look me in the eye and tell me that you love me
or was it all a sad story that you unconsciously believed
while you raided the fridge and fornicated wildly
too late is not really an acceptable position
and later on is usually an example of indecision
and sometimes specimens reject their predicaments
especially if they are eventually going to be your dinner
i am sure that i am here to usher in a new authority
resurrected like a phoenix i must be stronger than before
so even if forever is often equivalent to never
and september is the month of seven (or was it nine) serpents
that are to be reborn in the dawn of Time's obsidian
as our minds have spent oblivion in the forges
of turgidly engorged shores, torn from their former continents
as forms are always gripped in hands who choose intolerance 
take administrators, lawyers, bureaucrats and clerks;
as examples of this; par excellence

As I sit and ponder, My mind begins to wander, here are my thoughts:

Mainly at night, as I look at life, "What is it?"

Is destiny just everything between life and death, or are we put in the positions of predicaments for a purpose:

Are poor single mothers and fathers given such a path so they may teach their children to live a lonely life; or,
to show them how to get out of that life?

Convicts, are they truly meant to receive life in prison; or, learn the essence of change, and share that wisdom?

Gangsters and thugs, call them what you will, are they only to have a short life consisting of death and sorrow; or, come out of the grind so they may one day return to help change the places and people of which they came?

Are those with clinical depression meant to remain on a medication for the remainder of their days; or, are they to learn that the deepest of pain allows one to truly appreciate joy?

These are just a few of the things I contemplate as my mind wanders, while I sit and ponder.

Eyes open
Upon the silent abode
Marvel at me
The heavens echoed

Predicaments dissolve into the trivial
The mind is spotless
You forget the greed, the hate
You remember only the love which intoxicates

Their watchful eyes
Shining upon us since antiquity
Embedded into the skies
An ever lasting source of serenity

Their melody decipherable to wanderers
Providing solace to the adrift
A message from our ancestors
Whispering that clear will be the mist

Damsel in this dress
is a damsel in distress she just using clothes to cover up the post traumatic stress,

but they barely cover anything--
her lady parts at best,
she attracts hood ****** but they barely give her thanks when she gobble up their ***** in her head is regret,

her past is her future so abuse is where she heads-- wears her heart on her sleeve so she empty in her chest

wearing make up just to make up for the confidence she lacks
  
and I admit I looked back when you walked by in that sun dress
I knew your name around the block bout how you ****** the meanest ****,

the greatest *** and I imagined if I knew the words for access words to claim your assets dinner did I have to invest-- from a glance,
 
and at a simple glance back,
to advance the fact still remain man plans to slay that,

she knows it; the shades on her face tells poem how bright lies jaded minds and money bust her open so who's the poet--
but we judge off her appearance,
 
and lose our morals,
when she throw it back aren't we daring; but aren't we caring making compliments and swearing,
smearing make up on our ugly truth
conceal,
conceal,
concealer,

you a bad *****,
another body is you willing?
but to her its more than *** its the embrace its not the feeling,

her innocence is safest and awakened when she feels it reminded of the time her boyfriend lied, as he took ***.

In these predicaments she says its innocent;
he loves me,

that's after broken rib number 5 she says; he loves me,

that's after **** kit the doctor swab;
he says I'm worthy,

that's after black eye number 9;
he says he trust me,
he trust me,
he trust me,
He trust me,
He Trust me,
He Trust Me,
HE TRUST ME,

and he never means to hurt me.

Problem is my novel is too common,
I'll never share his name cause his name is not the problem,

he don't deserve my shine or fortune to be acknowledged:

Ms. *******, control your hatred, stedfast
my mind is changing-- stop judging demons,
Contrast.

❝ a man curses his self-created hell;
   a trap he weaved for himself
   that later on evolved
   into a labyrinth of intricate design

   his choices,
   the basis of his sorrow
   a product of ignorance
   that drowns him
   in the ocean of confusion

   he becomes lost
   in the prison of darkness
   floating in the sea
   of perpetual gloom

   searching for the light
   with eyes open
   but senses shut
   stumbling about for eons
   and eons

   blaming fate,
   God,
   circumstances,
   but never himself ❞

Ah, Immortal, canst I say no more anything about thee; though I have not to, nor I am allowed to.. For thy heart hath belonged, and shall perhaps belong only, to someone else, forever.. And upon which realisation, still-sadly I am not enabled, by any means, to procure anything; anything t'at ought to be satisfactory to thy love thirsts, and though superficial, hungers.. For I am just, within 'tis bitter reality, that despaired, lost daughter of nature; who, despite my distaste for roses, longest to be one of thine-and thine only, but who shall remainest as the last one-and thus eternal one, forever. Oh, I am cursed, I am cursed, ah-I am cursed too bitterly, my love! As shall I, dishearteningly-and gruesomely, never belongst to any other, any more! I hath been haughtily made redundant by love, and so shall I taste and drink of joy no more; for no marriage joy is not to be dazzling in my hand; and so am never I to be, having a man as more than a calm, soothing friend. Ah, and so not any other one indeed-for the rest of t'is paltry age ahead! And not even thee! But still, that abrupt sweet star is in thy eyes; and what an innocuous, irresistible delight to every pore of my lungs, and the very charms of my senses it is, to my being-yon sweet star which is equal to truth, knowledgeable causations, and delicate forgiveness. Ah, thee, for but to my eyes, thou art the long-sought forgiveness itself; and thy lips and cheeks and tongue makest everything perfect and becoming to the grace; grace-indeed, which is hasty, but mighty-like the thirst, and merriment of its salved undeniable passions. Ah, still-but why, why am I being tortured by these feelings? For I loved thee not, whenst I but streamed my gaze into thee-for the very first time; and for I felt enjoyment not-in our sweet occasional encounters, I felt no shyness, and nor perhaps, any predicaments of curiosity, as I fixed my very sight on thy evaluative eyes! Oh, for my heart but was lazy, unlike it was to thy precursors-and fate danced not at that time, in thy eyes-in those first months, with cold air and flakes of muted snow as rapid as the morning winds that inevitably appeared, after growing out of nowhere-just like a thoughtful apparition-as we sauntered about this morning, and greeted us with its superb, ye' monstrous iciness. Ah, t'is-which is so unfair, indeed! And oh; but why? Why, my sweet? And why is it just now, darling, that I am affectionately faltered, weakened, and turn feeble-at simply making out the notion of these invincible, ye' honourably-infatuated feelings? I, whose cheeks canst now threaten myself-and clumsily boil, 'fore thus turning red-at a very simple, unfearing thought of thee! Ah, unsweet, as itself shall remain ever be! But how I hate-I hate t'is feeling of loving thee-without ever being able to accomplish it. I heart it not-and thy voice, which is elegant with scrutiny, and careful examinations-of my private diligence, as we wandered and twitched and spoke more; for it invites me so, to the grandeur and wealth-of loving thee more and more, and steering myself into this all-too-burdening, though soft-passion; o, thou, who in t'is realness is, though outrageously, is based on every single effectuality of our beings, is worthy of all the forgiveness of presumptuousness, and overflowing emotions of our due spirituality. Ah, thee! Thou, who art the mere persona of my dramatic dreams; and the vitality of my poems; thou art gentler, sweeter, and tenderer than even poetry itself-as well the miracle, ingenious window, and the sole awesomeness which it willfully illustrates. O-love, and then thy soul is duly its obedient flattering mirror, which is forever unmad, sensible, and plentiful-to my questioning soul. Thou art my carved destiny-and the river that permits my blood to flood! Ah, thou art indeed so diligent, provoking, and altogether unbecoming, my sailor! O-And thee! The ever delicate fruit of my heavenly morning; whilst thy fate was-still is, and shall for eternity be treading, and about; o my darling. Thee! Whose fragrant breaths roar with such prettiness, and laughter-so handsome to my eyes, and are a rare, enticing spark of truth when all is but lies. Oh thee! My ever illuminous, equanimious, and on the very whole of thy being-a fulfillingly-delicious star; from whom shan't I be able, for ever and ever and evermore; to stay hidden, nor to stand firmly-though glisteningly, afar.

You can't find relief...
In reasons non existent;
In predicaments ill-explained.

There's no relief.
In trying to peer over towering walls.
With feet on tiptoes,
and necks sorely craned.

Relief isn't found...
In wishing upon droplets
that explode as they meet the ground.
Everytime it thundered,
and then rained.

Relief is in the trove
when the heart lets go.
To acknowledge the error,
to move on...
And commit fully to the lesson gained.

Hail native Language, that by sinews weak
Didst move my first endeavouring tongue to speak,
And mad’st imperfect words with childish tripps,
Half unpronounc’t, slide through my infant-lipps,
Driving dum silence from the portal dore,
Where he had mutely sate two years before:
Here I salute thee and thy pardon ask,
That now I use thee in my latter task:
Small loss it is that thence can come unto thee,
I know my tongue but little Grace can do thee:                      
Thou needst not be ambitious to be first,
Believe me I have thither packt the worst:
And, if it happen as I did forecast,
The daintest dishes shall be serv’d up last.
I pray thee then deny me not thy aide
For this same small neglect that I have made:
But haste thee strait to do me once a Pleasure,
And from thy wardrope bring thy chiefest treasure;
Not those new fangled toys, and triming slight
Which takes our late fantasticks with delight,                      
But cull those richest Robes, and gay’st attire
Which deepest Spirits, and choicest Wits desire:
I have some naked thoughts that rove about
And loudly knock to have their passage out;
And wearie of their place do only stay
Till thou hast deck’t them in thy best aray;
That so they may without suspect or fears
Fly swiftly to this fair Assembly’s ears;
Yet I had rather if I were to chuse,
Thy service in some graver subject use,                              
Such as may make thee search thy coffers round
Before thou cloath my fancy in fit sound:
Such where the deep transported mind may scare
Above the wheeling poles, and at Heav’ns dore
Look in, and see each blissful Deitie
How he before the thunderous throne doth lie,
Listening to what unshorn Apollo sings
To th’touch of golden wires, while **** brings
Immortal Nectar to her Kingly Sire:
Then passing through the Spherse of watchful fire,                  
And mistie Regions of wide air next under,
And hills of Snow and lofts of piled Thunder,
May tell at length how green-ey’d Neptune raves,
In Heav’ns defiance mustering all his waves;
Then sing of secret things that came to pass
When Beldam Nature in her cradle was;
And last of Kings and Queens and Hero’s old,
Such as the wise Demodocus once told
In solemn Songs at King Alcinous feast,
While sad Ulisses soul and all the rest                              
Are held with his melodious harmonie
In willing chains and sweet captivitie.
But fie my wandring Muse how thou dost stray!
Expectance calls thee now another way,
Thou know’st it must he now thy only bent
To keep in compass of thy Predicament:
Then quick about thy purpos’d business come,
That to the next I may resign my Roome

Then Ens is represented as Father of the Predicaments his ten
Sons, whereof the Eldest stood for Substance with his Canons,
which Ens thus speaking, explains.

Good luck befriend thee Son; for at thy birth
The Faiery Ladies daunc’t upon the hearth;                          
Thy drowsie Nurse hath sworn she did them spie
Come tripping to the Room where thou didst lie;
And sweetly singing round about thy Bed
Strew all their blessings on thy sleeping Head.
She heard them give thee this, that thou should’st still
From eyes of mortals walk invisible,
Yet there is something that doth force my fear,
For once it was my dismal hap to hear
A Sybil old, bow-bent with crooked age,
That far events full wisely could presage,
And in Times long and dark Prospective Glass
Fore-saw what future dayes should bring to pass,
Your Son, said she, (nor can you it prevent)
Shall subject be to many an Accident.
O’re all his Brethren he shall Reign as King,
Yet every one shall make him underling,
And those that cannot live from him asunder
Ungratefully shall strive to keep him under,
In worth and excellence he shall out-go them,
Yet being above them, he shall be below them;                        
From others he shall stand in need of nothing,
Yet on his Brothers shall depend for Cloathing.
To find a Foe it shall not be his hap,
And peace shall lull him in her flowry lap;
Yet shall he live in strife, and at his dore
Devouring war shall never cease to roare;
Yea it shall be his natural property
To harbour those that are at enmity.
What power, what force, what mighty spell, if not
Your learned hands, can loose this Gordian knot?                    

The next Quantity and Quality, spake in Prose, then Relation
was call’d by his Name.

Rivers arise; whether thou be the Son,
Of utmost Tweed, or Oose, or gulphie Dun,
Or Trent, who like some earth-born Giant spreads
His thirty Armes along the indented Meads,
Or sullen Mole that runneth underneath,
Or Severn swift, guilty of Maidens death,
Or Rockie Avon, or of Sedgie Lee,
Or Coaly Tine, or antient hallowed Dee,
Or Humber loud that keeps the Scythians Name,
Or Medway smooth, or Royal Towred Thame.

With a sunset stormed in all the evils
A creeping temptation to abomination
A swirling appeal to haphazardness

Then came a wild night when i let things go
An ordinary aberration from a chaotic junction
An occasional stray from a lost path
An intentional overlook of unscrupulous mischief
A through misjudgment under ruthless predicaments

With a sobering dawn i found myself
A delusional justification for foreseen consequences
An unconscientious injection of fleeting remedies
A deliberate neglect for recurring failures
A self-inflicted blindness to vindicate oneself from misery

Then it is a calm morning
Though i know that it is all in the history
I cannot avoid the reappearing of the serene night
Whose other side awaits the furious storm to shatter me down yet again

HANDWRITTEN WORDS OF A MISGUIDED WOMAN

Ayad Gharbawi

February 1, 1989 – Cambridge, Mass., Boston, USA.





A silence dictates
Its hopes essential
That thirst in their intertwined
Hatreds for the
Struggle to breathe
The crowds staggered in their plodding
The howls turned nowhere
Even though they themselves
Really felt that their words
Had so many depths
But at least some flocks did hear these sounds
There was some heat generated
I say I heard roses
Crying gases inert
Their real feelings were soon discoloured
Did you ever understand
The ways and means
Of people?

I heard of clowns dying by suffocating themselves
Quietly
Didn’t they at least
Entertain themselves?
I saw humbled and determined gatherings
Of angry frustrated citizens
But they soon were to hear
The words
Of misunderstood monks
Who finally produced a smile
But their words
Did ramble on and endlessly on
And the winds of their spirits
Were far too directionless
To be of any meaning

Then I saw Hurt
I saw engines crying
They spoke meaningless melodies to me
And I did try to guess
But I screamed
“You engines!” I screamed
“You can never sing, you maniacs!”
My brain
I felt was losing
Its functions
I wasn’t too sure of what functions they were supposed
To do actually
Did you know what those functions
Were supposed to do?
I was not walking straight
And I knew it

Tell me of your cooking
I’ve been hungry for too long
You see
Or, you may see
It’s been too long
And your language destroyed me here
My appetite was killed as well

And your subtle hatreds
Yes, I remembered them all
And I will repay you real for real
What you gave me
I shall give back to you

While a hopeful clown
He
And she
Entertained and spoke in dialects misunderstood
I swear
I even saw smoke
Emanating from your breaths
That gunned me down
Down to my protecting ribs
I never have ever
Seen hatred like this
I confess to you
The units of my poetry have gone mad
And my sense of geometry
Have turned ridiculous
No, I agree
I never hated as much as you did
But I am catching up fast with you all
Jesus
I never guessed
What predicaments Man can debase himself into
And then again
I never realized
What a lowly depth, I too could be forced into
I was stunned
I cried
My name is ‘Ayad’
I thought that was enough
To convince criminals of my innocence

I was not misunderstood
That was incorrect
I was actually understood, quite well
Truth was
Nobody wanted to feel my truth
The speed of life
And human interactions and conversations
Easily bewildered me
And misguided me
I was tempted by the flowers of literature
I was tempted
When I saw independent women
Laughing joyously
I believed
There can exist a time
When loving can exist
In its sheltered solitude
Wherein there exist no indignities
Imagine
That your father
Is never berated
Imagine your mother
Is never to be shouted at

But then
The skies did change their colours
And meanings changed
And with the change of meanings
Intentions did change
Unto whom did the skies turn to?
And where did all the meanings of
Of every philosophy become?
Unto whom did they turn to?

It was almost a birthmark, a death sentence embossed on the deepest crevice on her heart. Grace had always known that the noble blood fleshed her existence. In return of power and glory, she must wear the brightest crown which will light the horizons to a warm shade of amber. That someday she would rise together with the sun and cradle the stars with this invigorating honor.

The princess fancied the notion of becoming next queen for its promised delight as other royals often tell her. Every time she shut death to birthday candles, it was all that she wished from the watching gods above. To be the perfect heir, the ideal ruler, and especially, the greatest candidate for the crown.

From the gardens waved the precocious white bloom of calla lilies. The clouds were a dash of milk frozen from the never ending stretch of blue. Faint chirps of birds echoed around the towers. On the palace ground, Grace acquired skills of a squire, for it was written through time she would defend this very castle in her hands. Days were occupied with lessons and lunches, meetings with lords and charities. She was a lady of compassion, inherited the old queen’s discipline and sophistication. The townspeople loved her greatly. They cherished her like a living ornament caught in a sea of the unlikely. A depiction of a good woman whose soul was constructed to comply with the rules and duties she is given. Accustomed from the expectations, the princess endures hardships, turning predicaments into something magnificent. The entire kingdom was pleased. And only then, the exploring winds tell otherwise.

Nobody knew Grace wanted to dance. There was this rhythm of renaissance enough to make her pointe shoes swoon across the dungeon room, her shadow--the audience. Instead of being entertained by minstrels, she would prefer the empty theater which she calls home whenever the sun sinks a sudden thought of change. Or that one time she secretly headed for the woods, not far from the stream, and put on a show for the skeletal trees to applaud to. A perfect piece of broken melody. That is what she all was. Her desires transformed into a banquet she must not feast on.

Because she is everything the crown is not.

A young amateur star, an artist of fascination, and a dreamer of the unknown. Perhaps, these were enough reasons why she became a magnet for chaos and everlasting detriments. It murdered her during the day-- kissed her a goodnight. The almond eyes that sync with her cinnamon tea, swirling in brown, blinked briny tears. From withstanding the pain, sustaining the hold, even though the harsh fate made its call. The only concept which drove her far is everyone’s acceptance.

But who could she be really? A figment on the stage? If at each glide the eyes foresee her as a rebel, much to her chagrin, who would look at her then? If the depth of the ocean has been buried within her voice, to everyone’s astonishment, who would listen to her anyways? What if she does not fulfill the responsibility which the kingdom predetermined for her, approved of her? Who would love Grace?

She built an empire so high, she cannot climb down her own stairs.

The message of the wind sounded like a terrible lullaby. It was too venomous for her dilemma. Because until this moment, this scenery, this pronounced living, she never stop hoping that one day, she will no longer be a stranger to herself. When the archbishop lifted the crown from the velvet cushion, the stones shimmered its vow as the brightest. The Queen’s authority shined through all of them. Before she sheds a tear, it already settled on her head, delicate and ethereal, faultless. Grace realized she spent most of her life fitting the crown which does not belong to her in any form.

No! She is not going to mourn another morning, nor sleep the night with a heavy heart. Fear might threatened to slit her throat, but she was not having it! The princess unveiled her mask and hurled the kingdom’s crown beyond the assembly.

“What a disgrace!” They thundered.

The formation of her identity is what stunned the people. None of them expected such disaster to occur, due to this, her royal majesty has sent all white horses in search of the beloved child. Nowhere to be found, her linen dresses flickered in fire while the crowd stared in horror. And she was nothing, but a forgotten soul.

Trees were once again clothed in green after the icy blaze of winter. The princess raced through the minty grasses and drank the enchanting smell of lilac, almost like a doe playing in the wild. She felt light as a feather, dancing in joyful exuberance. Other girls joined her below the white sunshine as they twirled and sang. It was the perfect moment to reveal the blind side buried for so many times. The blood that once dripped in the glass of her ill-reflection began to fill the rims of imperfection. Luminescence was so brilliant she had to squint to see.

The brightest crown anyone can wear is to be their true selves. No matter who you were born to, or where you live, despite the obstacles, and consequences. It does not make you less of a person, for you already are complete.

She was not a disgrace. It is still Grace after all.

THIS GRACE…

The inside's come out of the skin. Nothing is satirical. It's just not funny. Spiderwebs on the elbows and cancer coming into the ears. Hair is everywhere and all of a sudden. The writer risks blue and black blood for another second of this bliss cessation. But cleverly, sins and bedevilments come. They hide poorly or not at all. bump they go go go in the daytime while I am fastening sleep and heating up.
     The cadaver masterpiece is happening again. The same as it always was for has beens when their lucid dreaming raises the rage in their real lives.
     There isn't a safe-word, just a blanket. Two tee-shirts with signatures, and lingerie that lacks a heartbeat.
     Half a tooth brush missing the rest of its teeth, and a knit panda hat empty from above the bottom of its feet.
    To be sick of it does not make a difference. If broccoli was the word, Dana Carvey would have come to chop it up.

When it breathes my pores leak nostalgia from the predicaments; We pretended to grow up. This isn't the adventure season I hoped for. I could see the page crawling up the street beside every single cigarette I threw across the parkway. Now Michael styles the mercury, while those grown ups we knew cry themselves into a blur; Like a movie they just couldn't escape, or the way they met one half of chaste, there are just some things that shouldn't be erased.

Playing with a bazooka while emptying my ice box. I build on schemes of crazy the d oh d just wishes they could ignore. I drink lemonade, you drink lemonade. IPA after motherf*ing IPA. It is or it isn't but I'd thought you had enough trying typhoid drip one after another hysterical catastrophe. Dear I was poisoned from an ill-witted sickness, I messed around with your Blackjack and doubled-down into two black diamonds. Instead of learn'd weekly abuse.
                                                          Our island on a hundred dollar towel. An eroteme waiting to implode. Four periods every other week, I just waited for the mouse to roll.

gut rot
migraines.
painful exploding pressure of the skull
does not eat
hearing increase
eyesight improvement
proudly made in the u.s.a.
chipped nail polish comes off middle fingers
does not sleep
erupts verbally
bleeds from fingertips
hates. hurts.
Be is the short form of Is
She has eyes that tell her truths
That bruise youth
But do not amuse
Ferris Bueller's muse
Silver too. Haircut rivalries.
Privy eyewitness testimonies
For assassinations that haven't
Begun happening. But rapt
The veiling attachment,
Froth of words, the disaster
Never brings.
Lies upon lies upon lies
Until we both stood up.

Declared to be the home of the ants,
the barn was, also, shared by the dogs
and the big lizards who stored
formidable teeth opposite the nipping
mandibles.  Each moment the favorite

spaces became temples traversed by
wandering dotted lines while,
certainly, a pause to clean the claws

gave time for articles of memory.  Attire
provided a music festival to brighten the
warm days with delicate sounds within
dark recesses where chilly dust filtered
the beams to secure the rafters.  Along

these trails, the plight was relieved; the
threat was removed to slumber waiting

for a wind swept rush of fur.  Pulling
the shutters back from the eyes, the
working specks of the ants proclaimed
their choices and followed these
implications into predicaments leading
them to be wise.  The influence

demonstrated the passing of lives into
praise for the correct answers by which
the ways advanced to persist.  There was
plenty of empty, sweet time hovering
above their heads yet leaving them
impatient to see a transpired eternity,

gathered in a massive tribe, ready to
explore the encroaching season with its
microscopic grasses and piles of stone.

As an institution, the old, red building

weathered its boards in the valley,
forgotten by more pragmatic industries
in cans and bottles of plastic.  To wear
the collar of the ant or the lizard was a

rare honor not granted in the homes

of many house wives.  It was as rare as
gold to find lodging with the fascinating
mercy of the human outlook.  It was a
great deal of trouble to look after these
others, small or large as they might be.
Seemingly, it was difficult to explain the

logic intended to regulate the wild,
independent lives, and, as they were
misguided, an anger tended to drive them
closer rather than away.  Under the skin,
it was very close to an intolerable form of
humor, but what explained itself as being
very funny also remained the hostility
alienated and inevitable, like the slamming
horns of the sheep and goats, like the poetry
of the birds and the herds.

Today I woke up and saw blood run down my nose,
The wetness shocked me like water from a hose,
As I searched myself I came across many lines,
Far more than a person my age should have designed,
Upon my canvas also lies a bit of weight,
Not enough for muscles just enough to be in shape,
My entire body is covered in a throw of fur,
Mentally I could never give into shaving, it's absurd,
Why should I change the Lords work?
My moms work, my pops work, it's what I'm worth,
Physically, I'm far from a perfect being,
But, who can seriously claim to be perfect, see
A crease from furrowed brows and tough thoughts,
Is what's needed for many to eventually get across,
The bridge that holds our destiny,
If we're true to ourselves then soon we'll see,
That each one of us is one of the worlds instruments,
A tool to be used in whatever way to represent,
The total collectiveness of our spirit,
The human spirit and the lives that go near it,
Social justifications for monstrous actions,
Aren't enough to give any sense of satisfaction,
The mind is only of a single individual,
As such the thoughts of others and their ridicule,
Is not enough to influence a movement or a truth,
An idea can spread contagions to the youth,
Through them and so on the ways get passed on,
Thrown out are false ideas and politicians who were lax on,
The middle and under man and their predicaments,
**** their lack of care, we are Gods fingerprints,
For whom the bells toll, hands fly up and grab,
Our faces by the cheeks and together we will laugh,
Because a world of unity comes after the stage fright,
Look at the anonymous who fight each day and each night,
The wordless texts written on marketing magazines,
The muted audio coming from blanketed screens,
A voiceless march on solders of love,
A war on peace will flare out in blood,
The thin red line that traces arches outside of my nose,
It works it's way left then right, to and fro,
A painting on the working canvas of my soul,
Colors swirling and mixing just outside the window,
Lies potential waiting to be tapped,
Along with my own, it's the wane to be attacked,
Through ambivalent works we are attached,
Malevolent words are weakness in the face of intelligence, wrath.

Wrath is the enemy of the dreams we have earned,
The dreams that have been worked for, burned for and yearned for,
Oh Lord, the chore is hard to absorb,
Which is why more is to be given,
For more are willing, to lend themselves to the cause of children,
And old men and women, trapped in prisons and similar buildings, Westboro baptist churches and terrorist organizations,
Government agents, with Wes Craven woven situations,
A nightmare is on Elm street, and your street and my street,
Even if you don't see it, you can hear it,
The gunshots may not ring off near your house,
But the ambulance goes past your house to the ER in clouds,
And out of your mouth comes "I hope they're fine, wow."
But in truth it's a passing moment in your own life, wow.

Just like that, it's the fragility of things,
A bird of Hermes eating it's own wings,
Reality based upon countless simplicities,
Recipes are made from human soliloquies,
Stories passed down ****** and through ink,
Written tales of woe and tales of victory,
Strategies to make the mind seek peace,
In mournful situations where bodies reek,
Media slavery and private prison sceneries,
Are overbearing distortions of American Dreams,
Big Brother is only a few decades from being,
Oceania, Eurasia, and Eastasian countries,
Are already practicing a form of doublethink,
Freedom of thought is the freedom of newspeak,
Guy Fawkes, wake up kids, nothing is as it seems,
The revolution is now and forever recurring.

This poem is written by Majd Al Deen and I ...
I wish you consider it as well as enjoy it

               ☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Every time I look around
And ponder the things we obtain
listening to the winds sound
coming from beyond the terrain

Filling my soul from inside
Brushing all the stress and pain
Opening my eyes on a side
That we are all a brain

Not only does an ***** feed on blood supplies
But It's how you stay sane
It's where your personality lies
It's where the great thoughts ingrain

We search for miracles
And we have one; our heads maintain
Nerve cells with the shape of verticals
Are that only what brains contain ?

Our souls lie within
We try not to let them drain
Our dreams, our memories are all in
They are like an unlimited chain

We love, we live, we write our story with a pen
On a marvelous paper called a brain
Our blood is our ink
And it keeps circultaing all over again

You receive,  it responds
That is why we feel pain
But emotions are like ponds
Happiness, passion and the excitement we gain

In the most difficult predicaments
You tend to use your brain
With it you overcome impediments
Which makes your way plain !

10% is all what we use
But don't you ever complain
It's a gift that we shouldn't abuse
However, a gem you must retain

Grandparent’s parents friend’s wise neighbors our generation right now and individuals as well are
Seeing and feeling an assault our world war is in domestic and business on a global scale we have such
Help and blessing in those lives and voices many social elements such as front porches are gone
Replaced by rear patois it says private more than it says welcome we can revisit those times and places
Just recall those precious faces right there you have created a calm place the most needed reality of our
Times those powerful forces can walk out and meet the storm yes it will blow threaten and frighten but
Stand or set mull or muse but by all means deeply entertain their collective memory they spoke words
That reached forward to our time they did what you’re doing now they restored brokenness from
Broken People who called to their past and found normal everyday people that cast giant shadows of
Thought Experience and victories that were won in indescribable places of hardship they passed a place
And started to weep deep wounds were exposed and it caused you to look at them with curiosity and as
You did you see the lives and their successes you were bolstered and became proud you need to
Channel that into your life those sweet memories are building materials of love and care they were and
Are guardians with keys and weapons many a hill and upset they faced it is and was their greatest
Concern that they instilled these truths in your life you have to remember the continued stare they gave
You they were trying to see if you were getting it you will serve yourself well to remember those
Priceless times it came in all climes gray days’ sunshine or rain I think the rainy days were best I want to
insert this piece it will help
Secrets Revealed by the Rain
The girl of special quality and beauty set looking out through her rain stained window he was passing by
So he snapped her picture it created a moist foggy connection to the world that is seldom seen
Aloneness reached through the glass a tinged soft sorrow ran greater than the edge of the picture eyes
Were fixed with longing but what only the soul could address that question maybe in miles or in days
That ran back to lost love or maybe it was searching through hope to find a bright future where the man
Of Her dreams was walking in her direction maybe she could see through the rain and it allowed her to
Make a decision that she had wrestled with for many days and on a steamy streaming window she
Found power to release her emotions let spread and dissolve into a different form that would be her
Guide out of limitations a quiet note the perfect cord that underscored what she was leaning toward
Before her world was to cut and dry now with the assistance of a window pane and the beautiful falling
Rain she could ***** in a great arching that encompassed great and small natural points that speak in
Their essential language from what they are and how they relate to one another in the grander scale
Moments of fluid motion instilled in her the gift of wondering and from branches to soft tuffs of grass
To the glory that is all around in the sky and on this sacred land to her was described truth that pierced
The maze of confusion that to her were a fault and an intrusion that is only bridged over water if it is
Only As deep as glass in a simple window but it truly can refigure the world and give right assessment to
To problems that hold you in a tangle of predicaments and it is so funny how they loosen when you
Spread your vision through the width and height of a rainy day window and through a connected
Unseen desire but one that is deeply felt you touch the unseen and wisdom comes on **** frost and
Writes to you a secret message for your eyes only that in detail clears all the doubt and confusion away
And leaves you beaming out on a changed world not unlike yourself that has been changed also and it
All Occurred through the most pleasant frosted glass
Take this stimulation a warm cup of tea you get the idea what is most mutual and beneficial go
With it as your guide you will see the gentle rolling hills smooth country roads that fall away
And you will ask who painted such skies of peace that speak and reach so refreshingly into my
Souls you were given life but at no time were you ever said now go on your own and don’t bother
Me how much you suffer will be determined by how much you Forget Him and all the helps he
Built into your life we are children and we can’t win without our Father and mother earth is our
Mother as He designed it our Founding Fathers the community fathers our earthy father’s that he
Gave call remember him and the riches of life will be known your poverty will vanish your
status will be what children they are can anyone ask for better

Let me hear him, let me hear him

Whose tongue does emphasize

A drama of frenzied elements

Impoverished by ridicule of vicious energies

That try to shape coherent form

Between contending factions

Thus registering predicaments

In a tragedy of vivid language

That mutilates a cannibalism of words

Getting it

First this will be short and sweet I feel I have lost the connection. I need to stop read refill the tank or at least purify return intensified
Any way what I get is light I admit I didn’t get the appreciation of light in New Mexico first not being a painter or into photography
Is a hindrance then going to Santa Fe was for me just like the grass hills of California this is different than the desert scene around Taos
When you first enter from Texas on the east its Identical to Colorado I did get the action from the light gliding down the high way at
Different lengths of the sun with classical music that I never otherwise listen to the purple sage is a wonder and the drive to California
Through the southern route it is tremendous it is a Painted Desert mesas red cliffs arroyos adobe architecture the bare and sad housing of
Our first people no manner of light helps all it does is darken your mood and lets anger flare to drop back to the most common light
In the home there again it depends on the amount years ago or at least the houses I lived in didn’t have ceiling lights just lamps in the
Corners even as a kid I knew that was bogus it would been fine in a castle the dark texture and gloom would have set the place off just
Right but in a modern house you felt this darkness fine for barbarians to roar in but was off putting now the light drenches shines on
glass table tops deepens off of black leather gives large black flat screen television a feel of art again never one to be in the market but
I have searched for ever for a painting that would touch me so deeply have an effect that was unforgettable a lot of times I have gotten
Close but not yet I find it in nature and along highways see a farmhouse across the fields in the distance the widows a blaze in sunlight
And then continue another later in evening twilight diffused soft a low glow somehow the soul is engaged like at no other time the soul
Must identify as it works to soften as a filter the harder harsher outside life predicaments you appreciate a fence line especially one let
Go from painted white to weathered gray tuffs of grass protrude the gold and gray complement one another add the splash of proper
Sunlight gorgeous or a painting an aged city with the narrow street a house bathed from its own color by bright sun light have the
Door ajar dark shadows for a short distance show sparse furniture your mind can invent the family show their hard existence
Deepening perfecting the painting the ocean waves the delightful green seen in the curl reaches farther than the shore most days seem common
But then those days not quiet even time but the sun flares it holds a golden flash the green grass every tip fired to perfection trees buildings blazed
In a special glory wonderful undying light divides darkness enhances makes it endearing I get that much and that is enough for now
Until the master of light vanquishes all darkness that is evil then we will finally really see

Leave Jealousy be.
It'll burn a hole in your gut
And flip your world upside down as if it was already like this from the start.
It'll last forever.
your predicaments will triple each time you age
And there wont be a pen and paper lying around to help solve your equations

Trust me.
Ive been living where my chest is the center of gravity
Between the sun and the rest of the solar system.
Impossible it is to describe this push-pull phenomenon, from top to bottom.

So turn on the tv
Plug in the XBox
Play some basketball or hockey
Grind them Shooter games
or even watch Netflix.

Leave Jealousy be,
Trust me,
I've finished one Leap Year Cycle completely.

Run, don't ever stop.

So frail she is, aged too,
but what I see every time
is a frozen leaf resisting
falling snow and whistling gale.

The grace she exudes grips
every time she passes me
in the morning or evening
her smile electrifies me without fail

In my bones it echoes, I felt
each smile brings instant delight,
I feel like it spreads in to my being
unlike the hollow smiles thrown at you.

What remains after one is gone
is to be felt much later by others
but to make the hollow deeply felt
in absence, their gifts in mind should persist.

what makes that huge difference,
now I grasp, her heart that has seen
many seasons, of human predicaments
and beaten in resonance.instantaneously
strikes a chord, with all, it's music to ears.

And it's a moment none would easily forget
she reflects the timeless grace humans acquire
through a life lived fully in mindfulness
I am embraced by grace, when her smile is gifted.

What remains when she has gone
is a serene sense of fulfillment, for having met
a luminous being, who without even a word
or touch, could make others feel nice and be better.

I'm filled with aches and cavities,
concave heart
hollow lips.
I can't be your salvation
You can't be my elixir.
There is no cure to be found.
We're too young to save each other,
weak hands
intertwined like
predicaments of bittersweet,
frail blue eyes
like cities of crystal
staring quietly, relentlessly.

This is a *******
emotional scavenger
with no way out,
and we both know
this thing will never
have a chance
to stand on it's own
t                              f
w                           ­ e
o                             e
                               t

Who am I?
I am the Skeptic type,
Surfacing placid as each side creates waves,
Pulling on heart strings for their own self ameliorate,
Heated controversy focusing on Health care, Religion,
and Hunger debates,
Inevitably resulting in ******* up charges for war to undertake.

Equality's repercussions leaving our freedoms at stake,
While inflating our Economy
only the rich take the cake,
Consistently keeping the poor at bay,
One resolution would be to properly educate.

Before you sell into the poison they produce to control and degenerate,
Look into the disputes staged to manipulate,  
Open your eyes and see we're being left with no other options but to obey,
For when they deny you your right to bear arms The Constitution goes up in a fury of flames,
As we sit back and watch as they replay the tape.

I am free yet I am caged,
Caressing the bars of black and white mind frames,
Constructed to destroy thought and leave the masses divided
in a collective state of confusion as their questions remain,
I no longer associate with my neighbors today.

Empathy is a far cry full of ache,
Frayed by the misconception that lives are part of a game,
Monopolies and greed breed nothing but hate,
As a silenced homeless Veteran plays his violin drowning in pain.

We're left searching for some kind of circumvent,
In a country that prides itself upon convenience,
Our golden gates are not always what they seem,
If born into poverty your chances can seem some what foreboding.

Think of the future aside from your own
and find hope in opportunities for the much needed change we all see and know,
With so many imperative predicaments there is plenty of room for growth,
Obstacles only providing the likelihood to overcome and to approach ,
For strength does not accumulate for those who are not familiar with struggle,
With all these unresolved culminations there is plenty to live and fight for despite your troubles.

i have given hearing
to deaf ferocious monsters
with well meaning incompetence
i have disturbed the reality
and illusion of human identity
where i am enmeshed
in insoluble confusions of difficulties
where i find strange images
touching on the grotesque
and ask what is myself
what are the guarantees
of my identity
by what right is a name possessed
by what means is my individuality secured
these questions in my mind
have a curiously derivative quality
that pretend to govern themselves
where they collaborate in their own oppression
and make assumptions upon
ethical behaviour and social institutions
which represent fictions rather than fact
function in a world of collapsing distinctions
of artificial precepts
where these now hearing monsters
with vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment of intense
exhausting experience of  a mind
spiraling vertiginously
toward an inner chaos that proclaims
I am myself alone without moral constraints
yet register vast predicaments
with the memorability of vivid language
but with an individual rapaciousness
that creates an amalgam of narratives
with the oppressive weight of the past
designed to induce this evaluative vertigo
with such ferocity to produce a turmoil of demons
monsters of evil, whose viciousness is vividly stamped
upon their bodies that declares
their fathomless malice sending my mind
into a cruelly disassembling nature
where i have given hearing
to deaf ferocious monsters

i discovered philosophy late, i guess the best age to lose your literate virginity to the subject is best asserted aged 21, prior to that i read, traded Linkin Park's hybrid theory for a favourite book of mine by Stendhal with a friend, spotted in a second hand bookstore near Trafalgar Sq., i read Sartre's human comedy where with unabashed delivery he copies the ending of James Joyce's Ulysses, a stream of consciousness where there is no punctuation, a river of words, a great metaphorical technique, forget punctuation, leave the reader making his own indentations... the book in question? iron in the soul, a mimic of Ulysses, absolutely no punctuation, again a metaphor of a maxim by Heraclitus... and you know what sort of heaven i believe in? a place were you can find how each reader punctuated the text, you can see what punctuation was used where, otherwise, all punctuation was missing - i need to find this library.

i know i can have an obstructive demeanour,
but i'm shoving these swear words in your
face like i'd be shoving you pictures of torture or
*******, ****'s for real, you can't be serious
to suppose seeing a correct spelling is worth
a f ** or mm mm mm something or other, can you?
a little bit of criticism goes a long way,
now that i found out that i'm part of the 1.8 million
threshold,
force of nature writing a sociology essay
plagiarising to beat the system of anti-plagiarism
on purpose, not that i'd be found out but that i
wanted to see how plagiarism-proof the system was,
i just cheated using the synonym principle,
and it does indeed exist, received a 1st plagiarising
someone else's work by being a grammatical plumber
or electrician, hell a barber or a hairdresser if you like!
fiddle a word here, fiddle a word here,
do the most obscene mindless regurgitation of theory
imaginable, yep, the synonym principle,
a bit like deep blue v. Kasparov, only i was smarter
than deep blue... the infinite diadems of language
as appropriated by individuation, no wonder this
phonetic encoding produced the omni- to which
everything was ascribed in that unit of connectivity
spelled g o d... Kant does indeed mention this, for about
40 pages he's stressing a simplicity, something that has
to be simple, something necessary and something
simple... some key phrases:
defined throughout all categories (praedikamente)
or quiet simply "unavoidable" predicaments (well
"unavoidable" because it's already apparent that a large
number of people prefer to kneel and mumble
the our father and desire a pope's pomp of attire),
a german word for fiction (erdichtung),
i still need to find out what scil. abbreviation means,
highest entity (ens summum),
highest thing would begin with res... summum
i.e. the sun,
                    i mean i could list all the examples, but what
a waste of time if you haven't read it yourself,
40 pages? give it about three hours, and oddly enough,
listening to Salmonella Dub's inside the dub plates
album... outside in the garden measuring adequate
light with the setting of the sun, i can get lost for hours,
perhaps adoration for this subjects stems from a lack of
care, or the simplest imaginable life, a life were
"reality" is unquestionable, in that you have so few problems
that you have to invent problems, metaphysics;
you didn't actually think my interest in this field is
purely pretentious? i find the hardest thing in written
philosophy is: a. disengagement from internalised cognitive
dialectics that makes Popper a bit like Heidegger
tongue-tied in an incompetent lack of persuasion
(i.e. anti-rhetorical) of their own arguments,
and b. the adjective, i mean, come on, pure reason?
what the hell is impure reason then? oh i know, a thousand
psychological profiles, you see the critique of impure
reason all the time under the curtains of our social endeavour,
criminals, news flash of horrific stories, all the ****** time...
for goodness sake Kant mocks malignant gossiping /
the socially acceptable form of lying as the least of your worries
that doesn't extend to mugging or stabbing you,
some might just now exclaim with a phew;
but 40 pages and what not, a horror movie scene...
a man walks into a supermarket,
puts a beer and a bottle of coke into his basket,
walks into the hard liquor isle, his cheap-*** whiskey isn't there,
he asks the shelf stacker if she could get a bottle
for him... so she goes to the storage room,
the man ends up waiting about fives minutes
looking at Sharon fruit, apples and roll-mops of
pickled herring, bread and t.v. magazines at a distance,
the woman comes back with a whole trolley of goods
that need to be stacked, but she says to him
that she needs to put on the security tag on the bottle
(standard procedure in English supermarkets),
and the man is like, huh? i'm going to buy it in a second
and you're telling me that you'll actually put on a
security tag on the bottle, just so another supermarket
employee will have to take off for absolutely no
******* reason? this is what routine does to you...
an elephant just walked through the room and you
only realised 10 minutes later after memory electrocuted
you for a snap reminder.

The Again And Again Praise

Jesus, Heavenly

Father,

Thank you for the

again and again

Answers,

Blessings,

Deliverances,

I know that I need you still again and again,

However,

I know that the battle you have already won,

Jesus I know and before all declare you as my

Savior,

And God’s son,

Yet,

Having said all that,

This does not mean that I will not have to come

to you again and again,

You are aware of this and that is how you said

for it to be,

Depending on you for all and everything,

I thank you for always making provision for all

my needs and

for totally forgiving my sins, taking away

penalties and understanding me,

I so dearly need your help,

Deliverance,

Care,

Love,

Acceptance,

Forgiveness,

And,

Protection,

Every kind of blessing that I am in advance

thanking you for

and that I am always confessing again and again,

When my enemies try to make me ashamed that I

need you again and again,

Strengthen me Lord Jesus with your anointed

caring favor,

When I fall weak from the battle at your alter

sometimes in despair,

Please send the help that I prayed for and need

from far and near,

You are the God who never sleeps or

Forgets anything ever except my sins,

So again and again here I am,

Pouring out my heart,

Anguish,

Despondency,

Frustration,

Dilemmas,

Predicaments,

Disappointments,

Stress and troubles,

And yes,

As usual,

I need you again and again,

Sometimes it is family troubles,

Sometimes it is marriage difficulties,

Sometimes my selfish unforgiving attitude,

Yet, forgiveness is what I’ll need the most,

Sometimes it is financial crisis,

Sometimes it is flesh control issues that may be,

Gluttony,

******,

Dishonesty,

Cursing,

Profanity,

Temper,

Neglect,

And yes, I need deliverance form these or that,

Most times it may be deliverance from cruel

enemies that are quite shrewd,

That plan my demise constantly and down fall,

The strife and ending of my life,

They plot and schedule my humiliation and

disgrace,

They put me on display the same way they did

you on many a day,

They strategize my dilemmas,

They set up the trials and trauma that bring tears

to my face,

But,

Again and again,

You send your deliverance,

You apply your mercy and grace,

You grant the favor and answers to my petitions,

All my trespasses and sins under your salvation

plan are totally forgiven,

And although I learn righteous lessons through

the trials and the load I through humility bear,

Still,

Again and again I thank you for always blessing

me,

Sending deliverance and,

Again,

Always being there.

www.authorthelmacunningham.com

I stare steadily
with great interest and
the unrivaled concentration
usually reserved for tasks
such as bravely attempting the
(ever-humbling)
Sunday crossword,
clinging to the fragments
of the dream
desperately trying to escape
with each new moment
you are awake,
and other endeavors that hint at grave importance.

The solutions to my life's predicaments
haven't yet turned up,
but, just in case I could find them here,
I will continue to refill and
search to bottom of this coffee cup.

My moods drain me down
To some immoderate sluice-gate,
They run down the grainy windows,
Clog the sand in the top of the hour-glass
Like bat's tears, like misplaced rainstorms
Looking for a cloud to hang out under.

All my temperaments are accidental,
Wrongly placed; too early or too late
Miscarriages of intention,
Predicaments of inattention.

All the inconsequential moments I inhabit,
I'm wearing thin, from changing my mind too often-
Why is there no groove for thinking,
No energy-saving secret gear?

Sometimes I sit absolutely still
In an uncomfortable position,
Hoping the powers that be will notice me;
Will see that I'm going nowhere, so slowly
And they will send some tempest to help move me along.

I'm also afraid they will send change;
The paralytic not only can't move,
He knows he can never move,
And his biggest fear
Is being thought capable of movement.

In that rapid swirling down the drain,
He wants someone to snag him on a branch,
Save and reclaim his manhood;
Not sit in a tree and watch him spiraling,
While repeating over and over,
Why don't you save yourself?

He knows it's too late for words;
The tears only add to the swelling river.
And if once I thought there was a savior on every corner,
I guess I just got tired of waiting-
Because the ones in the mirror only close their eyes now.

Normalcy both appalls and comforts me-
Why does it all appear so average,
As you go sprawling head first over the falls:
You know nobody elses life will change one iota,
And you know you're just paying some bill
You never even saw.

I'm inside of the d*** on purpose;
the last couple of plates you've dropped
& kept eating from, and I wish you'd just be careful.

I only wanted for the grass on this side to stay green, but I certainly wouldn't have minded if you sat down.

I don't like trying to squeeze between your ribs but I know I left something good there.
Like, how I should have been less than a stranger the longer we kissed until it backfired and now it's the mouth making all of my decisions while your hand covers my heart.

& It was never about bodies /
I wouldn't know how to worship anything
& peace of mind has never been very gently priced so I'll overpay in the form of self destructive predicaments and overused adjectives, pretending everything's okay when I can't hear any of the rhymes anymore.

Darkness creeps up in the crimson
Dyed room in shades of blue black
I still hear his sultry voice
Echoing in the back of my mind
"Well, No" was deafening
And my heart sunk at the sound
Of those two simple words

Perhaps the torrential rain
Will erode the predicaments that have Accumulated in the
Depths of my internal

A flash of lightning lightens
The room and the pungent odor
Of history lingers like stale potatoes

A happy, but blurry past
Buried under a thick foliage of Tears re-surfaces and my heart
Sinks even more deeper

My night full of confusion,
The whirlwind of thoughts
Impairing my mind,
Words that escaped his lips
Are the eye of Tropical Cyclones
Cascading down on me.
An indecent dream flares out like Petals of wild flower,
And eyes once starry
Now bleed black ink tears.

Fear remains, as it always does
When lightning bolts blend in
With the wails of a broken heart
And my walls are crumbling down