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Ophélie S Sep 2018

not bad,
i commented to myself as i watched you do your thing
for the first time ever ;
not bad was my way to say
still is today
i have standards, you see and —
they were met when i
heard you say,
"that's only half what
i can do."

let's get this straight:
i was the best at what i do until
you came around ;
it's not like i'm mad though —
quite the opposite 
in fact.


here's something else:
i have always liked the way your eyes
shot daggers
even when you were smiling ;
a death stare, they named it and, you know,
i won't call them wrong —
i'm rather fluent with the concepts of
and staring myself, after all.

do you remember?
when we spoke to each other —
it was always a sparring of
rather than words.


a fact:
you have been called cold
more often than
you have been called pleasant ;
i know  —
it's not like you'd disagree
not like you'd be stupid enough to
deny ;
cold is a comfortable shadow
to hide in,
something people like us
wear as a coat or
a scarf
from july to june.

there's this saying that the addition of
two negative objects
turns them a positive
result ;
i'm not much of a scholar so, honey,
what's on your mind?


i get it now,
if i'm propellers
you are wings —
rather than a mirror, we're
distorted reflects
a thing evolution knows
a great deal about ;
this yearning is the aspect of you
i'd wish to keep
bottled up ;
"what for?" you'd ask.

yearning is not a thing
i'm a stranger to ;
i've yearned for many things including
and you —
i've been struggling
to make them mine, though
perhaps because i'm never really trying.


that's how you do it:
you take what you want with
clawed hands
accomplish miracles with
thunderous silence —
an entity of cruel fairness,
icy anger but —
what you want is a complicated
with definite shape to your eyes
but blurry to those of

i'm neither believer nor seer but
here's a little prediction :
the day you are satisfied is the day
shuts down upon us all and
half of me
prays for it.


about extremes —
some will say grey is a better shade and
though i confess
it does have its charms,
it still has to paint me a picture more striking
than a soul with
adamentine purpose.

see —
i stare as you pass by,
terrific in beauty
beautiful in hardness and
off —
goes my heart, sanity, ego
and shirt.
Wherever there is darkness
there is light
for this is the law
polarity of life
for love there is hate
for joy there is sorrow
for all the yesterdays
there is tomorrow
for a smile there is a frown
for a laugh, a cry
for hot there is cold
for black there is white
for rudeness there is kindness
for compassion there is scorn
for virtue there is dishonest
for eve there is morn
for forgiveness there is revenge
for wealth there is poor
for wet there is dry
for peace there is war
The wisdom of this law
and the sanity of the soul
is to bring into balance
this eternal life flow
K Mae Sep 2012
The pendulum swings
cutting a swath deeper, wider
extreme left and extreme right
frenzied in the struggle.

Right as I am ,
locked in the polarity
I could ****
to make your threat go away.
Thus we create Civil war, Economic/Power war , Holy war...with God on our side....No war is holy.
Nay, why reproach each other, be unkind,
For there's no plane on which we two may meet?
Let's both forgive, forget, for both were blind,
And life is of a day, and time is fleet.

And I am fire, swift to flame and burn,
Melting with elements high overhead,
While you are water in an earthly urn,
All pure, but heavy, and of hue like lead.
Onoma Dec 2018
imagine the infinite

figure 8, as energy flow

running thru the earth.

being round, it has two

polarized chakric crowns.

the tantric male polarity:

Northern Lights/Aurora Borealis.

the tantric female polarity:

Southern Lights/Aurora Australis.

yet the figure 8 energy flow,

shows the tantric male/female

polarities have interpenetrated .

unified it's north for

the sake of north.

south for the sake of south, beyond

*Mother Earth & Father Sky are One.
Anyone Sep 2018
It's said that the earth's magnetic
Polarity will flip
Every few hundred thousand

But my brain decides to flip
Every few weeks on a trip.
Every look toward the future,
With gloominess leers.

It's like riding on a train,
50/50 through rain
And the other part is on a

But it has no destination,
And's surrounded by insulation.
I can't seem to get off it,
But there aren't any stops to miss.

This journey I'm on, it's
Half pernicious existence,
Half psychotic persistence.
Looks like
I'll need to find a
comfortable chair with a
half decent view.
Just some words describing my mind. I don't mind it though (or at least that's what I tell myself).
Procession line Vicar,
Speaking with the lowly vigor,
He picked up from a Detroit ******,
Calm down…no one said ******.

Found prosperity
Through a bottle of clarity
Gift wrapped for charity
Then stolen in hilarity.

Refrain borrowed from a borrowing line
**** rolling down on an incline
Rest at the bottom to recombine.
Face up, mouth open; laying supine

Riots over a turn of phrase
Vanquished hope in lost praise
Lawyer’s bout due for a raise
Pointless comment regarding gays…
there is attraction here
but i’m not sure what to do with it
shall i let it grow or just ignore it
what kind of world is this
with paradoxes everywhere
there are so many ways to justify your existence
who told you that you had to protect yourself from harm
ego and mind can never defeat the soul
and our eyes and hearts will never let go
of attachments and desires
how the samskaras echo and then unfold
just sit and breathe and it will shift
but only if you are willing to feel into all of it
where you are holding tension
is where you need attention the most
meditation is not meant to be a comfortable blanket
its a cold plunge designed to wake you up
sit up straight and let liberation dwell within you
the stars and the comets are in your heart tonight
so shift your attention and perspective
and elevate your inner directive
as filaments of the finest fibers
scintillate your mind and nervous system
the diamond light is already shining
i am wisdom personified
giver of judgement and the remover of blindness
as hunger and pain are all just names
for situations that remain the same
stammering forward she fell from the chair
and in the flash of a moment she was no longer there
Q Oct 2014
so what do we do when all is left are figurines
gifted in the unholiest of manners
and the crusties in my eye when i awake
are no longer their
since sleep is a distant memory

and all the tides of highs and lows
simmer to a stagnant plateau
because days no longer carry weight
surmounting to popcorn on a string
--one just like the last--

suddenly a day
--popcorn with extra butter and just a pinch of salt--
comes and shakes the bland you into something recognizable
a sparkly-eyed realist with an unusually magnetic personality
drawn from absolutely nothing
but the reality that life goes on
and we just have to be aware of peoples polarity

"Running naked, cutting through the breeze"
Garden City Movement
All of my electrons
Move towards your atoms
I wish you weren't so
Negatively charged.

You are drawing all my molecules
They orbit you, continuously
You make me polar
I will never be
Positive again.
Polarity in a molecule is observed when the molecule exhibits partial charges.

This is actually how water in a glass is all together instead of separating itself into little single molecules of water. The oxygen of one water molecule is attracted to the positive hydrogens of another water molecule.

The more electonegative the atom, the more polar the molecule. However, the position of the electronegative atoms can cause the charge to be cancelled out (as in carbon tetrachloride).

I just liked all these words, and felt like playing around with them.
Helen Raymond May 2014
We've only got a week left to last you know,
Thank every deity that ever was or ever will be.
I've aced the class now I've gotta go!
Had a wake for Wellness, and Spanish is buried -Now a funeral for Chemistry!
Banish those 'noble' gases and all that higher math.
What's a word smith need with polarity, molarity, or stoichiometry?
Well at least now I can tell an asymptote from a hole in the graph.
The freshies have it next year, but us -We cheer and sing, "BETTER YOU THAN ME!"
I know its not all that clever, I'm just diffusing some tension I've been feeling. The funny thing is next year I'm  not truly free, I'm just taking a higher level of Chemistry.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A
, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
Hayley May 2016
What does your soul say through your eyes
Do they show your truth or do they show your lies
Are you really happy with yourself and your path
Or is something in the way, is it holding you back
How do you know what you feel is right
Is it when you feel less of the dark and more of the light
Is there a happy medium, like what Buddha taught
Is everything an illusion, or is that just one thought
How do we know what we really feel
How do what know what is truly real
Our souls create reality and there are so many different kinds
How many universes are we projecting with our minds
We are each a deep expression of the  universe and the divine
But if that's the case why do so many of us whine
Why can't we find the power that's within
Why do we sell ourselves short, why do we see things as sin
Karma isn't even what people think it is
They mistake it for the law of attraction, what goes around comes around, but that's not it
Karma comes at the end of life and it tallies our deeds
It's kind of like judgment day, but it's our soul it feeds
Tell me what I did, was I as good as I thought
Did I learn everything I needed to, was I righteously taught
I know I learned lessons and I know I hurt souls
But I didn't do it on purpose, I just played many roles
I taught people lessons and they taught me mine
In life we have to learn quick, we don't have much time
Our lives are short, but they sure feel long
Is loving everyone deeply right or is it wrong
The emptiness in us, it comes and it goes
Sometimes we feel dull, sometimes we glow
It's hard to be consistent when things always change
Just adapt when we need to and transcend our ways
Late night questioning
Justin Michael Sep 2013
My words dance like smoke:
"Your eyes are the moon
My heart is the ocean"

My words shoot like a bullet:
"I want to rip your clothes off
and f**k you on the floor"
High contrast living at its finest
Onoma Jan 2012
Zeus, your predilection for banishing Titans to Hades...
anathema of them--revolt was theirs of you...Titanomachy.
Enter Prometheus, second generational Titan, brother
to Atlas--Prometheus of whom Titan revolt at first ran
no fire through his veins.
Thus, Zeus was well pleased and employed Prometheus
to put earth to water, water to to yield man.
As so man was, and was unto Prometheus...a fondness
entered him of them.
And in of passion Prometheus' veins were run through
with fought fire--thus Prometheus reached out
taking hold Zeus' lightning.
Hid in a hollowed fennel stalk, to be bequeathed unto man.
Torrents of fire now ran Prometheus' veins, and in a fit of
infamous mockery presented Zeus with two packets of
slaughtered animal parts.
A hubris was born in Prometheus that being so halved
God-man gave itself fully to that polarity...he gawked at
Zeus and bade him choose between the two packets.
One of ox meat and innards coated in stomach lining, the
other of ox-bones coated in its own abundant fat.
Thus Zeus chose, the wretched lesser of the two...
inconsumable ox-bones coated by fat.
A charged and terrible air cut and heavied all direction,
pointing assuredly that Zeus was one given over to the
surface of things, a psychological casualty of his own
Zeus overcome with Prometheus' disaffection for the God
of him struck at Prometheus' family.
At length, this assault could not, would not put asunder
Prometheus from the ground he stood.
A certain Haphaestus was summoned by Zeus...whose
directive was writ in torment.
Chain Prometheus to Mount Caucasus...where from on
high a sackcloth cloud shall shake loose an eagle, whose
homing hunger shall have only a taste for Prometheus' liver.
Day in, and day out, that accursed ***** shall be the
bounty of itself!
Ochre Jul 2010
I've got you and
I'm still walking in the rain alone...and sneezing.
Don't get me wrong
because I love the rain...
I just hate the cold,
and that I'm not waterproof
and that  you can't walk with me
not because you have no feet,
because you do have huge feet

but because you take tiny steps
and because you can't swim

and by the time you got here
I'm already drowning
WS Warner Sep 2011
The pierced ego sees
through an opaque lens;
a vestige of hope,
humor and  
intellectual solidarity.
Effigies of forgotten ethos,
the culmination of a
fated dream;
unrequited ardor, abandons
identity to an irreducible
subtext of tension,                    
enduring ****** privation;
etude of a paramour
ending torture,
tasting mystical polarity.

The wounded heart
once intruded,
bleeds effusive;
the ornament of humility.
Flattened collateral
primal search,
proves illusive;
portals of hurt, slivers
of pride,
assembled fragments of
absorb the loss
of my English muse.

Poetry and devotion
punctuated murmurs
of piety,  
depth perception
virtue unfound;
expectation - access
to suffering;  
disinterested love
desultory carnage
of rescission,   
absurdity personified;
of adieu,
the sound of no sound.

The discarded image
finds no favor,
the salt lost it's savor
unquenched thirst;
desire of
diminished purview,
the saporus stream
vision eclipsed;
saturated self
hidden in the text.

Poverty asks the
absence summons
ethereal substance
merged into
the immanent frame;
in solitude signifying,
mediating - logos
the humiliation of
the word.

Lyrical enigma,
where did I go?
renouncing nostrums
of the prosaic,
surrenders to the
the realm interior
assumed in
horizon of the next.

©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Dawn Treader Jan 2017
It was in April we met of last year
Never thought I'd hold you so dear
A curious thing I thought you were
Loud, eccentric, and certainly belligerent
Of my feelings, mostly inconsiderate

At odds were we from the start
With every argument we rip each other clean apart
We clash like demigods on the battlefront
I, petulantly persistent and you, cruelly blunt
I am stubborn and prideful just like you
An abundance of intense feelings between we two
Polar opposites in personality are we
But some of the things in you I see in me

Leery was I of your intentions
Following every reply with even more questions
See, no matter how hard I try can't read you
So handing my trust over to you is an issue
I've never had someone be so true
It scares me to death, because true people are so few

Even if you are not meant to be my lover
You'd be a genuine friend--like no other
(Even at times when we can't stand one another)

Patient sometimes you are with me
As I slowly release my grip and conceed to our reality
For whatever twisted reason there may be
I love you for you and you love me for me
We are like fire and gasoline, passionate lovers usually end in smoldering ash. We'll see how it goes
KAE Jul 2018
Gemini are notorious for having “split” personalities, and I am no different. I have two sides of me that are always at war within me.

Both the Devil and the Angel within me are trying to influence me, in the form of thoughts running through my head that makes it seem like i'm talking to myself.

I emphasizes on the fact that my character is composed into two parts, the ‘angel,’ the one that wants to do good not only for myself but also for others, and also the ‘devil,’ the selfish, more arrogant division in my persona that drives me to do things that’ll make me stray off the path of righteousness.

Elena and Katerina, which again connotes the incredible duality and polarity of my character. Even though it seems like they’re almost two different people, they’re most definitely one whole character.

My inner good realized what I am doing is dangerous, but my inner demons insist on coming out at night. When I say “not closing the curtains”, im showing the real dark half of myself.

True love
never dies,
may change
the polarity...

Just a thought
i) Countless casualties
lost and faded
the shipwrecks
broken hearts
caused by
indented rocks of love.

ii) The docks seamless
with the horizon
swarmed with infinite
paper sails and boats
resting in the warmth
of the tranquil sunset,
the sunset. The Sunset.
An undertone of *
Dahlia May 2019
I have been here before, and with this same pen, I express myself through words.
To better understand myself, and to avoid being misunderstood.

Some call it bewitched, but I call it love.
There is an emptiness in the freedom of being alone,
And liberty in being caught in that divine spell.

The day that I stop writing love poetry is the day that my pen's ink will run out,
Along with my sense of connection to humanity.

Love is hard, and so difficult to describe,
Too complex to express simply by stringing words together.
Yet here I am, trying over and over,  
Always feeling limited, unfulfilled, unsatisfied.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, I am comforted by love's familiarity,
Its pleasant tenderness, shining like rays of sun, enveloping me in warmth and sincerity.
Its floral fragrance in the form of beautiful golden sunflowers,
Bundled with red ribbon at the stems, followed by conversations that go on for hours.
Its sweet taste in the form of kisses, followed by more and more and more, all over my cheeks and face,
Until there is not a spot that his lips have not touched, and then I point lower, to a different space.
I want more but I am too timid to say,
But my flushed cheeks and smile gives it away anyway.

But, I've also been here before, reminiscing on this familiarity,
I am then reminded of the heartache that follows, and I get a sense of polarity.
The shattered promises of forever, and the final goodbyes,
The returning of sweaters that smell like him while holding back desperate cries.
The empty and cold interactions as he shuts the door behind him,
The sinking loneliness as I stand in the room that is now increasingly dim.
The racking sobs as my heart begs me to stop doing this to myself,
So, I take the thought of love, lock it in a box, and put it high on a shelf.

But, I have been here before, knowing that I cannot stop,
Love is embedded deep inside of me, it is not something I can just drop.
My heart knows how capable I am to feel such raw emotions,
It flows gracefully through me, and soars with plummeting waves like the ocean.
My heart demands to spark a flame in the one who ignited such feelings inside of me,
It longs and yearns to douse them with love and unwavering loyalty.
It demands to be expressed, through every form of self-expression that I use,
Whether that is poetry, painting, music, whatever outlet I choose to let loose.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, trying to express my feeling of love.
It is difficult and frustrating, and most attempts are ripped apart and disposed of.
I have been trying to describe love for years, and still feel unsatisfied,
The countless filled notebooks are evidence of all the times that I have tried.
I cannot find how to put it simply but in a beautiful way,
I write about it for hours and hours, from night until day.
I want to be cherished for not only who I am, but who I was, and how I came to be,
So instead of writing about love, I will write about how to better love me.

I have not been here before, so I will take it slow,
If it helps you better understand me, please let me know.
This is for you, if you want to love me,
It is complex and it may not come immediately.
Please understand that it will take time,
For you to love me the way that I need, this is not just a rhyme.
This is new to me, I have not been here before,
If it makes you see the real me, for you I will write more.
I have not been here before, but I am still using the same pen,
If you follow my trail of disorganized thinking, please nod every now and then.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I am honest, and I will never lie.
I want you to be my best friend before being my guy.
I want to build a sense of familiarity -- to know about you and your life.
I want consistency, continuous communication, so we can avoid all strife.
I want passion and longing, the magnetic pull between our lips and bodies until they unify.
I want "I love you"s to be meaningful, not fillers to be thrown in when our conversation dies.

He must know that the "he" in this story, could also be a she.
My ability to love isn't limited by appearances that fade with time, life’s bittersweet guarantee.
He must know my personality, my strengths, goals, hopes, and dreams,
And when we fight, he must remember that we are not on opposing teams.
He must know how to support me and my life goals, how to motivate me,
When the coldness of the world frightens me, and I search for ways to escape reality.
He must want the best for me, for me to be happy, even if that is not by his side,
If we realize that we are not compatible, or our relationship makes us feel unsatisfied.
He must know my weaknesses, my flaws.
My tendency to push away when I am overwhelmed, and how to find the probable cause.
He must know that though I love to care for others, I am not great at caring for my own body.
My self-destructive nature has a story of its own, and it is not shared with everybody.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to help him understand me,
I have been fighting my demons for a long time, and I can't remove the shackles that would set me free.
He feels a need to fix me, as if I were a broken wine glass,
I tell him to mind his footing, bringing attention to the pieces he should avoid and overpass.
He thinks that sweet words could be the glue to adhere my shards together,
And praises the curvature of my body, accentuated by a jacket made of leather.
He believes that he could love me more than anyone else has, and by doing so, he would mend me,
I quietly sigh, close my eyes, and slowly count to three.

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to make him see,
My broken pieces are not mean to be picked up by fragile hands, nor by anybody.
He learns this when the sharp sting of glass runs along the tips of his digits,
He realizes that the scars on my fingers were from all the attempts I made when I felt brave and ambitious.
Trust me, I have been there before -- I know how much it hurts, I do not want you to share my pain,
I know that I am a sad girl, but still some happiness remains.
I want to embrace this darkness, my ability to feel emotions so immense,
My dear, there is no need to put your fists up in defense.

I have been here before, and I watch him try to fit the pieces together,
But they are sharp, merciless, and weigh much more than a feather.
They are not a puzzle, they do not even fit me anymore,
But he becomes increasingly frustrated, exclaiming that this is more than he asked for.
I try to make him understand that they do not define me,
I only want them to be a visual for my story, I do not need them to be complete, nor to feel free.
I want him to see my past and my struggles, laid on the table,
Only then he will know how intricately strong the roots are that ground me and keep me stable.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, and I don't feel like rhyming anymore,
It took me a long time to understand myself and what I stand for.

The shattered pieces that lay before him are all of the times I've lost a piece of myself;
The innocence that I clung to for so long and had to drop in order to survive and adapt.
The ideologies of supportive families, shattered by abusive alcoholics that no one questioned.
The expectations of loving and supportive friends, broken by betrayal and abandonment.
The life that I once knew, had to leave behind, and the shock that crackled my perspective and forever changed me.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to reassure him,
But he is drowning in my sorrows and has forgotten how to swim.
He feels a need to scare away my demons, and cure what plagues my mind,
He becomes frightened by my pain and wants to protect me, so he covers my eyes.
But my self-destructive nature was never his job to correct,
I try to help him understand that I am grateful, I never meant any disrespect.

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try prove that I am his equal and that we are the same,
I am not expecting him to be anything more than he is, I am not a helpless dame.
But he feels that it is his duty as a man to complete me, to support me, to give me a reason to smile.
I put down my pen, and and stare into his eyes for a while.

Though I may be broken, I am complete on my own.
The only support I want is holding hands as we walk side by side, not in the form of you carrying me.
Our world is beautiful enough to make me smile, I only want to enjoy it alongside you.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But, I have been here before, and I have been through all that.
For 24 years actually, so that makes me stronger than you.
I am better equipped and more than capable to deal with certain things on my own,
These pieces are not even a part of me anymore.
My demons do not need to be slain by a knight in shining armor, because they are more afraid of me.
They know what I've overcome, and know that I will not take **** from anybody.

I've been here before, and with the same pen, I acknowledge my strength,
I've rebuilt the walls of my wine glass exterior with precise width and length.
I designed them using the knowledge that I have gained from my hardships and where I went wrong,
I shaped and molded them with the experiences that have taught me how to be strong.
And I placed seeds that blossomed when nourished by my own self-determination,
I spent many years adding to my durable and unbreakable flooring and foundation.
I painted the walls crimson red, and hung golden accents on the ceiling,
And laid mats to meditate on when I am hurting and need healing.

I have been here before, and I've created this for myself,
I will invite you in, if you'd like to see it for yourself.
I am strong, I am intelligent, and I hope to be more brave,
But I am a lover and a fighter, so please don't think that I need to be saved.
I want to share this beautiful experience of life with you,
But it is not a journey that you have to carry me through.
We will put on comfortable shoes and make our way together,
And we'll prepare for obstacles, challenges, and unpleasant weather.

I have been here before, and I see that look in his eyes,
The corners of his lips curl down and he feels the need to apologize.
I don't need an apology, or for you to change who you are,
Let's enjoy our time together and have a cigar.
The universe granted us to exist alongside each other, and we have crossed paths for a reason,
So please enjoy the warm weather with me this season.
There are so many beautiful sights out there,
I don't care what we do, or where we go, we can go to Times Square!
As long as I'm by your side, and you love me,
In the most pure, raw, and passionate form, it would make me so happy.
Put on the other headphone in and listen to this song,
I think now that you understand how to better love me, you can do no wrong.
I put my pen down as we listen along,
I dedicate a playlist to him, filled with love songs.

I have been here before, and even though my pen is down,
It seems that I cannot and will not stop expressing love.
Mona Mohamed May 2017
You wear your suit of compassion,
Synthetic silk and ironed scarf,
Maintaining your levels of sentiment,
But your mind is having the last laugh.

Your eyes are warm, so are your hands,
It all comes from your burning heart,
Catabolizing your toxic notions,
But you hide your ***** sheets in the dark.

I shall always be two levels down,
You compare and tell me to compromise,
Your life is a chaos of catastrophes,
So compared to that mine is a bonfire.

Till when..
do we have to exchange modified secrets,
Where I downplay and you intensify,
So we always remain two poles apart,
What's holding us together is our lies.
● ● ●
frances lee Oct 2010
i am fashioned from the hearts that have touched my own
built from the briars of broken promises and dreams deferred
a sum of the wisdom of wending witticisms of those who have come before
you are all a part of me

but if we are but travelers here then let us share each dip and bend
let us write the story of our lives in the ink of inspired illumination
and the parchment of the memories mirrored in many hearts
and revel in the laughter and glory in the sadness that life brings
CharlesC May 2013
In symmetry
and colors
a notable image..
meditative model
Hubble finding
in night sky
light years
from here
and Now..

Science musings:

How created..?

A creator or

A centered aging
binary system..?

Polarity energy
says it all..?

The unusual shape?
Sacred geometry
expresses itself..?

A definite torus..
All Reality
and Consciousness
expressed as Torus..?

Boundaries of cones
form an X..?

Creation of symmetry

Why unusual colors
Red and Blue..?

Left and Right
Male and Female
oppositions prevail..?

As hydrocarbon molecules
colors building blocks
for organic life..?

Center Light transforming
to component colors..?

In a few million years
the Red Rectangle nebula
will probably bloom
into a planetary

New birth
Now announced...?
image at

for CharlieP
Josh Hall Dec 2013
True light from the world should be rewarded in marks,
Our marks tally our deals made with the sharks.
They **** a young girl to bring her marks to a pass,
She is passed by a boy whose love will not last.
What she cares about isn't what the voice requires,
An ensemble of hatred rains on her fires.
I won't break a daft child whose naivety is clear,
For his mind is like clay to be smashed to a mold.
The free do not know what to do with liberation,
The brilliant girl is too bright to fear the free world's damnation.
But the stupid boy prays to a hellish salvation.
The claims he makes to fix all his sins,
Let the lord take care of that while he scores his sick wins.
No allegiance she owns,
To the pulpit which drones,
That the boy can **** innocents,  
Yet be as pure as the newborn child is so known.
WhyamIaSpoon Sep 2015
Sadness and joy
Boldness and coy
I try to protect what you can destroy

You open and I close
Dangerous thorns on a gorgeous rose
You try to hide what the world wants to expose

Chaos and stability
Fighting our tranquility
Together, we head into the world of invincibility
claire Aug 2015

Summer of losing control. Summer of giving up words because my foggy despair has been too much for thinking or writing about the bursting maple leaves or flush of clouds overhead or the thunder of loving and being loved. Summer of hunger. Summer of scrutiny in front of every mirror, deadened while simultaneously feeling like a stripped nerve held to flame. Summer of running from. Summer of going in circles and circles, looking for the unlocked door and finding none, just stoic plaster and echoing vibrations of sadness. Summer of playing both puppet master and marionette, dominating my own strings with an unforgiving hand [we control microcosms when we cannot control larger things; we count and obsess and ritualize because the reality we can't face will devour us if we don’t, and this reality is that life can be as unexpected and gut-wrenching as a small child stepping innocently onto a minefield while We the spectators look on, aghast]. Summer of doubt. Summer of wondering whether or not anyone has any love left for me, and if so, why? Why such an infinite reserve for my struggling tangle of inelegance and repeated failure? Summer of breaking the surface not for myself but for anybody who has ever felt like this, for anyone who has woken up with a hook through their gills and a throat twisted airless by invisible fists, for anybody who’s flexed their jaws in spite of it and let their tongues dance, for anyone brave. Summer of tremendous beauty witnessed from the wrong side of the glass. Summer of sunset and moonrise and daisies, daisies, daisies, so exquisite yet so far away from where I’ve been living; this morgue of nuclear silence and absent pulse. Summer of polarity. Summer of numbness swooping into ecstasy then dipping into bottomless rage with no middle ground, just explosions of zeal and explosions of ache, but always, always explosions. Summer of lightning. Summer of determination. Summer of humidity between two hands holding. Summer of finality and chin lift and aftermath, of rubble as my foundation and destruction as my momentum, and I, rising like a balloon, unstoppable. Summer of transformation. Summer of trying on selves like vintage gowns, rejecting one after the next with the growing panic that accompanies the fact that this is who I am—endlessly, inexorably, relentlessly—that I can try to run from her or shape her into someone else, but she will always return, this girl of hardness and softness, this woman of perseverant fire, this funny little garden of mishap and epiphany, that there is nowhere left to hide, just this room where I stand cornered, forced finally to turn and embrace myself with a fury of welcome.
Cunning Linguist Nov 2013
I don't know why I find death so enthralling;
Or the calling of culled nullified angels more charming than alarming
Salutations to an array of all things macabre and flooding the streets with tidal waves of shock

The blood in your veins
was already cold as ice anyway
before draining away in the embalming process
Your entrails always showed
the manner in which you vested with finesse;
Enthroned in a tomb of frozen snow

Hell burns frigid and unremissive
Your every thought - piercing incisions
While I puzzle together these pieces of the grander picture
The polarity of her stigmatic enigma
Demeanor meandering to and fro
Gandering to pander every whim
Throwing glances left and right
At each of my fellow gentlemen

Rays of light cast from the windows
Outlining my silhouette in the shadows
Low moans bellow in a tour de force
As I peer through your soul
You have but a split second
So spit or swallow,
and choke back your tears
As I bring your worst fears to life

Hell hath no fury like mine reckoning
My discourse beckoning;                              
         and deafening

Channel these demons -
Screams echoing in melodic discord
Face stoic, in lieu of remorse
Wallowing in the shallows and wailing for recourse
The *****'s lament holds no candle;

From the summit,
without substance -
She plummets
in shambles
At free fall speed
she meets the grounds embrace;
but it breaks away

Calm before the storm
Then once more your life flashes
As you reach for the light
hiding in the tunnel's flip-side
Only to realize its not of the Heavens
But a raging Inferno

Neural impulses spiderweb across time
Each one precisely in line; memories -
Absence of your vindication aligned hand in hand
with every secret you buried in the sands

O'er the new rage
Of the golden age noir
Compulsively laying without delay
Fashioned like it's going out of style
"Now **** me something vile -
M a s t e r  r a c o n t e u r"
Make my trials worthwhile
Purveyor of *******
Undeterrable provocateur;

Inclined to bide my time while finding the finer aspects of slaughtering swine
Her squeals, reminiscent
lulling me to unconsciousness
Forever more I remain in denial
Whittling ever closer to nihility
While begging assuaging intoxication to ease my conscience

In the blink of an eye;
Destiny manifest is slathered in spattered inklings of splattered blood red
On a platter shall I present her head
A trophy for my sempiternal Lord of the dead
Why admire the intrinsic birth and death of nature as something beautiful and palpable
When all that exists is worth perishing
I've given up on humanity
A once vibrant pool of endless possibilities
Is reflected in a dismal void steeped with pitch
Elizabeth Mar 2013
The stars seem brighter when I think about you
When we kiss the way we kiss and love the way only we love
Together, for infinite moments consisting of nothing but us
The way we bind like welded metallic
And we always stay this way
Though seldom at times we drift, the polarity of our love connects no matter how long the split

Time has no name, a faceless clock keeps track
Because this attraction is eternal
The stars seem brighter when I think of our intimacy
When the images of our hands held tenderly on my lap appear
Never once would I think of anything else given the option, nothing is more pleasing to think about
The eternity of the moment never ceases to amaze, I feel resolved and inspired by your lovely, touching gaze

The stars seem closer while I close my eyes near you. I touch them with my fingers and you kiss my cheek
Rubbing my back with the compassionate palm of your hand
Watching these stars become infinitely closer, so near I taste their pronounced flavor with my tongue
And I whisper into your ear canal carefully the words I want to say but cannot speak

These stars, an infinity away, are tangible with you
Just as anything is possible in this moment
In every moment I lie next to you
When you lay next to me
While my tongue longs to be intertwined, because it makes the moment stronger
And I want to tell you about these stars

So let me begin again...

For infinity
Inspired by the ending of "The Perks Of Being A Wallflower"
armon May 2014
I was a no name worker bee
Yet I had a million bees all working for me
I was a caryatid, house wife, never had the life of a queen
Stole my honey from the wasps with the wax in their wings

I was a comatose burn victim
I could hear the nurses whisper sanctum sanctorum!
They fed me nutrients and cleaned my ******
They either didn’t care or they didn’t think I could hear them

I was alive when the lightning struck
But I was dead by second, to survive my luck
I wasn’t anything special
I was a mass produced individual

They had no names worth knowing
They had no future where they were going
And I never thought twice about what I did
The quiet megalomania of a caryatid

And then my patience turned to rampage
I took a page from Genghis Khan
I wanted the roaches gone
I hatched suburban escape plans
Because my angst was delayed
A generation late & afraid

Now in the presence of the gods and goddesses
And in the confidence of infinite this is
Another power grab a singularity
Another force to fight reverse polarity

I’m all about the lust and not the wander
I am the lingering presence of a long goner
I’m here to clarify the **** of daughters
The spider stink in the breath of fire

If we could **** for utility instead of a performance to showcase our species’ ability
Then we’d be hunted by viruses
The gods and goddesses with the instinct to extinct humanity

Chaos is healthy, its part of reality, essential to symmetry, like night is to day
When life is weighed on a pendulum
Like sanctum sanctorum
The delicate faberge

There isn’t anything to bother with on top of the monolith
I’m shouting mantras from the mountain peak

There isn’t any time to practice with a modern creation myth
A lullaby in a language I don’t speak
Kevin Triolo Jul 2013
Haunted by duality
there's a reply
       creeping up
Mouth still shut
stay quiet
       like lights
       in the pines
screaming meaning
       no one

© 2013
Kelvin May 2015
my rhymes, they're supremacy, while they need consistency, yours the are unwanted clemency, mine requires ability;tremendously, you rhymes, low volume low density, D=m/v, ***** that, im all about chemistry, chemistry between the bonds of my melody, while yours are useless discrepancy, perform reverse polarity, while you're searching for popularity and keeping your rhymes up breathlessly. hey, i'll give you a break; temporarily. i'll come back later; sequentially.
:O sick rhymes
Miss Strange Nov 2012
This strange egg you've incubated
has sprouted skinny chicken legs.

It follows you around clucking at
every throaty word you nasty-utter.

Pointing and pecking at your guilt
borne by some years ago sin which
all others hatch from and you keep feeding,
Remorseful grains of misdeed shell grit
to harden its anxious green shell.

With no law outside itself the taint faint
heartbeat of your reproof I hear beating
like fear's unglued false eyelashes

You soft swaddle it with empty gestures.
It gestates in every grimace of piety.

I watch it govern your vocation of drab
and undramatic mastery of feathered illusion.

I want to tear shreds in your black satin cape,
To avalanche your fears into frosty exile.
Burn them screaming in the blinding white of
anemic unconscious,
the blacking out.

Hang a trophy **** of your winged demon
taxidermied with glass eyes above my bed.

My compass needle has lost your polarity
there's just a crude representation of pain

I will plant this seed you gave me, in Lethe;
The River of Forgetfulness on its grey shore.

A watery landscape without vanishing point.
Where a white heron will weep tears of sorrow,
like a human to feed hope's tender shoots.
Meg Howell Feb 2017
A contradiction.
An anomaly.
Representing everything I am and everything I want to be.
My passion in the afternoon, followed by my silence in the evening.
It'd take you a lifetime to understand me.
Sharice Frieson Jun 2015
My baby said check your ego
His eagle eyes sees right thru you
You seek the problem
Problem solve
what you seek
Seek to solve the riddles of your mystery and misunderstandings
You’re shackled since your ego sets you to lack acceptance and motivation
No evolution involved
you that cave man
Shaking with wonders on how you got so cold
Shaking on wonders that the blanket you stole
Has no use for you because you still shivering
Means nothing to you so you know nothing of what you hold
So the coldness sizzles and settles in
Spells you deeper into the curse
You got ****** and you call my words a curse
But honey you got *****
And the yin don’t got his yang because they broke up
Ceremonies died long time ago
Tradition and superstition that keeps you pasted on the wall
You hate magic
But your are the master of being mystical
You say no astrology
But the sun moon stars are what kisses our soul
You stole my change
But I prosper more than gold
Above all I seek godliness because I am the goddess of this ship
My melanin creeps you
But my tongue will sweep you
Moving at the speed of light
It’ll **** you
But you know I’m about that eternal life
So you **** me to try to make babies
Are you crazy?
**** me because you know I ain’t ******* with you
Smack me with your word to belittle me and make me feel as a peasant
Next day I’m an animal
No longer a human with flesh as the next man
Now my ****** is a problem
Now you seek every problem to be an issue
So you can take away from the fact that you a loser
You can’t accept that you will never feel what I feel and see what I see because you not me
You envy me
And hate my lightness because I am a powerful alien that settled to make a peaceful statement
Connecting to the universe
And aligning the polarity
To get yin and yang back together
I’m the goddess that birth you ******* for eons
This earth respects me so I will never disrespect it because once I connect to my mother
Your words, your guns, your glory, your nation, your exaggeration, your confusion, your hatred, your jealousy, and envy
Is a feather tickling my nose I sneeze to release the demon of hybrids that walk amongst me that tickle will never hurt me
I laugh and **** you with kindness
I say **** you with kindness because I seek peace because I know I’ll never be destroyed
Welcome to my kingdom of glory!
You couldn't **** with your bare hands so you draw your match with a gun to wound my body to strike my soul so I can bitter back and seek revenge for your soul..
You watch out because the war you need to prepare for I say has already won by goddess of your earthquake
I shake you to disaster
Ken Pepiton Mar 2019
less religious? be

less signal sending?
less signal ceiving and re

deciphering de
ceptive fashionable effectations

fectupt old
fashion once wigs and lace,
gave place to coat and tie and,
on occasion, tails
jewels and veils, seven of each was the sup
er position in the initial polarity
twixt V1a and V2a.1

We were fashioning a reality, your polarity bogus
science pierced more attention spans

than I can spare in seven minutes
define or refine, what was the resolution in reality

less signal sending?
mo' signal ceiving and re
ceptive fashionable effectations
okeh, got it. Zero beat. Same same spectral harmony.
Nobody in hell knows ever knew that.

Lose the fig leaf, lose the tats and scars,
match the bloodshed with the idea
humility we acting as if we stand

as pillars

as sticks in mud, bruised but unbroken, bound
in smouldering flax,

we stand, sistere, dressed for no carnal war,

we came as poets holding up the ceiling with twigs
from the forest of trees of knowledge

the we we are in, we can stand upright, you and me


fashion is un sanct, un sanct, unsanctified
aknown known, y'know,

it's all cause play, excuse me

the uniform dress code bars what from my kid's school?
First pocket knives,

Now, a simple T with a meme,

and you co
municate, une-meme-icate,
possible be
be probable degree or dimension or layer or ply

complex, many tangled
plys of piles of pleasant points in time that did rhyme
with well enough, alone

is a better measure than moment, I think,

How much of never

is twixt us, e pluribis us, the unems

twixt me and thee what we are

ing ting

sound, think vibratory, earth ratt'lin'

miracles, un belief

the act of unbelieving lies
as if there is a re

ality under lying

asif no lie can pass the true test

in the first theerum of one (rrroll therrrrum!)

The first of its kind from my own mind

a universe

panding, like Bazooka Double Bubble.

whose lips? Jungish child askt the rock,
who sits? who sits on?

Rock staid quiet. Your lips...

senseless... no connecton to any re already re
ferred to

oh, no, bless m'soul, some lies are buts,
feeble patches

over light pierced points
in consistent insistence on possible  secrecy,


empty moments pierced

thin light is not no light. That is a wee

thinklink. Follow a point  and find,

probably, eventually several ideas unthunk

until you imagined someone musta thunk it,

and realized

as not Christ, and not dead,

muttering, who could not 'athunkit. How musta been involved.

from that prickofapen. Imagine a wall, not a Socratic
shadow show,
not a barrior, a plain 2-d -ic, flat wall in a dark room where

we go to pray for impossible things to be possible,

and we are answered with a scene
from the street below, through a hole in the shutter about
yea big,

camera obsura projected on that wall we all imagine

the fourth wall. A flection from another angle,

same light all squeezed through a tiny
ity bitty empty place in

time and space,
splashes up from the intersection of 3rd
and Broadway, Nashvul, 'bout a block from th Rhyman

spreads in each vector of probable vision

splashes against that wall we imagined,

That forth wall reflects each pixel, each photonic quant
you should have seen

had you ever gone there, at that time.
A poem intended to be

— The End —