Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Premji Dec 2011
Who cares for her shattered dreams when she is
Brutally ***** on the very first night?
Who cares for her preconception health when,
For him, the only activity is making her pregnant?

Who cares for her repeated abortions
Which results in cervical damage,
Which in turn makes her unable to carry
The weight of a later pregnancy?

Who cares for not to satiate his excessive lust
When she is pregnant, which can cause
Abortion and maternal mortality?

Who cares for prenatal care that can keep
Her unborn baby and herself
Healthy during pregnancy?

Who cares to relieve her excessive work load at home
And her ever expanding stress to provide
High-quality child care for her five or six other children,
From earlier pregnancies?

Who cares for her signs and symptoms of anemia,
Her fatigue, increased heart beat or palpitations
Paleness of inside of eyelids, gums and nail beds
Desire to eat indigestible or peculiar foods?

Who cares for her backache, increasing weight,
Change in her centre of gravity and powerlessness?

Who cares for her malnutrition, poor health,
Lack of education, overwork, mistreatment?

Who cares for her dental hygiene, her broken teeth,
For the baby grows within is another tyrant
Who grabs Calcium, even from her teeth and bones?

Who cares for her cramps and muscle spasm,
Heartburn and indigestion , insomnia?

Who cares for her needs to go to the toilet frequently,
As the growing baby reduces her bladder capacity?

Who cares her inability to get comfortable
When she has neither clean water nor safe sanitation,
And necessary support either from health services?

Who cares not to tense her,
Already she is suffering from all sort of
Tension and high blood pressure?
And her mother-in-law terrifies her again
The consequences if the newborn could be of a girl!
Sad, woman is the greatest enemy of
Another woman, in the most needed times!
If she dies, none is worried...
For he can marry once again!
More dowries, more *** and more kids!

Who cares for her post natal depression ,
As none to take care of the newborn and other kids,
She has to run for office and other workplaces
With heavy *******, pain and bladder infections?

Who cares that every pregnancy weakens her a lot
As she need some time to recover her health...
And on the very day she can spread her legs,
By force, he starts his activities again!
He knows how how to starve the newborn
Just by emptying her *******!

When things are like this,
Every religious clergy flays
The limiting of the family size by birth control!
Christians wish for a Christian world
Muslims dream for a new world under Islam
Hindus, Buddhists, Jews and
Every religious fanatic dreams of the same!
They offer gifts for women for bearing
More and more children
For more children is their cheapest weapon!

When will they dream for a HUMANE WORLD?

Healthy children need healthy mothers.
Healthy mothers need healthy food,
Loving husbands (optional!) and caring society
For true world is made of love!
Lisa Jan 2021
I am you, you are me
There is no difference inside to see
The color of your skin, hair or eyes
Does not represent what’s inside.
Physical traits come from the family tree
They give roots, history and a sense of identity
But inside we have the same blood, the same heart
So when does prejudice begin to take part?
Babies are born without preconception
They feel love and comfort from their caregiver’s affection
Their new eyes are blind to ignorance
They see through a clear lense and don’t see difference
As they develop, society gives them glasses,
Their vision gets clouded by the opinions of the masses
The lenses get darker as they grow
They filter the world to see only colors they know
Differences become obstacles, not celebrated.
Leaders tell them who to respect and who should be hated.
These biased views could remain for a lifetime
And then they’re passed down to the next one in line.
Opinions are essential, shared thoughts educate.
But when they’re bigoted and hateful we cannot tolerate.
Take those blinders off, take a look around.
There’s so much joy in diversity to be found
Don’t let the blindfold give such a narrow view
Don’t be complacent and take what is given to you
Rip off the filter, open your eyes
Find connection, common experience, destroy the lies
Revel in these connections, learn from one another
We’re all trying to get through from one day to the other
See through the skin, the hair, the accent
To the core of the HUMAN BEING with love and respect.
Satan's Hotel

The waiting land of better days
just faded away just like that
the fields of righteousness are few
the fields lie in darkness
after the flame died away
Loneliness and darkness filled the soul
Drugs and cheep woman and men
That are selling their souls
Life had no meaning to them you could
see it in their zombie eyes
they live in Satan's hotel
the coldness of their souls is out to take
another young life into drug world
understanding the ways of the Life of
Darkness and gloom
Kids are walking around
thinking they are doing just fine
Just to find their
Mommy and daddy's killing of there
Souls to another blow
of the drug pip
oh, just look at their lives
look what they have done
they are walkers of the night
words has been spoken
Will **** one's life
If you would walk by
Satan's hotel you could feel the control of
the lost souls lost in the eternal blackness
never to be seen again.
something new has come
into another life
taking the demons in their mind
and a pipe in their hand
the young and the old under
the control of Satan's world
Parents looking all over town
wondering how to find their kid
then they hear there
Kids learned a new trick
for the angel of death
has arrived in that
cold sad lonely night
when another has taken a life
broken down of the drug world
Satan's world
when you check in to Satan's Hotel
the way that they act
is no way of coming back
to the way of better days ,
You can see the evil
in there eyes's an urge to ****,
the desire is a thrill
to **** the good in another Soul
once upon a time
they had Jehovah in their lives
walked in the light
all of that had changed
when they said goodbye
and they let Satan's
in their lives by taking the drug pipe
Dark angel is all over
the place hunting for new souls
to take into their control
the broke word
that  killed dreams of the young and
the old nobody there forgave sins
they just keep making them
The Drug fights take a blood bath of the knife
Behind the walls you can hear it all
The cry's of the night when
a baby cries to be fed why it's
Mommy is out doing what she knows best
So now the baby's grow up
to be the victim of prostitution
Of preconception and true damnation,
the young minds
Reaching out into a world
that is lost every time ,
They can no longer see
the twisting emotions that they live in
they will longing for
the person they once used to know
But that was long ago
Know they live in Satan's world.


Poetic Lilly Judy Emery (c)
anastasiad Nov 2016
The particular clinical word "psychotic" is commonly helpful to reference one who proceeded to go upset and also insane. This psychotic state will be described as your dysfunction involving opinion or maybe smell issues that aren't in reality generally there (hallucinations); as well as disturbance involving contemplating and also having philosophy that aren't according to fact (delusions). Psychotic men and women also have challenges within believing evidently (disordered considering), and also have minimized power to realize when anything is inappropriate using actions and thoughts (deficit of knowledge). Psychosis is usually a injury in which a man or woman possesses shed touching by using simple fact which results in a good handicap involving view. In the words of psychology, psychosis may be known as much more like a symptoms instead of a condition for the reason that analysis will be based upon a statement of a list of symptoms and never around the identity with the cause of the particular subconscious problem. Good Commence involving Intellectual Overall health, chances are you'll exhibit quite a few abnormal habits while in pre-psychotic period which may incorporate: ?Perceptual agitations including inner thoughts which factors about have evolved;

?Disposition trouble such as anxiety, major depression, moodiness, depression along with fury;

?Mental trouble like very poor awareness plus awareness, issues in pondering, suspiciousness, and strange values; and

?Behavioral disturbances which include difference in slumber and also desire for foods behaviour, societal revulsion, diminished involvement in issues, decline with job as well as school working.

Some people may perhaps most likely think of these kinds of disturbing manners since the signs of worry specifically variations tend to be regarding several nerve-racking everyday living occasions. People may perhaps think about these folks as being the an opposing side of the human being style. In most societies, intellectual as well as emotive ailment is owned by supernatural causes rather then about the existence of ****** as well as psychological troubles. You need to have a personal comprehension of these kind of disorders to figure out the aid trying to find habits. Occasionally, for even individuals that believe that it could be described as a mind health, the particular preconception regarding searching for psychological enable might stop these individuals through asking a new professional. Not surprising, it will take such a long time prior to any person makes the decision to search for specialist help. With psychiatry, there are a selection regarding diseases that come within the general subject of your psychosis. They each reveal unique symptoms however all have perhaps the most common denominator: the psychotic individual is no more in contact with certainty. A few of the signs and also manifestations on the psychosis involve:

?Schizophrenia ?******-Affective Condition ?Manic-Depression (Bpd) ?Mania ?Delusional (Weird) Issues ?Psychotic Despression symptoms

Commonly, your family or man or woman involved in the beginning seek the guidance of general practitioners plus consultants regarding the sufferer's difference in conduct as well as incapacity to usually be somebody. It really is very important that you've a higher directory connected with mistrust so as to acquire instances of attainable psychosis. Additionally it is a must to refer these people first for you to medical professionals for even more evaluation as well as treatment. It's been handed down in the event the person that is definitely demonstrating pre-psychotic signs and symptoms provides the adhering to risk factors:

http://www.passwordmanagers.net/products/Windows-Password-Recovery-Software-1.html Windows Password Recovery Software
Windows Password Recovery Software
KC Hoye Aug 2010
Amazing how the bubbles make
Each.
Word.
Stop.
Easier to ride each wave to completion
Than resist and escape as the wave departs
Lethargic
Nervous
Coked up and tripping over words
Until the muddy field, the proving ground
Marks the beginning of reality
Merge preconception, misconception, and perception,
Into one bright shining lie

Young dry brittle contradictions,
deep like gravity wells.
Losing sleep while pursuing the hand held sun.
The out.
The goal.
Reality knocks twice.
Once to break the tape.
Once to cross the line.
(c) KC Hoye 2010 cargohold.blogspot.com
n stiles carmona Apr 2019
unknown entities
snatched from their liminal space
into binary
brain ****
The benefit
of challenging anything
too comfortably established
isn’t so much
some clichéd grand expansion
of one’s worldview, but rather
a well-warranted reminder
that anyone claiming to have found
any conclusions is very likely
full of ****.

I love you dearly, humanity, but
you discover the world
like a toddler discovers his own foot,
and cling
to obsolete sensibilities
like trying to justify your belief in Santa Claus.

And you hate what you find
when you look too long,
because
you say that you discover the world
but what you so stupidly, so humanly
overlook is that the world bears herself
with no inhibitions, and even though
you can’t see everything immediately,
it’s all there; she has
nothing to prove to you. Yet the mystery
you so excruciatingly choose to maintain
is that even though the earth bares her skin
unashamed, you find her ****** absurd and
clothe her blatant body
in preconception, tragically dedicating
the decoding of your existence
to finding out
what truly lies beneath.

So perhaps, humanity, you should
embrace those who **** you off,
because you cushion your soul
with every reason to distance yourself
from any realization
that there is no inherent parallel
between every finite question
and the eternal answer,
unsatisfied with
the tantalizing ellipsis
the universe leaves you, and that the very fact
I even formed a sentence
is punctuated
by my mortality.
Claire Waters Feb 2014
i like everything about you just the way you are as you are when i met you. point blank.

i don’t have any preconception of who you feel you once were but aren’t now, that you wish you still were. that person doesn’t exist in my mind. the past doesn’t settle into my conscious. it’s just faint musings of something that doesn’t seem real or tangible to reality.

the person you currently loathe, i adore. the person you pine after, i feel nothing for other than what i feel about you now, because i don’t see him and you as separate or different selves the way you do. you are you. no matter what you perceive yourself as being, you are yourself perfectly.

and yet at the same time actually, i see you as very separate internally, with the work you’ve been doing, even if you don’t totally see that yet, because i know if him and i met when he existed in that state of mind we have both previously occupied in loneliness, neither of us would have been able to make sense of the other the way we can now. we both would have been too lost.

if that makes any sense. self vs internal self. treading water vs being swallowed alive. together vs loneliness. you vs a shell of who you are now.

it’s such a complicated balancing act but i wouldn’t have it any other way. when we backslide we are betraying no one but ourselves, even when it feels like we’re accomplishing and internalizing something greater than ourselves. we’re emptying our lives with our bodies, and it’s not fair to the selves we’re struggling to keep intact now for us to do that. we have things to live for. you have things to live for.

i like you now, not then. even if you see things flipped around. i don’t see any see-saw or scale that tips or drops to equal self-acceptance, nowadays with this disorder, i just see an hourglass. i know. i know it’s not that simple. but you’re the only one who sees value in what was. the people who love you now don’t see that, only how it has hurt and tortured you for far too long, and how much the person you are right now deserves to be free of it.
Dan Greenwood Jul 2015
so you saw the recruitment poster
and naturally, you thought you’d come
thinking it would come naturally-
being artistic yourself-you came to class
equipped for the jaunt; the saunter in the park
where the sun is bound to shine-
with a new ukelele in a case
like a little hamper with a little rug of hope-
what are you letting yourself in for?
not this assault course, maybe?..


Let me tune you up.
First off, this is not going to be
some slack strung Hawaiian picnic,
where you can catch everything with butter fingers
where fizz sends it straight to your brain,
where you’ll just inhale and exhale music-
no. you’re going to have to jog on the spot;
get your knees up, star jump and listen
and fail and feel musically immune
to anything remotely infectious or
resembling a tune; you’re in the army now
so excuse me while I just whip away
that table cloth of preconception
laid out in your mind;
now
get down
give me twenty
count yourself lucky
True Poetic Lilly
So far, you have considered what makes
poetry come to life
You have examined the poetic minds of all time
Certain aspects of it's form,
You have tried so hard to be sensitive to the tone
of the sea of the atmosphere of my poems
as your mind roams to find true meaning of what
is going on in my poetic mind,
But darkness of true sadness came your way
even in the light of your days
This darkness of true sadness takes you deep
on a journey that had only belong to me,
You come to find what it is that holds me down
You will call it what you find of my true poetic mind
everything that I write of it's true actions
of characters of a life I once lived,
Setting in deep darkness of a language of it's kind
The tone of true point of view
The true atmosphere of fear what comes near
the true meaning of poetic Lilly's Life,
The preconception and knowledge I do write
only I have the key to my own poetry.

Poetic Lilly Judy Emery (c)
Poetess Lilly Judy Emery
Sometimes,
a thing is put forth
with the preconception of
"very few people, if anyone
will truly get this reference,"
however, I maintain
that those who do
may indeed gain much
from a well-placed insight.
Argumentum Jul 2014
I thought life has a lot of things to offer
for those who could wait for bigger rewards.
Well today, i realized that life doesn't work the way
I supposed it wasn't I expected it to be,
I discovered that Opportunities and
Dreams are often attained by those
who can afford one, rarely or even
not reached by those whose lives are
in so much hardship.I guess the
world as I know it, is only an
imagined world, reality is that the
world is already preoccupied with
people who continuously investing to
protect one's position or dream,
making others aspiration in life
impossible. The world is unkind to
new talents or ideas.It now
destroyed my preconception of
pursuing dreams in life. Last day,
I've encountered a close person to
mine, and we have a talk about
dreams and aspirations, she told me
to stop running after those dreams
of mine and face reality, throw this
baggage and look of what really is
destined for me as a person who don't
have the luxury to have anything, to
be contended of what is just around
and not look beyond what can be
grabbed or pursued. It rocked me to my
core.  not because she's one of the
closest person to me but because she
might be right, that there is
nothing for me out there, that I
belong here, here in this hopeless
place. A place for those who have nothing
and will never have anything.
This is not really a poem, more of a narrative of life of mine.
Avestani Sep 2018
Oh what ways can I amuse you today
Making you fall for me over and over and over again
Dragging myself to the end of the bed to make you feel like we didn't pretend
And no I won't say we were better off friends
Cause that path lacks this passion we can't comprehend
When our ship sinks we find a submarine and keep on swimming  days blow by bedroom dances make us willing to engorge ourselves on little revealing dances of common courtesy gone too far
I feel like I'm jumping through hoops made of language from Mars
Some type of subterranean menace beneath the skin endlessly repeating Ill remember how we somehow started but never made a plan to begin
Hearing you call me a blessing a curse and a fill in for verses of life between our duet for the chorus in bed that we share.
Arwen Apr 2016
Sometimes people are disasters awaiting,
in a manner of a sinkhole,
swallowed by an endless depression
that follows them with every
step and move they make
Not asking for anyone’s help
only adds to the chasms
of mind, body, and spirit

Sometimes people are disasters awaiting,
in a manner of a train-wreck,
which at one time followed
a direct path to redemption
Along the way, this train
veered towards a catastrophic path
of tragic consequences that will
forever scar their original goals

Sometimes people are disasters awaiting,
in a manner of a tsunami,
displaced by anger and hatred
towards those that are opposite
This same ire and prejudice
builds up within them continuously
waiting to reach its peak
and come violently crashing down

Sometimes people are disasters awaiting,
in a manner of an earthquake,
with a lot of negative energy
below their own physical surface,
shaking their faith and patience
One day rattling the uniformity
that all people rely on
for overall peace and existence

Sometimes people are disasters awaiting,
in a manner of a blizzard,
blowing around aimlessly, permanently blinded
by ignorance, preconception,  and one-sidedness
This same bias eternally darkening
their desire to be open
to the many differences among
the distinctiveness of humankind alike

Vicki A Zinn
April 10, 2016
This poem is dedicated to my youngest son Colton.
There was no preconception of what to do,
It was like the world said “Go ahead,”
The canvas of which to paint was endless,
And the music, it kept playing,
And my feet, they kept moving,
And Earth spun backwards once more,
Time slowed down, I could see blood pump.
I could hear my heartbeat,
I could taste the air,
Pandora’s box was opened wide,
and everything was visible.
My gaze stretched as far as your mind’s eye can see,
And all I could see was you, Rapture.

-May 25th 2013
Annick Gray Dec 2015
Time is not a concept,
it’s a preconception
created by people that have never felt
love.

Or, so I always believed.

Now, I sit awake every night
thinking about our expiration date,
the day to which we
meet a bitter demise.

A demise devised by
a whole world around us,
a world that will
never see the shrink sticker stuck.

The ticking won’t stop
on the time bomb of us,
as we leap, crawl, roll, dart
to our expiration date.

We can’t stop rolling,
faster down this path
to a little place that
will be our personal hell.

A hell that we believe in,
a hell that he is counting on,
a hell that hath its fury,
a hell that I am dreading.

Yet, everyday I take your hand,
kiss your fingers,
caress your lips,
and stare at the brilliance that is your eyes

in an attempt to forget
our expiration
date.
I will probably edit this in the future, but I wanted to post for the time being.
Mirlotta Feb 2015
Love doesn't mean anything anymore.
Love is a word that pre-pubescent adolescents
throw away on their very first kiss.
They take a crush, and they call it love, and no one
reprimands them or scolds them because no one
can see that there is any difference any more between
love and the half-hearted pretence at love -
the newfound infatuation with the very idea of
being enraptured by the very first person seeming
worthy enough to be enraptured by.

And hate. Hate means nothing either.
Hate is the feeling little children scream at their parents
when they couldn't wear a leotard to school in December.
Hate is when people take a notion,
a preconception, a misconception of what an
emotion should feel like and they take the worst
feeling they are feeling and they label it hate
and they proclaim hate on their 'haters' and
they forget that they are 'haters' themselves when
they laugh at the real hate they dole people out on dinner plates.

Jealousy? Jealousy has been eclipsed.
Jealousy has been eclipsed by the lack-lustre attempt
at jealousy that ten-year old girls have for their friends.
Jealousy now is what people feel when they
realise that they don't have enough money, or fame,
or friends to truly feel good about themselves even though
these things are entirely human constructions
and seeing as no one on this planet has yet to do a
**** to affect the universe anyway, the universe should be
jealous of us for having such care-free lives.

Some people claim they feel rage, but anger's dead.
Rage is the thing to pretend to feel when the
world realises it doesn't revolve around anyone and
actually revolves around the sun.
Rage is like a rushing tidal wave of the opposite
of melting sunsets eating the horizon and generally
it's a lot less pretty unless you see a macabre
sort of beauty in war and politics and education because
education is the big thing we should really be angry about
because wouldn't true ignorance be bliss?
Gage D Sep 2016
1+1
The hammock swallowed us that night in a cocoon of love, the crickets were as monotone as the symphonies of the love songs we've heard a thousand times before.
In my arms I held you, knowing that in a world of expressions all you wanted was acceptance, and after all the deceptions I just wanted to be the exception. You offered yourself to me in that space, a space where I didn't need to worry about being strong, in a world where strength mattered, all the weight of the world was lifted off my back at once. My head was clear, as clearly as you cried out, and the skies bathed our pale skin in its own mellow tint. You felt me for who I was, no preconception or misconception mattered in that moment, for you knew, as my lips passed messages for us, and only us, through yours, that no acid washed memories would catch up to us now.
I want to write a letter to everyone
who ever made me question anything, from
the nature of the universe to
what tastes best on toast, because
this is the only way I know how
to say thank you—thank you for not letting me
stay the person I was at
any moment when I thought
I had come to any conclusions.

And even though
I spend most of my thoughts
creating answers that are only to terminate
curiosities too abstract
to even be a question, I’ll admit
that I try to tie things together that
don’t even have strings— and I sulk
in frustration that I can’t even find them,
things that don’t even know
that they should exist. So I take my
pencil of imagination and draw
lines between everything and end up
with a blueprint
of some hypothetical reality—because
we say that we discover the world
but what we so stupidly, so humanly
overlook is that the world bears herself
to us with no inhibitions, and even though
we can’t see everything immediately,
it’s all there; she has
nothing to prove to us. Yet the mystery
is that even though the earth bares her skin
unashamed, we find her ****** absurd and
clothe her blatant body
in preconception, tragically dedicating
the decoding our existence
to finding out
what truly lies beneath.

I want to thank everyone
who has ever ****** me off, or negated
any idea I’ve held too dear, because
you get me closer to realizing
that there is no parallel
between my finite questions
and the eternal answer, and the very fact
I even formed a sentence
is punctuated
by my mortality.
Arik Fletcher Feb 2015
Trapped inside a fantasy,
Lost within his dreams,
Enslaved by pure insanity,
A hopeless cause it seems.

Gripped by desperation,
Lost in what he believes,
Entrenched in preconception,
A flawed future he perceives.

Mapping out false history,
Lost inside words so sweet,
Engaged deep in the mystery,
A soul swept off his feet.

Sapping all his energy,
Lost in a world of bliss,
Embracing hopeful synergy,
A victim to fate’s kiss.
intentions,
they sometimes get the better of me,
such that
my automatic, lie-down attitude, sees.
sees me standing here: searching,
desiring the vastness of the open sky
(and beyond), yet:
at each point of involuntary contact,
i find myself embracing the ground,
and during this disjointed,
increasingly frantic
(often disassociated)
illusionary dance,
i sometimes glimpse
the shadow of such unknown wonders,
brush their shape with open hands,
before blindness claims me once more.
such mini discoveries
(or mini-delusions to the minds of some)
keep open the bud of childlike wonder,
starving off decay, and
total submersion within the blindness of
societal preconception.
Kareena Feb 2014
Many times my heart aches and wonders why
But now this constant truth keeps echoing in my mind

The whole reason for every thing you did to me is clear
If you can't love yourself, you can never love another

You became so insecure about us
About the preconception that I would leave you someday

To find someone else
Someone more handsome
More thoughtful
Someone who wasn't you
That didn't have the qualities you hated about yourself

In me, you couldn't get past all the things you saw wrong in yourself
Even though I never said a word

I could never say I wish we never met before
Because you have taught me a lot

But, I wish I never met the agony you caused
I wished I never fell into your guilt traps
Your control techniques

You changed
And I was blamed for it

But I don't understand why
I tried to preserve who you were when we first met
That sweet boy who was genuine
Now you are just some fraud

Well, you reap what you sow
Because, now, I am not yours
You tried to justify our endings, to make it seem like it was my idea too
But the only reason I agreed
Was because I saw you were too far gone for me to try to ever love you again
For that ****** other one.
Martin Lethe Feb 2016
For Lori*

          I

Especially in days of youth and vigor
I rose, a tower struck of stone or oak
When challenge grew, I found myself the bigger
My enemies would tremble when I spoke

I trod the land afire and oceans parted
None alive could sway me from my course
I roared my song and mountain ranges started
And bowed their heads to this unbidden force.

Swift and bold and heartless, cruel and clever
I needed none to carry me to war
But nothing young still blossoms young for ever
And thus far shall ye travel, and no more.

Horizons yet expand beyond perception
The Universe will e’er exceed my pace
My greatness spawned from my own preconception
Was always but a speck on Nature’s face.

I could not carve a dent on History’s pages
But I could scrawl a message on this stone
The brilliance of the scientists and sages
Shows how flickering and faint the light I’ve shown.
But when you
Continue
To coil ‘round
My sinew
I understand my strength is not my own
Standing straight, I play the Tiger’s part
And I will find my solace in your heart.


          II

I know that I have nothing to regret here
I cannot rue my selfishness and pomp
It’s obvious, though, now, that those I’ve met here
Have made me more than all my snort and stomp

My purpose once to trump my own existence
Now to carry those who’ve shown me grace
Who, through their kindness and their great persistence
Have taught me brand new wonders in this place.

The earth is hard and sometimes unforgiving
Terrors will beset us, every one
The warmth of life is only for the living
And live we must until the day is done.

Time wears down the sturdiest of towers
And dying now (but dying in my boots)
Hate not the relentlessness of hours
That shake the sturdy oak unto its roots.

Immune to howls of ‘but’ and ‘oh if only’s
Hardening, inordinately brave
But how these days have grinded up my bonesies
My hands reach feebly as if from the grave
But often
I’ll soften
And breathe through
The coffin
I’ll live on nought but everything I gave
And ever shall I own the Tiger’s part;
And you will find my wreckage in your heart.


          III

The castles I have stormed and forts I’ve taken
Which fly my flag for now and all their days
Hail me, but in title are mistaken
To say mine is to hallow yours in praise.

Each of us has private ghosts to grapple
Secret depths that everybody delves
But in the quiet of our private chapel
We are made of sterner stuff than just our selves.

A thousand men I’ve known and loved have made me
Your stone is that which sharpened up my spear
On a bed of soft green grass I’ve laid me
That you’ve watered and you’ve weeded for me here.

Together we construct our sacred stories
Hand in hand we shore up each new song
We revel now together in our glories
And a thousand men I can now help make strong.

Each of us, a thousand rush to battle,
Defeated still at times, and yet we try;
And cower not at that unholy rattle
As lightning tears its strip across the sky.
But under
The thunder
We still weep
And wonder
At the storms that we can weather, you and I,
And together play the Tiger’s part,
And I will find my refuge in your heart.
Nope Jul 2014
In lieu of a human connection
Will these words suffice
Absent eyes crying out for your presence
Will my dreams ignite
How many years have passed without clarity
Parched and begging for a vision
Truth, absolute and transient
I prematurely suffer your absence
imagine a future alone
My perception turned away
Still trapped by preconception
Will I give of myself willingly
As I return this life
*Paid in full
Andy Criddle Apr 2014
Knowledge is a preconception
Ignorance is indeed bliss
The world you see is a perspective
riding on the tide of the abyss

We find ourselves tied to a cage
Blinded by a shell of our potential
We conceal the nature of our will
Afraid to be experimental

Our fight is constant and brutal
And victory is shadowed by complacency
Wisdom is neither right nor wrong
And happiness is your only ecstasy

You are given one chance to be free
And stand strong against the constant
But history and normality tell lies
And trust is always absent

So take life with a grain of salt
And be open to a chance at redemption
For existence is fleeting at best
And hope is your only salvation
brenda callahan Aug 2017
To the eyes who see me blinded by preconception
You have named me timid, fraid,  traumatized, sad, shy, recluse alone
Fearfully quiet
You present me a victim who cannot stand ,speak, serenade, seek, spreading self strong against the world
I challenge  that you have not understand the me that  was so quickly judged in prejudice
You have not seen the courage ,resilience ,strength, stubbornness power that. Is me
Pray take your weak minded thinking and look closely as perhaps what you are judging is more self then me
I have been and will be ever  be moving with each day firmly underfoot so that I know  what I am ,who I am, and where I will be
b Apr 2018
i will never go to virginia.
because in my mind it loves me
and i love virginia.

and ive never been
and ill never go.

green on the eyes,
warm on the flesh.
how could i burden such a place
with my expectations
my preconceived notions
with no preconception.

i know nothing about virginia
it can be anything i want it to.
beauty incarnated in a long narrow field
empty as hell below.
a blank cheque just waiting for me to fall in love.
i wont let it fool me.
JoJo Nguyen Dec 2019
Sir, we're looking for me? We know me?
Sir, we've distant data on me? Are we tired of me sitting and late waking too?
My ghost, bugs, and Sir, weirding way are all known to us.
Sir, we know everything.
We grab ***, squeeze ****, and put high finger on it
Such wrapturous goodness for me myself and I, but where?

In Crazy Horse Native Americans strip mall?
In ridding me of a brown heritage we desperately want to keep?

With every two drink minimum we are there Sir
With every bedding down in our laps we are there Sir

In ******* Dawn on Carefree wings
to lining our sitting Sea

Our hands, guided piercings
of me we are there Sir

We sleep in darkness sweet til
babbling Brooks wake us from snug slumber
When even Darth night shines with Gwendolyn's tomorrow
And inside my full belly, we stitch our patched life quilt
Of praise, amazement and montaged
secret places

We see Degas tattoos on milky body without form
without preconception

We count precious thoughts to fall
asleep in dark innocences, in stuck vengeance
only to wake with us, always with us

still

If only I could **** an atheist
to quench our tribal blood thirst

Our folly speaks evil
I hate those, who in folly hate us
I count them as us in the Game
of finding deep hurt and worried aunts

We hurl away insults to leave bare haters and me
eternally on a path to we
nico papayiannis Feb 2016
Let the grief that washed over you, be the cleansing of your soul,
though it may have ripped out your heart, embrace and move on,
help to fill another hole

All those years you cried
always felt denied,
time to just let go
and let the serenity simply free-flow.
Impossible to carry
a weight so destructive
a journey any further
would be so unproductive

To follow in footsteps where confusion does rule
is to endorse the pain of the fact that for so long you have been a fool
Emotions run deep, and it is here we keep
the illusion of our ignorance
the result of our sufferance

We all have our demons, our closeted ghosts,
fragments of our imagination that have been our host.
The battle that rages from within
let it be nothing more than a diminishing din

Away from the shores of false comforts and preposterous preconception,
there is a land of wonder, peace and emancipation
you may never forget, you may never forgive
but with  animosity and an emotional monstrosity,
a way to never truly live.
Come to terms with an acceptance that all cannot be how you want it to be
open your eyes and be amazed at what your heart can so lovingly see
storm siren Nov 2016
There is no greater conflict of interest
Than learning that one out of your only two consistent wants
Is no longer a want
And no longer a desire.

It destroys every preconception you've had of life.

And that's a good thing.

The only two things
I have consistently wanted through out my life,
Until now, that is,
Is either to belong,
Or to die.

It has been a little over six months
Since I began to have a thirst for life and living.
And within your arms,
I have succeeded in my goal to belong.

It's funny how some goals can be reached
With the help of others,
And other goals
Well,
They just shouldn't be reached.
I had been passively suicidal on and off since I was about nine. It's strange how these past six months I'm enjoying being alive. I'm rather proud of myself, to be honest.
Ken Pepiton Aug 31
Certain persons among us make claims to knowledge
kept from any who cannot imagine that truth,
we, the every day curious kinds of people,
skeptic
become habitually drawn to knowers claiming right
to tell us one may see what one believes, nought else.

Living words, in message form, why must I see angels?
Whose mind may we leave be in us, if not this one,
alive in constant readiness to give a word umph,

past last clear preconception of a call to pay attention,
today, while it remains time out to redeem in meditation,

be tween one mind's aura and another's… imagining
we see light reflected from sources undetected,
so dark sayings illuminate our directed steps,
or we so say, for we believe we know, now,

is when today occurs, and when the code is broken,
hidden meaning sought with Frankl and Anne Frank,
and dramatic reenactments of battles that inspire
judgment, know who won by who continues being,
any with a will to prove a worth, as a gift in minded
heart felt will to say
we may pay more attention
than we are willing to take.

Easily, given meaningful words… these are the medium,
this is the way we conjoin minds in hives intending
to fill to overflowing, so long as flowers need ***.

==========
Cultured pearls.

Irritatingly apparently real
as any brought to become
by merest of coincidental

rare afflictions with beauty
the initial aim, with hands
put to guiding use, knowing

the growing of the nacre
in total absence of sunlight,
of course, we can't know why.

--------

Words authored in ages past,
during times of congregation,

calling all sundry formations
from noise to align as defined

with hands commands, come
and see the other side of all and
more besides, piling mountains
as clouds in late summer, promise
latter rains on latterly sown seed.

The interpretation of this situation,
now, and not another time, here,
where your mind asks mine explain,

lay it out, tell the whole of knowing
now is when we become our self,
first formed from stories told us,

as true, to assume in storyland,
we can talk with Nature as an entity
who uses words as you would, should
you awaken in a jungle denser,

made afraid for the moment, mind
time pause, now, we think, how say
the sages past, must we treat
with care for fear of proud wrath,

encultured hero worth, a weight
in the bag we measure worth with,

each kernal of barley corn, one third
the inch, which is never taken
for a mile, given will to stretch
the wonder of learning for ever's sake,

indeed, to take each one in a myriad
of steps while helping an officer
of the law of Rome, obey it,
by keeping the peace and pace.

So, long from now, these same words
may live on loosely linked orders
of natural progression as we learn,

stories told as true as plausible,
often include impossibly fortuitous
interference in this clouded realm
of certain reasons asking rational

division of soul and spirit, despite
the rule of Rome, in year 869
of this present domineering age,
whereby soul is spirit and vice versa.

Rightly divided now, by me, today,
boldly going, where some crazies
came before me, to make me pay
attention to the will called why.

Jesus, really? Must we accept
the testimony of mystics, as more
than guessing based
on earlier guesses, up from exstacy,
beyond the first guesses given theory,
suppose, we all pretend to know,
as we are reared to become
those who teach to those so lost,
that only our knowing known stories,
can redeem their worth to truth itself.

----------
Listen, let this mindform in you, think.

In creation mode of mind,
given words for anything named
in the world wide web of knowledge,

arranged in searchible stacks, related,
tied religiously to certainty beyond Delphi,

we trust, as we trusted kings, when few
could gainsay prophecy interpreted true,
after the epoch last ended began, in truth,

measure for measure, an inch is always
three barley corns wide, no more
nor less a length, may be taken for a mile,

as we rethink the idea, charity, feeding needs,
agape, we say means charity, highest form
of love one may bestow, at no cost, true,

charity for which we pay is not the same idea.

I come to offer thought through thoroughly
sieved shards of crystaline ***** scried into,
see, there, that occlusion? that is what you

can never know, until the guru says you do.

--------------
Yes, I do recall verses written,
before exposure to naked truth
that war's glory is as the emperor's
lastest fashions, lasterly erroneously

crowning a child's sense of silliness,
when I was a child, I thought, and still
think many thoughts, what to write,
what to let slip away,
what must be folded to put away,
later, imagining I ask your eyes to see,
leaving no description light might show
either real or made up on purpose to make

believable the reason children are exposed,
to Grimm collections of secular wisdom,
unholy impossible animations, yet,

by the time, I got to Phoenix, I was knowing
days depend from days past, pendulating,
swinging arcing swipes past all pretensions,

loose the bonds of wickedness, comb
the tangled locks of dreads,
Rastaferian dread, wisdom
claimed aligned with wonder weedlike
in trembling fear of hell to pay,
what if we make believe, we two, and you,
we come to here, along these lines, thinking

why is not a factor after all is said and done,
plain and smooth, polished to high sheen,

wedoms welcome any with means to make sense,
share our dreads, show us what it is you think
you know, about the ways truth, per se, makes
where no ways was,
moments earlier, pasts past, perhaps,
happening in all that happens, once mayhap

to you,
aha,
I see, you say, lying with your eyes, but knowing
I can imagine common sense, comfort, ease,
true rest in care akin to told of care in story,

we gather to remind our hive, here we make honey.


------------
Watch the dancing bees, rethink
how few persons on earth can think
there is no mind involved in thinking that,

planning means to become superfluous,
dripping sweet memories, in precious
pricey processes of transubstantiation,

sweet, we say, at a fine fix on the flaw,
we all lie, see, we say we know, we lie,

we lieve being true, as good and useful,
the ology of everything pundits preach,
and teach that we may obey, knowing,

no lie forms from truth's first will to tell,
taste and see,
swallow, and wait… at antepartum,
all we think to ask turns bitter in the belly.
Ok.
Marshal Gebbie Feb 2021
A Crown of Thorns worn to bed,
Woe betide the swollen head,
****** is he who  knows it all
For entitlement’s no birthright call.
Hangs like cloak of stone cement
Endowing wearer nothing spent
Entombing wearer, largely, doomed
Expectations now entombed
Few measure up to mark of man
Most spread the wings to seek the span
Encompass more than ever thought
But expensive shortfalls cheaply bought.

Out of limelight into shade,
Entitled shroud is richly flayed
With overtures of self- import,
Obsequiously seen, as sport…
By other pigs who seek the Crown
Intent on tearing your realm down.
For jealousy incurs an ire
Against you, who dares conspire,
Entitlement as rightful claim
And all within, your ****** domain.

Oh the fires of  jealousy
Burn bright with searing heat
And the pangs of hate come bubbling forth
On cloven, reptile feet,
And what was once was pure and good
Is now, then, dark as sin
And the Gods of Mars and Neptune
Both, with war, come barreling in.

For human nature simmers, hot,
Despite restraint’s cold hand
All preconception, caste aside
Who stays the battle plan….???
What works, though quite irrational,
Is the quiet word of She
Who has determined that this impasse
Serves no man’s sanity
And on threat of dire withholding
Of Country Matters near,
Extracted,  a mute fury,
But a truce, without a tear.

There was laughter in the ale house
Relief in the stall,
Where the horses fed on ignorance
But some men knew it all.
They all played their cards so quietly
With realizations calming stand
When Entitlement yelled, "an early night"
And cashed in his winning hand.

M.
February 3 2021
Taranaki NZ
Parable Hippeis above the Eared One: “Kanti; Aristocratic hussar of steeds, a native of Crete, was broken down from servants as a possession of high rank from Thessaly and Argolis. In his frontal Parasinus he ruminated his psychic frontality of not being defeated for the sole fact of being subjected prolonged in helplessness, and stating what he was not capable of winning by defeating a Hippeis when he has imperturbability prior to a master. Therefore he was assigned from the Krepis or crepidorma to the Golden or Golden number. Dividing from all other paranasal sinuses, by less than the base of the kraníon by e long and factored by Pi ( ). In the Paraseno Spheno Palatino of him; the exterior colonnade in eurythmic balance or harmony was provided in order, optical correctness and rational geometric construction with parameters of the Parthenon and spheno ganglion of ribs of the peripteral octasil, surrounding the arcades of the expiration frieze, and exhaling from Zeus the anti-seismic vibrational integuments and neighs of Hippeis, like Kanti exorbitant and convulsive. In his Maxillary Parasinus; he was subjugated in the Architrave of the lower part of the entablature that rests directly on the columns, its structure worked on its servile lintel, to transmit the weight of the roof to the columns and duplicate banalities of the pontificate of the Samarios horses of Orondel. In the parasinus Turbinate Dorsal; a Metope, occupies part of the frieze where the Doric entablature of a classical building would rest, located between two triglyphs. Like a metope decorated with bas-reliefs, in taboric cliffs of Samaria and its horses in neatness of Hippeis blood. Medium Parasinus; the Stylobate, towards the upper step on which the temple rests, forming part of the crepidoma: on a stepped platform that raises the building above the ground level to give it prominence and greater poise. As a staggered middle to the largest of the great final step towards the Koelum, which joins them in their golden edging of the Equisetum like horsetails with green blood. Of the Ventral Parasinus; In The Opisthodome, a separate space located at the back of the temple, a special vestal element is attached together with the Pronaos (or portico) and the Naos (or sanctuary). Here they take refuge for the snout of their cheeks full of Pleiades evading the hunter of Oarion, each one in decreed steeds of Crete and Samaria, that shine in the transition of the oceanic foam that runs by its naturalness in high tides, and in exalted pause erogenous temptation to an Aphroditism. And finally the super Paraseno or Chamber of Canephore, governing and ruling the priestesses of Baal with the steeds of Orondel, for the purpose of sacrificing the sacred courtesans with their hooves that they consecrated in the stylobate, which esoterically became diffuse. Pro reign in the Canephores along with the Vestals, for dichotomous fajina with Hestia between fires and bonfires that will spill from the mysteries of Eleusis.

They had their six Parasenes separated from their numen septum in other castes that super endowed the confusion that came from Samaria in the kingdom of Israel, being a Hippeis of the Elite Greek cavalry. In the farms of this region, one hundred years after the Syrian ******* in this same analogue, Kanti was assigned to openwork in the meadows for agricultural work, adhered to all the Philistine plains. Plethora of exuberance with liters of pinkish Vine before longed for by some, they tore from vine shoots by snouts and Cinnabar sulfur, already encysted in presses and battles of implicit rows of vines burnished by the thickness of their sulfurous secretion, decanting on the exuberant and grassy carpet. In Thessaly Kanti stood out with its supremacy of hydric seed that raised a surplus of rain when the low waters of the Mediterranean rocked the gargoyles on their similar steeds. In the sagittal of his hoof, below the "U" all the Hippeis of Thessaly were marked with the Vox of ππεῖς, but not those of Samaria, they planted their fourth ends on the ground of Deuteronomy; “He fell in love with his mistresses, whose flesh is like that of donkeys, whose flow is like the effusion of horses. He told himself... You longed for the lust of your youth, when Egyptians touched your breast, caressing the ******* of your youth. Continuing in this way Kanti with his chronicles warned that in his militancies and privileges they did not dig select strings of vines when he had to clear his hooves, which were made of fire and steel from Hephaestus bars by order of Etrestles, who distended his agrazones, letting him levitate towards the clouds with the sweet potatoes of their grafted plantations, that burst those esplanades in hydrometeors of tested sweat on the thick legs browsed by the song of their prayers, and thorns that broke their spiky washdown dueling in the cumulonimbus clouds that lavished care that settled before the eyes of Hippeis foremen, where the strains did not ferment like wine that has no vent and makes them burst into new skins. Thus detonates the patience of the gifted steeds of Samaria, towards some new winemakers who would receive him for a grape harvester who brought spices and olives for a new millennium.

The deposits of credibility made everything in their steeds and genetics of a millennium, to be more effective and fruitful for all that Kanti has not stepped on all the Cyclades, Dodecanese and Messolonghi at the same time as Hippeis from Thessaly, but since the optics of the Orondel; who was the duplicate of Kanti Samaritano, bearing ten times the weight that will make him bear together in tons and more than a thousand oil presses that exceed what his body mechanizes like horse power, thus being able to lighten himself in pruning of other regencies that he does not they shake or shake the branches above the tops of Zeus and his molar that neither expectorates nor pulverizes the best without his terrace. Here, where before the trees grew, they grow in the orchard on the outskirts of the town, Kanti frees all the steeds of Samaria with his gravel in his gummed hoof, mining the lands of the kings and digging up napas valued more than all the fruit-bearing heritage, more than in a fifth year along with all the seas, to make of them the ones that are in other uncircumcised as a reward for those who hide from early taming and their slender task. Those gleaned in Thessaly were from pitchforks in the same cereals that gleaned from those who stopped feeding them and assembled in a grass fable of a rustic sower and fallow farm laborers. The spikes did not fall, the Hippeis with Kanti collected them with their extremities legs in provinces of harvest dragged in sheaves and corsican censers of Epha, like a rope of gold and incense of Sheba who thus brought enlargement to Judah and praise to Yahweh. Epha describes the land where the dromedaries arrive in Israel: "A multitude of camels will cover you, the young camels of Midian and Epha." Incense in a sprigs of Bethlehem, with delicious practices inherited from Ruth reaping the barley, oats and wheat in the same stampede of the Hippeis commanded by Kanti thrashing barley, in which an Epha cultivates the Primogen Gramineae of Thessaly”

(Procorus says: "in the defeat of the Persians by the Greeks, in the naval battle of Salamis, in 480 BC, marked the beginning of the decline of the maritime trade of the Phoenicians, here the East was completely extinguished when Alexander the Great took Tyre in 332 B.C., incorporating Phenicia into the Greek Hellenistic world. All the horses that came from Thessaly were all of the lineage of Hippeis de Kanti, with germines from Samaria and Chambers of Canephores)

Parable Ad Libitum Ex Varna: “In the lower and upper parts, a certain anti-demonic air carried a Kerí towards the candles of the Procorus rituals, extending the Eurydice ship that came from Rhodes. On the floor of his cell he had some Tamarisk branches such as Tarayes that vanished due to their quality when they expired at his own monk's feet to become lasting in his Oikodomeo, to raise with the Taray the essences of re-transformation of the lexeme of conventional greenness into Patmos, very deflowered in periods with high untemperances only with some secretions in which Procorus felt the re-flowering adventitious from there and then in the anemophilous advantages of the winds released from the belly in sedimentary veins of Rhodes. In its alchemical anemophilia or movement of inseminating winds, the subtle soil vanished with the force of the Sulfur Lion that derived from the Cinnabar with the Anemoi wind that impregnated the Tamarisk capsules, under the acolyte's feet. The aquifer of the water table of the subterranean waters in Patmos, remnants were scattered so that in Pro Nobis they lay of their demonologies, sponsoring Persian magics of the Lid Post-Gaugamela, with themselves in the Ex Varna with iridescences re-transfigured in the Mount Tabor. Says Procorus: “This Tamarix or Tamarisk has poured limits of our Oikodomeo, to re hold the superficial plate and reuse itself in the absorption of the burning under my feet, forcing them to readapt under the ground scorching concentrated in the Cinnabar residue, carrying the dermal prototype towards the saturated bottom of the salt larvae that prevailed in the pummeled beam of their skill, in some bundles of Tamarisk showing themselves innocuous in the imagination of the cloister suffocated right here by some Chaldean tribes, who felt like the illusionist stand of Ex Varna” . In the compaction of this epic hyper-fantasy, his urge was born from the consecration of the Gift of interpreting the subtlety of two-dimensional variety that would appear up to this moment, beneath the layers that were contaminated out of nowhere by the mere fact of the whim of the augur momentum, which finally it is restricted in the morphism of the Katapausis and chamber of San Juan Apóstol, finally supported by layers and blankets of subterranean aqueous filters towards a restructuring of the plane of Euclid, and towards the vicinity of plantar pedestrian zones of Procorus that were already three-dimensional in the construction of the Oikodome, for the foundation of the Náos or temple, which would go crazy when the Hexagonal Progeniture arrived to build the Vernarthian temple with gifts of multi-construction purgatory for the Oikos in Dwelling of the social unit of Aquarius or Aqua spirits that are terminates at the end of Capricorn dehorned. In mutual edifying peace between both zodiacal proximities of the Oikodomé, here every day specters purged and rubbed in the archetype of the Megaron that was intended to beoblations and in votive links in the massages that the manes of the Vernarthian universe gave them in their spiritual mortar, reconverted in their eternal brawl for living in the friction and brown partitions of the bloodless Megaron to inaugurate it as a solid bastion, in the weak regions of the Hetairoi that cellularly, it snatches energized vitality from their extremities, with total imbalance and wheezy guards maneuvered on their feet, dragging themselves towards the karmic Saetas de Velos Toxeumas and unharmed Dorus. But feverish and threatening their integrity when they were falling and plundering the Euclidean edge, opening up from the designs of the Hellenic palfrey, becoming parametric of Kanti's paranasals and spatiality that would surround the Parthenon of Fidas, with Ikríomas or scaffolding that made them collapse from their coordinates with Mamdilaria and Agiogitiko wine baths on the Vernarthian body between the column of the Sabines and Greek colonies of Lacedaemonians from the 4th century BC. C., already entwined in borders of synchronicity from the Erechtheion, falling from the Caelum, close to all his teachers who helped him install the final tiles of the temple, next to them intoxicated with Nepenthe, by intense vine rain stómas in the silent afternoon of the Inter-Cosmos of Athena, sending them the poison of Velos Toxeumas, a priori… and before attacking any skin that wants to revive itself in the inoculated Vernarthian dreams.

(Procorus, manifested himself solid in his loneliness when seeing that Lacedaemonians and beings of the night accompanied him, in contrast to the dark light that allowed him with a single candlestick to expand more inaccessible in the semi-glyphs in the grooves of the Megaron that shone synarchically in the plans of the new Monastery of Saint John the Theologian) ..

Parabola Megarón Dódeka Spathiá: “Procorus perceptibly saw how the sky of Patmos was crossed by heavy metalloids of bronze, tin and acroballistics; for the cavalry of Kanti and six Para Senos appeared, who used to ride on the roof of the Megarons belling to the sounds of the acroteras. In these episodes in twelve Swords that were multiplied in advance by thousands before the Megaron began to be built. In relevant dimensions and virtual foundation lines, acrostics of steeds from Thessaly on their palfrey mounted Polish Winged Hussars, carrying twelve wings of cuirasses with twelve horsemen, adjoining the halo of heavy cavalry in Katyn, being abducted by a circum-regressive parapsychological Ellipsis of the 1939 event in Poland. Each rider was strung in blood with golden wing feathers. In each of their hands they carried the curved saber Szabla, to cover up the unspoken target of oppressors and musketeer intruders from the armory hearth of the hypothetical enemy-unknown but outsider, assaulting the flanks of the rooftops in the Virtual Megaron of Patmos, using Kopias or pikes that schemed in the impetus of deadly resistance of the betrayed ancestry. The roof that pointed to the south west reflected the light of Orion by aerial forms of the Aegean choir, riding on the high seas with Votive offerings or offerings of Cyclamines and Red Poppies, hovering in majesty in their nomadic obtuse compass of Rhapsodas coffering epic elegies of the Megaron and of those revived venerable triumphs that stretched out on the banner of glory and bed of epiphany. Rhapsode proclaims thus: "In Katyn Wings of Golden Wood and Red Poppy, they adorned themselves with Bellis Perennis in twelve thousand rags in our steppes harassing their moan in blood wars, framed in large sections on the threshold of their mounted war. There were twelve thousand red poppies burning on the executory pilaster near Smolensk.” How much is there to get fed up in the Polish cavalry of the 17th century, that upon glimpsing the barbarous sounds of the temple that approached them to the altar of the Virtual Megaron, showing off in acquiescent ceremonial and counter-revolution of lifeless aristocracy in needy portals-living and mortal-living who posed in the rear of twelve thousand officers slain in the Forest of Katyn, such gentle medieval men in the contemporary untimely invasion. Here in this place the puffed winged horsemen went by destiny when they were sacrificed, like steel cushions they galloped on their heads sheltered by brotherhoods of Hussars that protected them with Lion and Tiger breastplates with retracted claws. Procorus, observed in the virtuous imagery as medieval winged specimens, protected the frontispiece of the Megaron in bullet-ridden super-existence and a trance of historic architectural dread. Here on a Patmian soil, each one of the officers was aided by each 17th century Polish cuirassier with ferocious wings, they were making them agonize with honor and glory, with those similar twice right there of their resemblance, with misty discrepant blood interwoven, executing on apocryphal witnesses who covered themselves with your looks, of overflowing evasion and truce of bodies stained with mourning and despair, with blankets of red poppies scattered adjoining a naive unarmed forest. Over exalted memorandums and secret cries of Adrastea procreating their kind with the nymphs, they drowned out the cries of cuirassiers like Didaskein, before sobbing in their topic, but of Pashkein in the foliage of rotten hopes, of those who hit them from behind, in analogous vexation to heroes of Katyn. Here neither Cronos nor Mother Rhea heard them, only Adrastea prevented the cries of the men-children who were atoned for behind their backs, from venting them from the foliage of the Didaskein-Pashkien, in tears of solid mercury. Kanti's steeds rise, carrying them the curved Zsabla sabers, before each is shot in the head as twelve thousand Winged Riders are caught in each Zsabla. These sacrificed them before they were killed in the waist of his head, not being expired by ammunition but rather by sabers of honor and glory of their own winged protectors, who would lead them by sharp weapons towards the holocaust of the Mashiach surrounded by red poppies. “The red and steamy cendal of the forest carried the souls of the Hussars to pass them through the sabers of their compatriots, before they were immolated by the Soviets, so their apostolic souls will be catechized by Zsablas of dyed airs of Red Poppies converted into air of respite from the heroes of the Katyn Forest, redeemed by the Golden Winged Riders of the 17th century”

(Procorus in the immensity of the voices and epithets that were heard, differed in the volatile and explosive metal sabers at the present time that were extinguished in their crooked armor and in Polish beings, in a rear that finally Procorus settled them in urdes of immaculate habit, suspended in twelve thousand Red Poppies flanked by his forehead before being shot from the cortex and occipital lobe, forging into golden sabers and cenobitic transvestites who received them in arms in the sublime stench of effluvium of their blood and hosts, never left and desisted from bubbling by the figures of the acrotera near the Megarón, ditto in the same Forest of Katyn, surrounded in a string of Rosary that dazzled in Procorus prohijando them)

Parable Fourteen Donítikos: “fourteen vibrations were polarized in the enthronement of Vernarth towards his brother Etréstles, making filial gradation in possible anti-filial conception of worship and death in who is suspended from one to the other under the condemnatory rhythm of past lives. It is typical of the facsimile of his own genetic shadow Cain-Abel, but of geomorphological gradation and time-space, which finally brings them together as blood relatives of the same Orbis Alius trunk. Dismissing by not accessing a vibrational anti-Asur (as a healthy creative mind in Genesis) as an energy that manages to restructure itself in any homologous way in the world of Asur as the son of Shem in Genesis..., as comparative and intergenerational mythology , enlivening socio-parental metaphors, pronouncing in cohesion and enchantment what happens in another similarity of gender or Mental field, staging the probability of a mental Sun that dies in a Super Man, and this comes to free us from the ties of existence and plane terrestrial not reflected of immanent and instance of Eon, in geological and sidereal lives. The scrolls of this semi-myth, is subsequent to hanging scrolls on the will of us existed for thousands of years linked to links and human characteristics of knowledge through professed and comparative feeling. Compensation of material distemper between the anti-pivot and life between both refers to the simultaneous undividedness of each specification as a phenomenon lacking hearing in winter and inclement periods. Here the outburst of retro involutions becomes cloistered in Menatira, daughter of Cránae, Queen of Eleusis Pro Eleusis tally fuzzy from the convulsing breath of both through the steppe of silence, both of them. Dodecahedron on an octagon in each one for each one that was interpolated in each area when Demeter was looking for his first-born Persephone.

“Etréstles metamorphosed, so that Metanira reunited them with the sub-mythology of their destinies and the preconception of the elucubrar of a final breaking of the abstract spell, which was mixed with the element of vehemence in their irascibility to wait for a next season in fourteen toasts followed by Ouzo, and goods with intact and distant deities in oscillation of life-maturity, making it after the eleventh Ouzo in determinism of autonomous eternal substances of the ritual of Elusis, appreciable power and coarseness of the one who has to compensate for the one who has everything and the that will never have it. (Eternal Life Spell)”

a) Abundance of rain of red blood cells, in quotation marks of the legacy of Bios as all deprivation of life file, rather for those who yearn for it between a physical trifle alibi...

b) Psujé for Vernarth, “For whoever wants to save the life of his soul, he will lose it”. But he will restore it if he is saved by divine psychology muscle."

c) Zoé, “radiosity and refraction of etherization and physicality, more than a biological physical body re-transformed into purging from the superior to the inferior multi-created, but in a Jesuit adjective and sphere of consequent concatenation towards the plane of the

Mashiaj as holistic of the human cave ecstasy, in inflexible marriage between heaven and earth Ad Aeternum”

(Procorus, auto-irrigated red blood cells, to deliver them both, and relevel the levels of red blood cells of the Mashiach's divine blood, which expected to be refounded in both brothers of the Vibrational in Fourteen Donítikos or Hellenic Vibrations, with the initial D in the lower left ear and the S in the upper right of the vibrational field of the Tinnitus of God, with their ears placed in their hands, take them by their ossicle and from them in the curvilinear dawn that vibrates in what He only wants to do to them Dodeká).
Procorus  IV
Mae Aug 20
The streets used to be wider. I swear that they did. I know I was a kid, but they used to be thick. They used to have girth, a sidewalk as wide as the Earth. My memory is sketchy, but surely they were wide. You could fit neatly inside, tucked away like a bird safe in a nest. So where is the rest? When'd they get thin, lose all their width? Or was it always like this?

The trees used to be taller. Reaching for the moon, their leaves falling soon, it's early September, this is how I remember. Spilling onto the pavement, these yellows and reds, like someone colored the sidewalk while we slept in our beds. Like a volcano erupting, disrupting the mainland, they'll wash away in the rain and leave behind streaks of beauty for us to recall. I thought there was more, but was this all?

The hallways used to be longer. They used to have an endless row of door after door set snug between a narrow floor. A warm light overhead guided us down to more, seemingly never ending, an eternally descending corridor. They used to be longer, of this I am sure. The scope, an improbable length. That was its greatest strength, that it stretched onward, indefinite. I used to be scared of how long they would be, and now I can see, that perception was me. But I swear, they used to be longer.

The world used to be bigger. Now it feels so small. What happened to it all? Where is the expansive planet that once was? What happened, because it used to be bigger. There used to be more. The sky seemed taller, of this I am sure. Where once you couldn't fathom the length between states, now the length between rooms seems far too great. Where once an hour felt like a year, now fifteen minutes feel like they're never here. The world used to be bigger. I am not lying. But I think perhaps my innocence is dying.

Did I get bigger or did it all just get small? Or was this the size it was all along? Was I incapable of seeing it for what it was, preconception so skewed and all because everything seems larger when you are little. The world feels so big, your life not as brittle. The hallways, the trees, the sidewalks were massive, but was it because interaction was passive. Now I am here, now I'm fully awares. And everything's small.

And nobody cares.
Perhaps not my best work, but it was half finished when I decided to put it up here and complete it. Either way, not terrible, but nothing spectacular either by any means.
Kristyn Jun 2018
Do people really wanna know you? Or do they just like the idea of you? Do they even know your flaws, your trials and tribulations. Do they care to know. If they did know, would they push it to the side.. how would they comfort you when they don’t you know. Who will bring you solace in your times of real need, when you ache, when you cry. I hope you’re wise and only allow those in with good intentions. I hope no one ever gets to say they got the best of you...how could they when they don’t even know the best of you? Is it wrong to say I hope they fail and then seek retribution on themselves. I hope when you experience pain nothing but growth and lessons learned follow. I hope you know that it was never a failure. It was then who failed you...failed to see your worth. If they would have saw their own demise would they have went about it differently. Or was it worth it to them to have a small piece of you and steal some of your time. Growing up we always hear about the monsters in our closet, under our bed, and the monsters that live in the dark. What about the ones that lurk during the day preying on you. What about the monsters that presents themselves as a savior. How will you know the difference. It almost instills a certain fear that you have to live in and be so cautious of. I have had so many women claim to love me but they didn’t know the real me...what I do behind closed doors, what thoughts really passed through my mind. They just loved the idea of me an what their preconception of me was. These people are everywhere...they are your day to day people that come around just as much as the air you breath. So please be careful, your heart is already physically fragile. Please don’t let these commonalities fool you. But if no one has told you today then I’ll be the first one to let you know I idolize the resiliency you have and how true to yourself you continue to be...they’re both unwavering qualities I adore. I envy you and these “special abilities” you have. It’s rare and undefinable...& once again I’m attracted to anything I can’t define. Despite that I will respect the friendship to be but a definite thank you is always in order for any of this inspiration. So thank you for taking care of your soul and hanging it out for others to see that they can make it just as you have.

— The End —