masticate and learn to destroy the TV – naked, begrudged and bent over the boxes we worship. We annihilate the machines. We profane the dependencies; placation and participation wrought this artificial coercion, once a friend and now an object – a disdain, a thievery, a prison, vicarious and to be avoided by all costs.

PART III –

Human interaction and fluidic free choice soon become the new, “in,” the primal addiction amongst the bottles of tequila, *****, and plain-old beer. Our grinning, in the flesh and not in pixel, must and will rise like the places we’ve so very poisoned. Here and now, we care. We have to care, because if we don’t, it’s all for nothing. So we top the night twisted, simply breathing, where the smog isn’t seen, but it’s there. We top the night tethered, where the rain doesn’t burn, it believes. And we top the night innocent, and among stars, both in the sky and entangled the heart beating my right,

EPILOGUE –

For the time being, just being, where all seemed right, a little twisted, but wiser nonetheless.
A little long; but a moment I'd never forget.
Riz Mack Nov 2020
Such pretentious pretense presumes a plethora of personal pejoratives,
please pay the predicament proper attention previous to persevering with proposed promises of placation.
***** purloined your parlance?
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2016
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
Rob Sandman Apr 2016
Tick tock tick tock don't stop-til you drop...

We work ourselves to the grave as whipped wage slaves,
to buy shiny things to prevent us from observing the truth waves
the reality-
the fatality rate of life is 100%.
So how do we work out exactly what percent is spent on-
staving off boredom?-
Instead of starvation,
but the placation of every First World Nation
was borne of greed- a need for Subjugation,
enough is never enough for those who walk rough-
shod across backs bent over PC monitors,
BILLIONS spent,
so your MP can monitor your every move,every lunch break-
toilet break?

Is this to break our spirit,so the spiritual vampires,
can feed on your Aura,Chi Spirit Soul the inner glow that defies defilement,
it's easier to fight back than most people think,
more than one glitch in the Matrix,
just stop.
Think...
enjoy a little me time from time to time,
me I enjoy a little rhyme to pass on the Sublime-
Truth that's out there(is the Sandman an X file?)
Be bold like the font when you seek Fonts of Wisdom
*be strong in the broken places,you can fix them!
Just dealing with a lot of unhappy petty souls recently,
and this popped out of "ma aun heid" while I thought about the motives of those who indulge in Schadenfreude...
a work in progress(another one!,to be finished)
Andrew Rueter May 2021
We are at the mercy of blood alchemists. They turn lead into gold and war into paper. Their sacrifice based sorcery transmutes our possessions into theirs. They just need death in the equation as well as our placation.

The blood alchemists defeated the defensive zealots to establish a new leader. Their new leader had devised a formula for turning bigotry into power at the expense of sanity. He crafted a potion to control the minds of the malleable that poisoned his brain with paranoid fantasies.

In the fascist alchemist's perception, all protesters become demons in need of exorcism. Transformers and electromagnetic waves carry his insane demands to Ukraine. He demands the death of a statesman expressing contention. This is the formula for turning dissent into fear. This is the concoction that turns power into silence, he seeks to suffocate his enemies in dirt.

Followers of the fascist alchemist believe he's a god who can do no wrong. Townspeople see through this facade trying to explain he's flawed to mind controlled dogs. His spell is stubborn so citizens start sticking to strife after he obfuscates what's wrong and right while a politician's life hangs in the balance.

Conflict is conformed into cover as he uses fear of the other so subjects won't see his gunners killing our Yemeni brothers. He buries our problems in dust, that once unsettled, erupts into a noise so loud we can't call him corrupt. Ignoring the will of man he'll even **** his clan if they still his plans. His henchmen drenched in blood are as expendable as the foes he shoves. Summoning a power vacuum, a portal to autonomy, all the cronies crammed in his chaos cabinet are ****** out one by one.

So this attempted assassination is the final straw once the magistrate catches wind of his shockwave sins. The blood alchemist must attend a hearing where enemies and allies alike adjudicate his egregious actions. The hearing will be dictated by what seers see for our future. The verdict will be determined by the brain washed judging the brain washer. Before dissent could materialize into resistance, the blood alchemists slowly eroded justice until a force field formed to protect the trickster's horns.
wrote this a while back about Donald Trump's first impeachment
Andrew Rueter Nov 2018
We met on common land
Sharing a favorite band
We started holding hands
And I felt absolutely grand
Following your similar strand
But I began to feel ******
Once I saw you had planned
To burn me with your brand
You had my idiosyncrasies scanned
So you could start acting bland
Once I was on your nightstand

While trying to give me an *******
You put on a fake southern inflection
Thinking it’s in vogue to be Texan
You’re more like Rogue from the X-men
Spreading your shapeshifter infection
Trying to pass your suitor’s inspection
You hide your personality from detection
Like a jaded politician during an election
You give the people what they want
Until they love you
Your similarities you constantly flaunt
Until they’re subdued

Your metamorphosis
Informed my bliss
By eating from my dish
You fulfilled my wish
Of finding who I’m looking for
Not knowing what’s in store
Once I start to see more
Deep down to your core
To find an empty floor
Behind a locked door

Raised as a changeling
With trends ranging
From punk rocker
To athletic boxer
In a life where validation
Is another person’s creation
Needed for ego inflation
That’s given as placation
For your simple sedation

Now you’re a shapeshifter
Looking to ape misters
As you forsake sisters
For date blisters
Creating a friendless drought
So when you’re down and out
You need a man who’s devout
While I look at you with doubt

I come to you with problems
You can’t help me solve them
You just listen to what I say
And then press replay
A form of redundant consolation
So issues I don’t relay
To avoid your echolocation
While my soul is filleted

Your Houdini act
Voodoo genie tact
Garnered a time pact
By tricking a blind bat
Through a mind hack
Which gave me great pain
The size of a Great Dane
For a misery refrain
After you interest feigned
To enjoy my reign
But your interest waned
And you quit the game
Saying I’m to blame

Once I’m replaced
You build a new face
On the one you erased
For another embrace
While losing all grace
Looking for an ace
To take you away from this place
Where you’ll always remain
An abrasive codependent strain
Viewing relationships as games
Or obstacles overcame
You become the bane
Of another’s lane
Causing rain
In their brain

Your focus on mimicry
Is super gimmicky
Pretending I didn’t see
Your lack of personality
When you can only parrot what other people say
You become an amalgamation of those you date
Which isn’t the worst but definitely isn’t great
When we should just organically relate
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2014
If there is hint of blue note— it is contrived.
If there is semiprecious structure it is all by rote.
Because there is mastery — there is no mystery.

Adroit hands show only gloss and felicities death.
Surprise is supposed in the onslaught of notes.
How sad are the fingers that smooth them over.

The scales are mere trapeze and not a razors edge.
Your instrument is placation as your feel is dead.
Hurrah when you finish— no one hand is clapping,
The hill is climbed, but the great mountain is laughing.
Andrew Rueter Jun 2019
I'm sad and I don't know why
Could it be that I steal and lie?
I say it's what I do to get by
While I still think I'm right
So I still need an explanation
For this depression's duration
I give my mind placation
With useless information
Which gives me frustration
While I yearn for elation

I put the focus on my brain chemistry
So people won't think less of me
For not living blessedly
From the lessons seen
That I ignored indeed
Like my aborted dreams
That were thwarted into steam
Once I found my neurological stream
Could take the blame for all that I've been

I have low serotonin
I have low dopamine
I feel the power of Odin
Choking me
And I can't see
Through the freeze
Of countless needs
That are unwatered seeds

I'm depressed
I'm bipolar
I regress
Into disorders
I use to put up borders
Or beg for quarters

A new age way
Of shirking my responsibility
I am my brain
I must own the emotions filling me
If I want to escape depression willingly
I must face it head-on until I'm free
But I don't follow those who lead
So I continue to be
Depressing

I ignore finding purpose
Or answering a calling
My only searches
Are for pills falling
Off the doctor's dolly

What's in my mental
Makes me special
But I'm disheveled
So I befriend the devil
On this lonely level
Where I solemnly settle

I think other people are lying
About how much they're crying
Because they seem like they're trying
While all I'm doing is sighing
At their pain I'm denying

The more people diagnosed with depression
The less of an individual it makes me
So I rationalize they haven't learned a lesson
And lives I'd love to be trading
Because all I'm doing is skating
While giving others' lives ratings
Comparing them to my rabies
I'm melodramatically exacerbating

Other people transform
I stick to the norm
Convinced I'm deformed
Not from the storm
But from when I was born

I want your sympathy
Not your help
Any advice you give to me
I'll put on the shelf
Sarcastically saying "Thanks I'm cured"
Because I think my negativity is truer
Than anything newer
Like your positivity
I rebuffed unwittingly
Because I'm miserable
And can't handle the truth
So it hurts so visceral
When you call me uncouth
But I'm not a sleuth
So I blame it all on youth
And the rest of your troops
Separated from my toxic loop

So I isolate myself
And get depressed even more
I blame my mental health
As I fall short of the shore
With opportunities galore
Yet all I can do is snore
And think of who I was before
Modern psychology implored
A brain chemistry war
Dylan Halvorsen May 2016
Anna encrusted dust suite luster
All of the bevel the ocean could muster.
Trust, the comfort found here at the shore
Sands to revel in all you adore.
Further, floors elude the light for placation
As roots are harboured, an act of vocation.
This tree gleans no place of rest
But chosen as berth, the hold for a nest.
An expression of palace and that of place
A digression to speed and not of haste.
But throats grow dry as if necks could curd
As we depart to our homes again like the bird.
Would you save me?
Could you be so kind as
To berate me?
Can you put me in my place
And wash me of my feelings daily?

Is there a way you can come inside me
And remove what's rotten?
Take away all of what I love,
Yet should undoubtedly be forgotten?

Do you hurt?
Do you possess too much risk?
Could I put you down
Without insatiable itch?

Can you use me once
And then throw me away?
Would you need to stay?
Would you make my mind do stunts?

Are you crazy?
Are you the enzyme that would complete me?
Could you delete the weak me,
And bring me suavity?

Can you take my life quality
And overall boost it?
Would I reap your benefit,
Grow numb, and lose it?

Do you take losers like me
And turn them into winners?
Would you make me thinner?
Would you take me away
From too many family dinners?

Will somebody find out?
Will they judge me? Or worse,
Would they care about me
out of pity, out of concern?

Would they heal me up,
Just enough so I'll stick around?
Will you make sound?
Will you call someone who figures out where I'm bound?

Would you get me locked up?
Would you isolate me?
Would you hate me?
Would I court you and dance with you and then you date me?

Would it be me and you in the end?
Are you a friend?
Can you be just a trend?
Can you make a swift visit?

Can you come inside me and leave,
And make me grow stronger,
And give me a good story and experience
To give to others out of caution?

Would I be cautious enough?
Would I be too cautious?
Would you make me nauseous?
Would you make me have fits?

Are you too strong?
Do your effects last too long?
Can you help me function?
Can you help me hold my head up?

Are you enough?
Will I have you and want more?
Will it be like everything else,
Where you won't even the score?

Will you not give me as much as I give you?
What will you then do,
Make me find a stronger you?

Are you the start of a path?
Are you a grand finale?
Are you stigmatized so much
That they won't hold rallies?

Would you make me stupid?
Would it be the good kind?
Will you take me from a pathetic nerd
To a lowdown town king?

Are you hopeless?
Do you make me go with the flow?
Do you make me know what to do
When I'm feeling really low?

Are you the updraft?
Are you the placation?
Are you the one who'll fill the hole
So I can just go on and live?

Would you change me?
Would you exchange me for the better model?
Are you tolerable,
Or are you too much to handle?

Do you have a message for me
That I am too weak for you?
Will you shut me up?
Will you make me complacent for life?

Will you give me better rhymes?
Will you be my latest muse for poems?
Is all of the interest I've shown
Seducing you to want me?

Can you want me back?
Can you give me warmth?
Can you hold me close
And make everything alright like some did?

Is this part of being a kid?
Are you a right of passage?
Will you make me a savage?
Will you make me a lady killer?
Will you make me say phrases like "lady killer"?

Will you delete my filter
So I can overshare even more?
Will you help me score?
Will you give me lustful motivations?

Are you patient?
Or do you come into me all at once?
Are you a cooling ice water,
Or a thousand hot suns?

Will I ever know?
Will you ever pull the trigger?
Will you make me not miss her,
Or her, or her?

Will I forget my past?
Will I remember my future?
Are you a suture
For all of the pain I've endured?

Will I be yours?
Or would it just be that you'd be mine?
Would you be fine?
Or would you walk up to the fine line?

Do you have remorse?
Are you the best course?
Is there something I could do better?
Are you offering an adventure?

Are you timing me?
Are you working your way to find me?
Do you have lust, too?
Do you have trust issues?

Do you also not want to be abandoned?
Are you stranded and you need me?
Would you free me?
Or are you some kind of jail?

Do you ever fail?
Or do you always get the job done?
Are you fun?
Or are you more a means to an end?

Are you a black hole?
Do you have a soul?
Would you make me lose mine?
Will you teach me about control,

About how to lose it,
About how to choose to use it well?
Will you send me to hell?
Or will you punch my shoulder and laugh?

Do you live up to the facts?
Are you not worth it?
Are you sometimes perfect, though?
Or is that just hearsay?

Will you make me fade away?
Will you drag me down?
Could you and I drown?
Could you and I be partners?

Could you stop rhyming?
Could you stop seducing me?
Could you end me?
Could you really end me?
Would you end me?
It's just about some sensations and how people feel about them
Andrew Rueter Dec 2018
I stick with what I know
Refusing to grow
Until I’m losing the show
With nowhere to go
I become part of the flow
Of an abandoned road

Staying in my lane
Playing video games
I’m becoming lame
With thoughts so tame
Ignoring doubtful shame
And bouts with pain
To preserve my brain
From harsh stains
So when I’m social
I am only hopeful
They don’t see I have no soul

To reach the top of that hill
I need to develop the will
To acquire a new skill
That’ll leave me fulfilled
And not on pills
But on playbills
That pay bills
Where the bay spills

But learning language
Brings me anguish
The stench of my French
Puts me on the bench
And I’m speaking German
Like I’m inside a Sherman
So I give up sounding like Napoleon
And go try out the accordion

But my focus on instrumentation
Only causes further insulation
When it doesn’t give placation
Requiring practice and inspiration
Yet I can’t tell the difference between a piano and a dynamo
But I guess I wasn’t really trying though
What I’m doing is more like dying slow
Parked in the snow
With nowhere to go

I have no patience
Nor discipline
I crave safeness
And indifference
For living with ease
Is my domestic disease
Drowning on my knees
Until I’m not interesting
In this interest sea
Where I float free
But don’t see

I say it’s all been done before
So why should I do any more?
Those before me got to score
And then closed the door
To the convenience store
They created a mangled mold
Out of their stranglehold
On the angles sold
But my blame grows old
As my claims are told
And my peers are polled
Concluding I’m not bold
After becoming cold

After a head start
I wait for a spark
Alone in the dark
With no real heart
Expecting my part
To fall in my lap
And people to clap
While I can’t do a thing
I can’t dance or sing
My hands I wring
Scheming ways to be king
Without pulling the strings
And never committing
It’ll be here I’m sitting
James M Vines Jan 2016
Placation of the masses, that is the job of spin. Being the face of the bureaucracy, a focal point. Easy on the eyes, soft spoken in words. Not of harsh temperament, but long suffering of angry people. Able to turn a phrase without thinking about why it is being done. Speaking in critical terms, but not being direct to question others. Simply working with inferences of what you want others to think. Such is the way of the useful idiot, who lives through political speak.
Keith W Fletcher Jun 2017
I see them walking
Holloweyed
Through the open ended questions
Of answers long denied

Pliant yet defiant
Inauspiciously claiming failures
As a placation to the future
Where we're all being lured

By obligation of invitation
Requiring servile adherance
To regimented augmentation
As we ponder our slow advance

Beyond perspicacious reasoning
Of all tried and untrue routes
Where war and pain Trump vision
When humanity is slain by vanity...
     ......as the future is subjected to the uncertainty ...
                    .......of all our failsafe doubts !!!
So......
I see us all falling
Blindly
Through the open ended questions
Of answers ....still  being pushed aside
AND  TOO LONG  DENIED !!!!!!!!!
Andrew Rueter Sep 2018
This isn't happening to me
I'm shackled and I bleed
So to satisfy a greed
Of a comfort need
I plant a seed
Of belief
That my grief
Is beneath

I made this association
With disassociation
For an invocation
Of correlation
For no relation
Just coronation
By the ***** nation
Telling me placation
Is a fine creation

So when my friends make mistakes
I write them off as sad fakes
Ignoring my own bad breaks
Just focusing on the stakes
And what I can take

The pinnacle
Of a clinical
Cynical
Individual
Divisible
By pivotal
Pigeonholes
Is in my scold

Gold grace boldness
Replaced by coldness
To face the soulless
Faceless foe's nest
I aced the code's test
By using a clone blessed
With choosing a tone less
Bruising than a stony desk
Falling on my bony chest
Yet now that I'm alone I confess
My life's become a grown mess

Because now I never know when
Associates are abominable snowmen
So I hide where there are no men
In a computer glow den
Fearing my deserted glen
For in the Serengeti
I don't fear a yeti
But the pain that's steady
I'm feeling already

I try to stick wide
Until a riptide
Grips my
Ship's side
Flipped by
Sins I'm
Pinned by
With no one close enough to help
Not even my disconnected self

My disassociated sloping
Is misappropriated coping
For a misplaced hoping
Of a fire stoking
To cease bloating
So I keep floating
As a blind Boeing
Free fall flowing
Mind not growing
To ease my knowing
Of where I'm going
Keenan Dixon Jan 2017
Don't talk about it.
Within the whole fit
Of alcoholism
There exists a skism
Of sorts,
That exports
The deviant aspects
Of life, expounding on regrets
Future and past.
Bombast
The standing
Circumstance.
Don't talk about it,
But the though doesn't quit.
Just permit
One lasting comment
Each one out of their mind.
Each one looking to find
Somebody,
Or, some shoddy
Example of another life.
Each one is hinged to strife
And dismay.
Looking to one day
Get away.
Looking for someone else to just stay.
Or to say
Something pretty.
It's ******
Enough just being.
Each one only seeing
The bad side of it.
...
Don't talk about it.
Just one more thing...
It will bring
Absolutely nothing, but,
Remember the bite.
Like a small, lustfilled, light.
It, felt, right.
A small touch
Isn't a crutch.
It wasn't much
More.
One can deplore
Desire
But admire
The effort.
Except for...
Don't talk about it.
I quit.
I can't
I won't
It's scant
That I detract.
There exists desire
And not an aquisition to aquire.
But, I
Can't help but sigh.
Even though my
Other shifts to cry,
I won't speak.
A hand she seeks.
And I give,
With the warmth of a shiv
To touch her face.
She's come from a strange place.
I won't speak.
For once, one, is not meek.
Friends before
But for a second, a little more.
Don't talk about it.
Don't let it persist
Like it was pretty.
Remember the city
And the stars.
There was no trip to Mars.
Remember "mistake",
For it can make
Friends...
But to what end?
Why is it important
There are no memories to sort and
Nothing to find.
In this mind
It exists as nothing.
No bluffing
No feeling
No realing
Just two
Of a few
Who
Wanted
Nothing left stunted.
No whelp
No cry for help.
Don't talk about it.
Yet, I sit
And think,
And no it wasn't the drink.
It was lonliness.
What did I miss?
Placation of desires and Nothing more.
She walked out the door
And was gone.
I sang no sad song
And it wasn't wrong.
Don't talk about it?
Fine, I submit.
I quit.
This is it.
Andrew Rueter May 2019
I live among prying peers
Telling me which way to steer
They’re all I can hear
So to garner cheers
In their direction I veer

I thought if I stayed still
They wouldn’t see me
So I took a pill
So I could be me
But that didn’t free me
Once I was needing
Constant feeding

So I join civilization
And see their indications
Pointing towards temptations
To provide societal placation

They send me
To the trendy
Intending
To amend me

The conformity
Is informing me
Changing horribly
To what I see normally

My confirmation of conformation
Is in observations of obfuscation
In this iteration of integration
Where I conform for calibration

I’m willing to be wrong
To belong
Can I be strong
Singing another’s song?

I want to fit in
So I sit in
Places I’m whipped in
Hatred I’m dipped in
In a crazed conniption

I’ve had a painful life
Under their knife
Giving me strife
To make me right
In their light

Consumed by conformity
Society absorbing me
Changing enormously
To the form I see

I hate what I’ve become
At their behest
So I load my gun
And join the rest

I’ve become an automaton
Building atomic bombs
To drop on the calm
Who don’t sing my song
Andrew Rueter Dec 2018
We’re all born in the same place
Ourselves
And we all run the same race
To hell

Born into a world already turning
My feet start urgently burning
Before my brain begins churning
I ignore what I’m learning
For my movement yearning

Now that I’m of a reactionary fashion
It’s time for social interaction
I’m told to pick a faction
That’ll be my infallible bastion
I’ll defend with blind passion

My need to know more
Brought the conquistador
Who had the keys to my door
With no reason implored
He beat me to the floor

He comes from society
To check my propriety
Conquering through anxiety
Or straight up fighting me
Until the pain starts piling
From his constant defiling

I’ve made a million mistakes
So I don’t deserve any breaks
But all he does is take
Everything at stake
My life he shakes
To make me fake

Through the storm
He screams conform
Until my soul is torn
After I adorn
His demon horns

I adopted his impersonal sensation
So to avoid my temptations
I commit self immolation
For the hellish integration
Of society’s placation

But he keeps demanding more
He keeps demanding war
And me to be ******
Until I’m not sure
If I can be cured
Or even endure
When they obscure
The path of the pure
With their malice lure

The safety of sedating
Keeps me from hating
So life becomes waiting
Avoiding their blading
And incision trading
Which is why I’m delaying
And the conquistador is staying

I can’t wake up
After I ate up
The tryptophan
Cryptogram
Sold to man
Turning ******
On the lamb
From the sham
Of Uncle Sam

— The End —