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Jay Jun 2018
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Grief is such a strange emotion/process.

*Oh my! Thank you all so much for your support! I wrote this back in June when I needed to get it out of my head and had no idea it was chosen as a daily until I just logged back on and thought there was a glitch with my notifications number. I was slightly mortified that a piece of my mourning got exposure but after reading your comments I'm glad that I documented something many of you identified with. I've since journeyed a bit farther in my grief- slowly overcoming my initial instinct of trying to instantaneously analyze every feeling to determine whether I'm "allowed" to have it. I went to a group bereavement meeting offered by the hospital that treated the loved one in this poem and the nurse running the session made a good point- no one can fully understand another person's relationship with an individual who's passed on. Interpersonal relationships are unique and so is grieving. Being gentle with yourself (especially in times of struggle) is woefully underrated. And with that, I send love, gratitude, and positive vibes to this wonderful community
Delta Swingline Feb 2018
My birthday comes in a little over 2 weeks and I think when people talk about birthdays, they are secretly talking about status in blocked hours.

Somewhere in that 24 hour block, a person was born, and that person was me. .....well Yay I guess.

I don't like my birthday. And the reasons for that, are more complicated than you think.

When I was 13, I was really into cupcake birthday cakes. I asked for one, every year, for a long time.

When I turned 15 and 16, my best friend baked me cupcakes and brought them to school for me, and I shared them with my peers. You see, I considered her my best friend, and I guess that's not enough to be the best friend.

It's like unrequited love if you put poisonous platonic friendship in my blood first.

When I turned 17, she did baked me my last set of cupcakes, but I no longer had a best friend. So I spent my birthday mentally by myself while my family sang otherwise.

And right now, I hate cupcakes, and superhero films because they remind me of her. But saying that is the weakest thing to do, since everything, reminds me of her.

I will never admit I loved her, the same way she will shamelessly say she never loved me. I can't hate her, but I can't see her without hating myself.

You know age, goes up, the same way sadness, goes down. Pulling you into another 24 hour block just so you can say.

"Hey. I made it another day."

I will admit that every day without her is another day without cupcakes, and another day without sugar is another day without happiness. And people may have asked me "How can you flip-flop between preferences like you're not the biggest homosexual in the closet." So when I tell people I'm straight, they tell me I'm not allowed to change my mind.

I loved her, but she left me and took all of my friends with her. And I thought that real friends wouldn't abandon me, but there is always time to be wrong. By the time my birthday comes, I'll be crying, and she doesn't even remember what day my birthday is on.

By the time I read this out loud, I will have been through this birthday, like a person walks through fire. Turning 16 is less about age, then it is about school, and turning 18, is less about the number, and more about becoming an adult. And no amount of adult can neutralize pain.

I have accepted the fact that no man will ever really want to marry me. And no Christian, will ever truly want to love me.
And if I am wrong, I will have to repeat this lost love forever dragging it out in my life.

And if I have kids one day, do you really think...

That I'm going to tell everyone if it's a boy or a girl...

By making blue or pink...

Charles Coonz May 2015
My thoughts now live in the cloud,
My moments, wishes and hopes,
Opinions, preferences, scopes

Our loved ones live in the cloud,
Their Voices are screaming out loud,
“We hope you all make us proud”.

Our Selves now live in the cloud.
The future, present and past,
A shadow we eagerly cast.

The things we have renounced,
So hard to claim it back

There’s more than meets the eye,
The Cloud is just a lie.
A distopian poem
XIII Apr 2015
Life is just a matter of regret preferences.
Choose wisely.
Lindsey Graham May 2015
I look at her
And wonder how
Such a perfect person
Could be created

I guess I always fall for
Blond hair
blue eyes
Old Blue Jun 2013
I hate how the words
"Lesbian," "Gay," "Bisexual," et cetera
Are thought of as bad words.

It's like, oh, no, don't teach your little sister the word lesbian
Don't tell her there are some girls who like other girls
How inappropriate!

It's like, oh, no, don't teach your little brother the word gay
Don't tell him there are some boys who like other boys
How disgusting!

Don't let anyone under the age you deem appropriate know
That there are people who aren't heterosexual
I can't possibly understand why.

There is no reason for homophobia, not really.
I saw a metaphor somewhere that went something like this:
"I was in Subway, and I bought myself a ham sub. As I was paying, the man behind me bought a different sub than me, and I was immediately offended that he got a different sandwich."
This is what it sounds like when people say homosexual people affect them.
How do they affect you?

Just because they don't love someone who is of the opposite ***
Or just because they like both
Or something else
Just because of their ****** preference, no matter what it may be
You think that gives you reason to hate them? Really?
Just because they're different than the 'normal' you're used to?
Normality is relative.
You can't say it's not "normal."
That is not a justified nor sensical argument.

What is wrong with those people?
Can't they just see past all their biases and realize that we're all people
And we all deserve the same rights no matter who we're attracted to
No matter who we kiss
No matter who we touch
No matter who we have *** with
Is it really that difficult?

We're all humans when it comes down to it, and we all deserve the same rights.
Everyone should be able to see that.

And you know what I wonder?
Why are we voting on whether people deserve rights or not in the first place?

And then there's people who act like homosexuality is a disease
People who act like anyone who is anything but heterosexual is broken and needs to be fixed

They're not broken.
They don't need to be fixed.
They are who they are, and the government shouldn't tell them what they can and cannot do
Based simply and only on who they're attracted to.

"You can't get married because you aren't straight."
Do you realize how shallow that is? Do you?
"You're disgusting because you aren't straight."
Why should it matter to you who they're in a relationship with?
It's their life, their decision.

No one ever asks heterosexual people why they're heterosexual.
No one ever says, "Hey, when did you decide you were straight?"
It's just ridiculous, and I'm fed up of it.

"If gay marriage is legalized, more people will become gay."
Oh, yeah, sure, of course, that will totally happen.
Just like when African Americans were given rights
Everyone decided they wanted to go out and become African American.
Just like when women were given rights
Everyone decided they wanted to go out and become female.

People of all sorts of sexualities and preferences have grown up
With mostly straight media everywhere
It didn't "turn" them straight.
So gay media won't "turn" anyone gay
It won't hurt anyone if there's a gay couple in a commercial.
Or a TV show.
Or any other form of media.

It makes me sick to think that just because of your personal opinion
My friends who are not heterosexual would not be allowed to get married
To the person that they love.

Do you know what will happen if gay marriage is legalized?
Gay people will get married.

Why can't you just understand that it doesn't matter?
Why should you care what they do?
Why should you care who they like?

It doesn't affect you.
It doesn't change you.
It's just giving LGBT people more control over their own lives.
It's just giving LGBT people rights they should have had in the first place.

Sorry this wasn't much of a poem, it was just something I had to get off my chest.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.the moral obligation, to be cognitively dissident; which has to align with Heiddeger's da-sein at some point... a piquant fervor for reality as: static, yet at the same time moving in the realm of the Titans / orbs - time, is a concept that has to match up to the orbs... otherwise all this space... whatever the wind, the clouds... is just static... inanimate... time could only be derived from animate objects, which became subjects which became momentum... the rest, the rest is just space, and its excesses of the vacuous night... space became a probing mechanism, an investigative vector, posit, charge.

now you call me a germanophile...
like a Caligula or some
odd ****...

kennts ihr selbst:

    know your self...

which is a reflective form of
the reflexive Anglo
counterpart: yourself.

so i noticed...
whenever i become, really,
and i mean really reactionary
(not angry)
i tend to drift into
writing in my native tongue...

mother tongue,

   but it's the opposite in Moscow...
   and the epitome
of the Cyrillic?

                well... there was
a St. Cyrill...
            but father-tongue just
sounds so ****** stupid
in English...

maybe in German?
              well... sure as **** that
sounds better than mutterzunge...
but hey,
preferences preference preferences,
not everyone says: om, om,
ooh, chocolate,
       when taking a bite of a ****.
ryn Jan 2015
I recently got reminded... Oh how I am caught
In a delicate web of disillusions
Make me see what is actually not
Make invisible my heart's secret questions

Been successful in putting aside all grief
But truth has it's way to make you pay
You can bury all grievances; you can mask all disbelief
But it'll all catch up; these things you've kept at bay

Make your silly compromises
To have the the best you just make allowances
Keep up your futile pretences
Accommodate your selfish preferences

Day had dawned where each question need their answer
Questions I've shrugged and left unaddressed
Indistinguishable when fact and fiction begin to blur
When dreams and reality have coalesced

Tonight I lay with the load I bring
Body asleep with my heart fully awake
Blessing or curse, this rude awakening
Decisions and choices left for the following suns to make
Nik Krutilla Oct 2012
I had this thought when I was younger,
That I had to know who I was and who I wanted to be,
By a certain time in my life.
That, when a stranger asked me to tell them about myself
I should have a designated answer in the form of linguistic description.
Full disclosure of self.
I'd listed in my mind hobbies, character traits, intellectual preferences.
All things that, when put together,
Would produce a vision of who I was as a person.
I was a complete profile from top to bottom.
Inside and through.
Adding to and refining back qualities of what made me as I went along.
Fine tuning the presentation of me to society.

I thought I had it down.
Picked through with a fine tooth comb.
No boring aspect refurbished, no overbearing flaw unchecked.

Then one day
I was in a place that housed people milling around,
Same as any other day.
And as I sat next to a fountain feeding some birds,
Like I was prone to do on the pleasant weathered days.

A little boy came up an sat down next to me.
I didn't think anything of it and just smiled at him.
He lingered beside me for a few minutes.
And I noticed he seemed to be staring at me
With a quizzical look on his sun bright face.
I continued to dole out pieces of my left over lunch
And he giggled just a slight.
Now I was curious to know why this little guy
With anything at all to do other than sit next to me,
Was laughing.

I finally turned toward him intent on asking what was so funny,
When he stated before I could utter a word

"You're the nicest lady I ever saw"

I was initially a little gobsmacked as to the bold declaration.
It made me snort a bit.
Shaking my head, I pondered to him

"What would make you say that?"

He innocently replied with a grin that...

"You feed the birdies and they don't even say thank you. That makes one a really nice lady! "

Well color me stupefied there.
This little boy, in his little statement, awed me.
He didn't know me or who I was or where I've come from
And in just that one action he witnessed of me
Feeding those little flying creatures,
He determined me a nice person.

And it swelled me more intensely than any praise over an achievement,
Any congratulations of a job well done,
Any compliment of artistic ability.

And as he got up to run off to wherever he came from,
I sat there contemplating...

Of all the things I thought of myself up until this point,
Just being myself with no preconceived notion or projection,
I felt more transparent in that little boys observance,
Than anything else in my whole life.
That led me to wonder why in the world I had bothered
To ever worry about and plan around who I wanted people to see me as.
I began thinking all of my preparing and analyzing,
All of the forethought I put into me as a person.
Kind of went out the window.

Because if a complete stranger could see through me so easily,
With just a mindless action like that,
Then what did people really see beyond my presentation,
Of me?
Not that who I projected myself to be was false, just honed
To show the best parts of me always.
But then, what are the best parts of me which other people rarely see?
Maybe the things about myself I thought of as "works in progress"
Were already fully bloomed and beautiful already.
Maybe I was just so conditioned to think they weren't?

So as I laid on my couch later that night
And aimlessly thought of the events of the day,
I made a plan to have no more plans.
To keep my list of everything about me I had written over the years,
But put it somewhere only to serve as a reminder to me.
I'd try, from here on out, to just be me

The only regret I had of that encounter though,
Was that I didn't get to tell that little mind changer

Thank you...

Lawrence Hall Nov 2017
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firexscape Aug 2014
"Set me on fire, please."
You knew
That burning was my least desired death
But I'd much rather have an unpreferred way of death
Than an unpreferred way of life.
Umi Apr 2018
Open, oh eye of ones heart
The spiral of desire continues with no end to it, if lies are to pollute the world it is time to purify yourself from them all, one by one.
A hearts eye, sees through lies, but that is not its only purpose in a chest full of light and compassion in which it can greatly be found,
It serves so much more, all sealed uner a truthful surface and a righteous core, careless about anothers looks, the way they speak, superficiality such as shallowness are wiped out by it completely,
The hearts eye sees anothers soul and what they truly are, a judgement far away from personal preferences or falsities caused by instincts of ones heart which are likely to bring light headed frivolity,
It cherishes the good, the beauty of the soul except for wealthy appearance, mavelovence within greedy devilish behaviour and spite,
Projected like a story, the fear of what they see is but of themselves, if such an eye hits a devil right on the head, exposing his  treaciousness
What lies behind such a courtain of darkness, may it be good? Evil ?
Come pray by my side, if you shiver from that far away I cannot help you, as sadness clouds your vision in a courtain call of pure grief,
Let me open your eyes, so your wounds may heal.

~ Umi
Liam Feb 2014
I'm unapologetically a bit too sensitive
   highly attuned to inanimate feelings

the lone Cheerio circling the drain is given
   a kindred companion for its journey

considerate thought is given to the preferences
   of animal crackers...heads or legs bitten first

many items are thanked before discarded
   others parted with reluctantly if ever

a twinge of conscience is felt while pruning
   perfectly healthy leaves from house plants

objects are arranged in pairs and groups
   in a compassionate effort for inclusion

The Velveteen Rabbit makes perfect sense to me
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
what's the biggest difference
between 20th century's
french and german
    and the 21st century's
primarily, anglo-sphere,
realisation of an existential
           anti-jew meme...
         the globalist octopus...
     some people have
recovered from an existential
crisis, having established
vast constructs of thought
way back in the 20th century,
the french, and the germans..
my oh my oh my my...
the anglo-sphere of linguistics
has only, "just now"
awoken to this...
   quiet a predicament,
wouldn't you say?
                         fertile ground...
oh sure, there was existential
angst in the anglo-
sphere among irish
                beckett, joyce...
but concrete architectures
of thought, regarding existentialism,
seem to be absent...
  so... counter-argument:
so how come i can
freely buy a copy of some
german philosopher,
a french novelist turned
  i'm skint... when it comes
to english thinkers more
or less associated with
my status, rather than stance,
on contemporary "translation"?
no... it's not that...
      i could have just well
have procured
a life helping out my father
in industrial roofing...
             i didn't mind roofing...
it's not an exactly pristine
labour of love sort
of environment...
the scottish widows' h.q.
roof near st. paul's?
   i was part of that
       but... come again?
but there are some many attachment
cursors when it comes
to an anglican take
on "revising" continental
        whatever crisis
the continental people
felt, and consolidated
the 20th century people...
is only just starting to bud
in the anglo-phonic world...
start-up, island,
end result,
    h'america and australia...
there was never a question
as to why, or if,
the english-speaking
people would ever entertain
but, suddenly they are,
at least starting to look
into the pit,
from their ivory towers...
immediate escape
      reach for the fictive
                disavow journalism...
make journalism bedfellows
with political rhetoric...
there's no debate...
circus, however you look
at it...
             you can't fathom
an abstract variant
of the german or the french
mind, gripped by
an existential critique,
a piquancy,
    a pedantry...
in the english speaking world...
there are,
just simply...
   too many attachments
to deal with...
       - growing a beard:
meant exactly that -
eat ****.    
         i don't see where
there a "me" to be found
in a (0, 0) starting space,
of net-worth-"work"...
for a language...
that ridiculed,
or became succinct
in succumbing
to its anglo-preferences
of objectifying counter-standards
for its own...

  what has 20th century
existential philosophy have
to do with "anything",
esp. if arrived from
the either french
of german, cultures?

we have Joe Slave over 'ere...
oh right... sorry...
paweł nowak....
just took joe stephen slave's
role was
the person, the hands,
in a recycling factory...
do you mind?
do you mind...
teaching your natives...
   and you know how that
cindarella story ends...

introducing existentialism
to the brits and,
  the anglican variety of
the tongue, being
   will end up as, failure...
the 20th century
taught me this,
the irish failed,
the french
and the germans...
basically a "foreign" idea
is more than just...
the people are ******,
with paradoxes
of their women...

                sure... a bit like
oh, ****, a bit too close
to the continent...
like madagascar
  is to africa...
and sri lanka is to india?
i'm not 'ere to care to
the idiosyncratic
concerns of island people...
contra the, "collective"...

island people will forever
remain island people,
"solipsistic", idiosyncratic,
            i can't change that...
always prone to export...
but never to import...
    island people,
       the **** is there to say?
ever bewilder yourself
over chanel 4 news...
and how...
  john snow is slipping
into dementia?
      you listen to the cue?
                  sorry... john...
dementia on the horizon...

attempting to adapt
existentialism into england
will fail,
given their moral high-ground
of the "migrant crisis"...
it's an island...
  the borders are clarifying,
        sure, the people can be *****
when their language
is bored in being
a "lingua franca"...
         but other people have
other, in-debt defences...

western slavs?
ever hear a spaniard speak
pollack, just because
he hiked with a polish girl?
yeah... mahler...
                       violins and ****...
you only listen:
                  for an idea...
it comes, it comes,
it doesn't come...
well... you move onto
some khachaturian...
        so,                 no biggie...

you can't import continetal
thinking to an island people,
they have no concept
of borders...
their naive presupposing
barrier, centered-ground is

   existential philosophy
"meme" rate of survival is... ?
binary, negation, an affirmative
and then the fiasco...

       it doesn't help
that there's an alternative
outlet via h'america or australia...
i'm not looking
at the "bigger picture",
when there isn't one...

     20th century existentialism
will not work in 21st century england,
or any english-speaking world
to begin with...
there are just, too many,
attachment points,
         as many nurtured
nostalgia avenues
as there are amnesia riddled
currencies of attention
        it's just a pristine model
to revive the serf...

there's no point reading existentialism
to a people,
so far lodged in their
isolationism that they
can claim, both an island-stature...
and two continents,
by extension
       of stating: "being aware"...      

i guess you have to be born
on the continent
to read anything by 20th century
but... trying to implement
the word...
into the idiosyncrasy
of island-dwelling people,
akin to the English?

                    i'm not even going
to bother trying...
they're island-folk...
   they "think" of borders akin
to coastlines...
and not migration
fake bordering of a contradiction
of peoples occupying
a quicksand pit
of looking at a geography map...
  they know border...
because they know... island...

you can't translate
something that's already
paradoxical to them
  (hypocritical, is not a milder
term of usage for the desired
                not going to happen...
two islands,
some set of continental enclaves...
whatever you want...

             i've lived with them,
even though i've lived pretty much
among either the irish migrants,
or the scots...
    you're not going to translate
an island, into a continent's
  right now...
you'd think that
   Estonia would become
characteristic of an island-people
auxiliary mentality...

       i can't blame these people
   an island environment
provides an island people
    if you have never been
part of a congregation,
      but they're borrowing
continental idiosyncracy...
****** *****...

            yeah... oh yeah...
they're hot on the topic of what
island life is like...
being so...
   conservative that they even
have developed apps
for people to check their
genetic proximity
and any immediacy to live,
+ baggage...

      the Brits were always 'ere...
the Icelandisch?
were always there...
  sorry... for the already given
postcard: wish you were
here analogy of...
            curiosity killed
the cat...

           but island dwelling people
will always be,
an island dwelling people...
right now,
you do what i do...
you play chamaleon...
begin with: a-pathy...
          without pathology
looking for... what requires
you to mingle with the most
pathological examples of
a hushed sanity of society...

          your luck, as well as mine...
nothing really happens...
like butter smeared
over a gently toasted
piece of toast.

hello tomorrow.
Sora Apr 2013
I prefer winter skies.
I prefer ties over skirts.
I prefer brown eyes to blue.
I prefer country over pop.
I prefer pears over the freshest picked apples.
I prefer my tears over my smile.
I prefer tall to short.
I prefer silence.
I prefer swim trunks to bikini's.
I prefer dim lanterns to light my way
instead of blinding factory flashlights.
I prefer rugby.
I prefer Sprite over Coke.
I prefer grey.
I prefer pins to brooches.
I prefer journals with ink spots splattered on every page
than a pristine piece of copy paper.
I prefer brownies.
I prefer salads over fries.
I prefer stairs instead of escalators.
I prefer longer hair over short on girls.
I prefer harsh gusts of wind that bites my skin
than muggy city "air".
I prefer Airwalk over Converse.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that this world we're on
is going to just fade away
into nothing
Another school assignment.
Hope is such a powerful thing. In the midst of every loss, every failure, every mistake, and in the face of every single thing, be it necessity or desire, which seems may never come to pass, hope keeps us pushing towards the day when those things will become a reality; striving ever onward no matter how many times we may fall or find ourselves back where we started, having to fight so hard all over again for the things that were obtained and then taken away by some tragedy, mistake in our own judgment, or sometimes for what seems like no reason at all but bad luck, which is a tragedy in and of itself. Hope gives purpose. It gives meaning. It gives life. But, such a sorrowful thing hope can be at times when one can only watch the world slip away into the nothingness it is coming to lust for more than life, itself.

So many people hope for things, but seem to forget or loath the work and effort it takes to achieve and maintain such. Granted, there are those who do remember and strive to achieve and maintain what they hope for legitimately, but the percentage of such people is becoming smaller as time passes, and this ever declining percentage find themselves fighting so much harder, and having to hold to hope so much more fiercely, because of the ever increasing percentage of those who want to take the easy way out, casting most of the weight of the work and effort onto those who are still willing to put it forth, and abandoning whatever it may be when the effort required becomes more than they, themselves, are willing to put forth for whatever reason, and all while placing the blame on those who are actually trying. This is a great reason that the declining percentage continue to decline, because the harder it is to achieve what one hopes for, the harder it is to hold on to hope. The harder it is to hold on to hope, the easier it is to give up.

Those in the declining percentage who are still willing to fight and keep a death grip on hope are often the ones who suffer the most, for they are the ones who are tortured and tormented by emotion and conscience, sometimes wanting to give up and to do things less than decent and respectful as so many more people are doing every day. This is where I find myself.

A hard battle it is indeed to hold on to being a genuinely good, decent, and respectful person and having to struggle so hard when I see the deceitful (and by deceitful, I mean lying, cheating, stealing, manipulation, treachery…basically anything that compromises the trust, respect, and honor towards one or more people and/or themselves) gaining and flourishing, pretending sincerity and disguising their intent until they get what they want.

The way I see it from my experiences, there are two sides to feeling this way. The first is the anger and frustration spawned by seeing people who are being deceitful more quickly and easily obtaining the things we are both needing and/or hoping for and legitimately struggling for. While we struggle so hard to see our hopes become reality…often with minimal results, or results that are ever so slow in coming…the only effort they put forth is deceit, and are rewarded with what seems like immediate results, in other words. With this comes anxiety, depression, and a harder struggle for hope with every instance. These feelings are intensified the longer the wait on anything we are hoping and striving for may be.

The second, which often isn’t a comforting thing at all, but often does help us to hold on to hope in its own way, is seeing the things people have obtained in such deceitful ways only last them for but a season, even if they want it for much longer, for deceit, in the vast majority of cases, always comes to light at some point in time, whether it be soon after or years down the road. Sometimes, it is for one of the same reasons the declining percentage struggle so hard…seemingly for no reason at all but what appears to be bad luck (but what I like to call karma in the cases of deceitful people). Regardless, the people who put forth more effort into being deceitful to obtain what is desired or hoped for often do not put the same effort into legitimately keeping it, but only in continuing to be deceitful to hold on to it as long as they can or want to, and to keep their deceit from coming to light for as long as possible. We often forget this factor of loss when we are standing on the side of anger and frustration, thinking only of how unfair it is that someone so easily obtains that which we have been struggling so hard for and have not yet seen come to pass. This applies to all areas of life.

So many people say how they want and expect and deserve to be treated, yet are not willing to do the same for others, especially when it comes to obtaining something they hope for or desire. They completely disregard how badly they will hurt someone by being deceitful as long as they get what they want, and always seem to have an excuse or a blame to place on anyone but themselves so as not to have to account for their deceit, and are often times the most defensive about being done the same way by others, even if they are only being done so in a minute way.  Most of these are doing so with all knowledge that they are just trying not to have to account for their wrongdoings just so they do not seem to be the one at fault, either so they can simply get away with it or so they can get away with it long enough to move on and do the same to other people when their previous attempts begin to fail them. Sometimes they even do all they possibly can to slander the person they were wronging and create lies that take the focus off themselves and place it upon the person they cannot deceive any longer, doing all they can to make the victim’s life a living hell so as to see them suffer for having tried to call them out on their deceit, while at the same time moving on unnoticed to the next deceitful opportunity.

The only thing worse than this are the ones who are doing this very thing and are convinced that they are doing no wrong. They have lied for so long to get their own way without having to put forth the effort that they begin to believe that they aren’t doing anything wrong, and that their victims are trying to make them look bad. In far too many cases of such, they try to find every flaw and imperfection in their victim and their victim’s life so as to dress it up with drama and lies and use it against them because they think they are getting revenge for being wronged. Sometimes it doesn’t even take a history of lies and deceit to bring someone to self-deception such as this. Sometimes it is merely their true nature, and they are doing all they can do to convince themselves otherwise. Whatever the reason self-deceit comes into play in these cases, it is still the worst form of deceit, because not only are they harming others to wrongly obtain whatever it is they seek, but they have deceived themselves into thinking they are doing no wrong by it, and will most likely continue to do so to others. Most times the victims have already endured extreme amounts of sorrow, pain, and loss before the self-deceived deceivers learn from their mistakes. Sadly, some never learn, losing everything and continuing to cling to the belief that they were the ones wronged by those which they were wronging. This also applies to all areas of life.

There are also people who hope for things, but have such limited standards or preferences that they feel the thing they are hoping for should be absolutely perfect as is…at least what their own personal idea of perfection is. They say they want something, but only if it comes a certain way, in a certain package, and doesn’t take any effort or acceptable compromise on their part to have to work with for it to be something that can truly make them happy. These people continually pass things over that could make them far happier than they would have ever imagined, merely because it doesn’t seem to be everything they wanted it to be according to such deceptively high standards. Either that, or they find something that seems to be everything that they wanted, or so close to it as to seem to be something they can be happy with, but then reject it and walk away after a period of time because it wasn’t all it seemed to be because of the work or acceptable compromise that may have been involved for it to be the thing that would truly make them happy. They then begin the process all over again, never finding what it is that truly makes them happy. They don’t want to compromise, but expect everyone else who may be involved to compromise for them, in other words, not realizing that some compromises can be good things, and that nothing is ever as perfect as someone wants it to be, because sometimes it is the imperfections that make everything truly perfect. Far too often, this also hurts others who are not deceitful and who are genuinely good people, and who are striving to hold on to hope, because the declining percentage who have any kind of stake in what is being discarded by those who cannot be satisfied are knocked back a step, and have to try harder yet again and struggle that much harder to hold on to the hope that things will work out some day. This also makes it harder for the declining percentage to trust people.

Basically, what it all boils down to is that the vast majority of people seem to want things the “easy way”. They use whatever form of deception or self-deception is necessary as long as they get what they want when they want it, which more often than not is something they only want temporarily or end up only wanting temporarily, anyway, as opposed to long term, because of either only wanting instant gratification of some kind or not wanting to make an effort to keep it, casting it away as soon as they have it or are no longer satisfied with it. They want what they want only for the feeling it gives them, in other words, and not for the appreciation and respect for what they want before and after they have it, expecting others to put forth the effort that they, themselves, refuse to put into anything but the deception of their choice.

The only comforting thing about this is that sometimes, these deceivers are so used to deceiving to obtain what they hope for that they do not see when their deceptions begin to fail them, and continue to try to twist and conform their deceptions towards those they are trying to deceive, only further outing themselves, while trying to place the blame and guilt the person they are deceiving into thinking they, themselves, may actually be the cause of the problem, prolonging their deceptions long enough to cause more damage to their victims until in either rage, sorrow, or a combination of the two, the deceived reach their limits and halt the deception, but by this time, any trust, respect, friendship and/or love that may have been between the two is either almost completely lost or lost completely. But, in cases like this, this does make it harder for the deceivers to continue to deceive, for usually, enough people are aware of the deception that the deceivers cannot deceive so easily, and have to try and find new people to deceive to make any ill progress.

There remains another percentage amongst these fractional factions that plays an unknowing hand not only in the declining percentages struggle for hope, but in their own as well, feeding not only the beast of hopelessness seeking to devour those who would rage against it, but also aiding the increasing percentage in their deceptions. This percentage wants something so badly, often times after trying and failing due to the deception of others or by legitimate failure, they begin to fall for deceptions more easily because they are so desperate to have whatever it may be that they fall for the beauty of the deception over the truth of it all, or they see a small bit of what they hope for or desire in someone or something else, and decide for some reason that it is what they want or need before finding out anything more than just that part of it all, and then are so let down or blameful for being let down again, that they throw away any efforts or progress made towards happiness, often hurting and further complicating the struggle for hope in the declining percentage of genuinely good people when those people happen to be the object of what they thought they wanted due to only focusing on the part that appealed to them.

These are but a few examples as to why hope is such a sorrowful thing, because it is one of the hardest things to hold on to in this world with so many factors coming against it from every angle, and sometimes from so many angles at once. But, it is the very existence of every negative thing that makes hope so hard that defines why hope is such a necessary thing, and why we fight with all of our heart and sanity to hold on to it, even when we believe nothing good will ever come to pass because of how many things have gone wrong or hurt us or set us back to square one time and time and time again. If we gave up hope, how would we ever expect anything to ever get better, and which one of the reasons, listed here or omitted because there are just too **** many to list them all, would we become in the destruction of someone else’s hope, or the destruction of our own? Without hope, and everything we fought like hell through to hold on to it, how would any of us truly appreciate the day when it finally comes, or every day thereafter?

In everything we see and experience, there seems to be so many more things that would have us let go of hope and sink to the bottom, drowning in sorrow until dreams are so lost in the fathomless depths that they will never wash ashore to see the light of day to breathe again. But in reality, and in our heart of hearts, it is our very dreams that outweigh what would strip them away, and there are so many more reasons to hold on to hope than we will ever think about at any one moment, especially in the worst of times, because the bad is sometimes so bad that it is all that we can focus upon, and we lose sight of most or all of the reasons we fought so hard and hoped so fiercely at all. But, it is the existence of every bad thing that should convince us every single time one or more befall us that we should never give up hope, for it is the rise and swell that we feel when things go well before every fall that reminds us of the feeling and the dreams that fuel the fires of our hope, and help us to believe that every hell will be worth heaven when it comes. It is only when we find ourselves swimming in sorrow when what we thought was everything we had been hoping for turns out to be another deception or another mistake that we start to give up on hope because of feeling like hope was wasted, and the more times we have to experience the fall, the harder it is to hope once again. What we often fail to realize is this…if it hurts so bad to fall into the letdown of finding out that what seemed to finally come was not what we were hoping for, then how much to the exact opposite will the joy be when what we were hoping for finally comes to be? If we never go through the sorrow of falling, how would we ever learn that sometimes what we were hoping for so long may not have been the right thing until something comes along to give us something new to hope for? One day, one of the instances we find that what comes along that makes us feel that our hopes and dreams are coming true will actually be what we were hoping for, and sometimes, what comes along will be so much more than we ever dared to dream to hope for. If we give up any single time we find what comes to be wrong, no matter how right it seemed or felt, then how will we ever find either?

Sometimes holding on means letting go, for if we are hoping for the wrong things, then holding on to the hope for those things will only bring us more sorrow if we do find what we hope for in those aspects. Sometimes letting go means holding on, for if we let go of hope when we let go of the wrong thing, how will we ever find something better to hope for? To dream is to hope. To hope is to dream. Nothing good is ever easy. Nothing easy is ever good. Even the most perfect of things still have imperfections, and as I say so often, it is often that the imperfecti
This is a free write of my thoughts and feeling of hope, and it is just a draft until I can find a better way to say it, unless it remains the best way that I can.
Erika Skye May 2013
My Ideal Man:

1. Watch nerdy movies with me, you'll get my heart quicker if you love Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and superhero movies along with me.
2. Be a Bruins fan please. Or at least a hockey fan, but Bruins is preferable.
3. Be kind. Don't do things just for yourself. If you see someone struggling help them.
4. Be patient. My family and I are nuts, and I'm so sorry about that, but we love with our whole hearts, and you'll never find people who care for you more, or will do anything for you.
5. Tolerate my musical preferences. I listen to quite a wide range of music, so bear with me.
6. When I'm sick, just let me watch a Disney movie, give me space (because when I'm sick I feel far from pretty, and have a tendency to not want to be around people) and I will love you forever.
7. Have faith. You don't have to be ridiculously religious, but believe in heaven and God.
8. Please have a functioning moral compass.
9. Don't question the TV shows I watch. (Ex. Game of Thrones, Project Runway, Friends)
10. Have a good relationship with your parents and siblings.
11. Be a dog lover, I'm going to want dogs when I live with someone (and I'm so sorry we can only get hypoallergenic ones)
12. Accept the fact that I tell my mum almost everything. If I know, likely she will know unless you make it very apparent that you don't want anyone to know.
13. Don't lie. Just don't.
14. Don't cheat. That should be obvious, but I've been through it before and I don't think I could handle it again.
15. Yes I'm a child when it comes to the little things in life. I love ice cream sundaes, coloring, Spongebob, and most adolescent things. Let it be.
16. If you have something bothering you, talk to me. Communication is key and I can't read minds, no matter how hard I try.
17. Be able to laugh at yourself, I do all the time at myself because most of the time I know I'm foolish.
18. Never underestimate snuggling. Unless it's really hot out.
19. Be spontaneous. Lord knows sometimes I do some strange things for no reason, but as long as they bring joy to someone or yourself, then do it.
20. Love with your whole heart.
*growing list
Brujo Alligatore Dec 2015
"Why prefer?"
I used to wonder.
But it may just be to do
With easing the nausea of a physical being
Who is dizzy and alone
An individual
Keeping it together
In the physical plane
So many spins and orbits to adjust for here in the physical plane
WS Warner Feb 2012
serendipity, anticipation,
blurred reality -
lost in the dialect
of a dream,
in pursuit
of Love
find callous irony;
subversion of desire
what's it all about?
to know and be known.

Mere seconds
of scrutiny
I am shown.
Her appraisal
my warm flesh,
her tilted criteria
supplanting the interior,
voluble with
saccharine neologisms
and preferences
for the exterior.
(not mine)
Ironic was my
attraction to
her brain.

Lines, features
and symmetry,
image - the commodity,
aesthetics, the
in this transaction,
cursory liaison,
collapse of the
insurgent ego -
there was no
us in the
the affair of

Bruised in
I'm not the one -  
I thought I was.
Hyperbole -
the center
of delusion,
a curious
diversion -
avoid my life.

The allure of
the illusion,
the ordinary to
the romantic,
the perfect other.
Searching, the
absorbing project -
aquiring wholeness,
did she reject me?
I rejected me.

The escape into
to mourn,
is to displace,
the disowned heart
by self is tragic.  
I not mourn for
the one I'm

Inside of me
It's safe,
to lament
the loss of
identity -
tension is agony
without resolve
in my pain,
familiar terrain,
upon retrieval,
awaking in
mystery and destiny
I am free.
be with someone who starts a fire
brings the kindle
glows when you are near
and brags about your warmth
not someone who retreats
when you crackle

be with someone who wants to sink deeper
than the choppy surface
behind your sarcasm
beyond the distance
and still sees your worth
not someone whose scared
by your preferences
During my Childhood.
a New Hampshire father of twin boys named Joe taught me that friendship, love, and respect,
meant wrestling.
He was a burly man
with glasses and a salt and pepper beard
Who loved guitar hero, dunkin' doughnuts and Motorcycles.
One day joking to his adult friends I heard:
"I'm a lesbian trapped in a mans body"

Now, Joe did not mean this the way
we think of it in this community.
He was not transgendered.
probablly didn't even know they exist.
He was simply saying.
"I have an attraction to girls who will never love me, because I have a *****,
and Isn't that tragic enough for a punchline?"
Though a young boy,
I identified with that.

In middle school, the media convinced me
that gay boys were getting all the ladies.
So I needed everyone to know I was gay.
that way, they'd be my friends,
and get naked in front of me.
It worked.
However, I still could not get a girlfriend.
And I did not want a boyfriend.
because again, It was all a 10 year old me's
Con just to see girls undress.

A year or two goes by
being gay
To get a girlfriend.
when on the television:
I see Tila Tequila.
A bisexual Bachelorette reality Show.

Wait! I said to my mother.
"Sure you can! I do.
This one time, aunt spider and I"
"Mom! That's enough."

So in my living room,
Surrounded by fold-out tables
And chicken parmesisan
I pronounced myself bisexual.

I had the best of both worlds! I could watch girls undress, AND have a girlfriend.
This was not relevant however, for a while.
As I still had not developed social skills.

Enter highschool awkward bisexual boy.
I'd never actually been attracted to a man before...
But I wasn't ruling it out.
zero percent of the woman I fell for seemed to like men,
Or more accurately, me.
I was resonating closer to the
"Lesbian trapped in a mans body"
line then ever before.
I probablly asked out every female senior, every girl I grew up with.
every girl who looked at me, to go on a date.
All to be turned down.
Except one.
I entered college with a monogamous Long-term relationship raising A beautiful Nerd girl's daughter.
Seemed like I had it made.
Young parents.
Both bisexual.
Together we flushed out Every kink and curvature of what pleasured us.
Then two years later.
My grandmother died,
I lost my job of four years,
She left me,
taking our daughter with her.
Devastated, I turned to the most destructive of known vices.

I went on first and last date after parking lot hookup after rooftop romance with these girls.
Writing poetry all the while to document my stresses.
I was no longer "A lesbian trapped in a mans body."
If anything, I was a lesbian
Thriving! In a mans body.

This came up at a party once
We were playing rockband when I said it.
A woman spoke up:
"You're devalueing the phrase for transgendered woman who use it!
It's dissrepectfull."
When I tried to explain myself:
That it helped me rationalize
years of rejection
laugh at my own failure.
Build the foundation
for my optimistic attitude
By saying it's not me.
I just like lesbians.
it made my failures a predictable Punchline.

But I was weak.
They convinced me.
I stopped identifying as
"A lesbian thriving in a mans body."
from then on, I was a man.

Years have passed and I've given a lot of love to a lot of people.
Learned a lot about my preferences
Sexually, romantically, personally.

At the momment:
I am a:
Hetero flexible

But deep down I know.
Even though I'll never say it.
Because it isn't really true.
Or maybe because it's offensive.
Or maybe because i'm scared.
I'll always be a lesbian
Thriving as a man.
Jamie Darling Mar 2016
He says he prefers me with my back to him,
the broken curve of my spine all that's there
to sing my vulnerability.

My body is something painted by an artist
when he wasn't looking, with ocean-blue veins
for all the world to see.

He says he'd drown me in those veins if he could.
I'm no fluffed baby bird, no fine china teacup,
but perhaps I will be.

He brings his hammer down hard enough to
break the backs of mountains, and I am
no more mountain than bird.

Ocean-blue veins and white sea-foam skin.
A paper-delicate creature who won't breathe
for fear of tearing.

I was once braver than the colour of blood.
Now I'm wrapped in a cracking brown crust
that crushes my heart.

He was going to be my summer, and summer
is a haven for souls unclaimed by winter.
My summer is a battleground.

My ocean is drying up, but my skies are
saturated more brightly than ever,
swollen to ugly hues.

He is everything; whole and strong and solid,
and I am a scared child in the darkness.
*I am always so scared.
Andrew M Bell Feb 2015
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Afterlife Airlines.
I’m your pilot, Captain Meta Physics.
Please fasten your sleep belts
as we are about to leave the body.
Please direct your attention to your stewardess
while she demonstrates safety procedures.

In the event of a drastic reduction in karma,
a mask will fall down from above you.
Place it on and breathe deeply of pure love.
Should those passengers who are clinically dead
find themselves returned by a surgeon’s skill,
the life raft under your seat will inflate
with a new sense of purpose.

After take off the stewardesses will serve milk and honey.
For your entertainment, the movie is
anything with Shirley Maclaine in it
or there are seven channels of chi
on the chakra-phones being dispensed soon.
For those contemplating joining the Tantric Mile High club,
please be considerate of your fellow passengers.

We’re making good time because
the breath of God is always behind us.
Below us to the right is the Ocean of Ego
and to our left some passengers may glimpse
the chain of islands: Faith, Hope and Charity.

We’ve been advised that it’s a little busy on The Other Side
so we’ve been placed in a holding pattern
on the astral plane.
Passengers are reminded to retrieve all emotional baggage
for security reasons
and please help Customs
by declaring all religious preferences.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’re cleared for landing now.
On behalf of the crew, I hope you enjoyed
your transdimensional flight with Afterlife Airlines
and we hope to see you aboard again soon.
Please fasten your sleep belts,
we’re coming in for reincarnation.
Copyright Andrew M. Bell. The poet would like to acknowledge The Press (Christchurch) who published an edited version of this poem.
Xallan Jan 2019
If I had the right tools I'd show you
How empty my mind is, like a computer
That updates every few months,
Erasing all that data, any wisdom.
Deleted- motors still whirring
Fans still blowing upon the spinning
Of an empty disk, a blank hard-drive.
Ready to encode new preferences
New creeds, programming, ideations.

I am still searching for understanding
Of race, of society, of priorities,
Of gods, of worship, of labels,
Of love, of lovers, of choice
Of the parts of people they choose to reveal,
They choose to hide (their masks),
What they cannot choose to be, and
Cannot choose to show-
Of humanity- identity.

I don't get an opinion on any of that-
Try as I may, I will never understand.
I was born without an identity
And wisdom teeth, likewise,
I am not wise for lack of them
At least never need removal
For like wisdom teeth, the result
Of irritation is surgery, pain, and recovery
I skipped that, so that pain isn't real.
RJ Days Jul 2018
First, you have get to an email address
and then fashion a sculpture
out of daisies and moonbeams
as a wedding present for your love;
practice your poetry because
it will come in handy when tongue tied;
pentameter is a pocket ace
and the game is cutthroat so you’re
gonna wanna have some ready;
calisthenics are required
as is having the right politics
but dissimilar guacamole preferences
are usually alright for awhile;
be sure to develop a tolerance
for sand between your toes;
learn to frolic, but never skip;
don’t buy a boat because nobody
has time for a sweater cape enthusiast
and drowning is very unromantic;
Grow roses and cook eggs every way
you can but ever respect the bacon;
Practice looking longingly;
Toss your hair and brush your teeth;
**** your socks but carefully
maintain just enough flaws
to seem endearing and then
forget all this because the only
time you chose to fall is suicide
and it’s kind of like a bridge jump,
so it’s time to just lie back and enjoy
the dopamine rush while it lasts;
you’ve roped a unicorn,
the fleeting chemistry of
your synapses will thank
or blame you later.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
sometimes you look at these people and think:
is it better me drinking whiskey, or is it better treating
them ontologically as zoological specimen
                                                  and worth of caging?
i think that the Aristotelian awe-principle
for the practice of philosophy was
overly-exaggerated with dues
that consider science, i think that science
confiscated the emotional
imprint of philosophy that's bound to awe
and said: willcommen unto die phobia-realm...
which i still ascribe to postcolonialism...
  the times' propaganda say:
             arachnophobia is perfectly suited
to match-up to a billionth remark of Islam,
which is why i find Islamophobia so weird...
   arachnophobia consists of only one spider...
minding the phobic in Islam?
                          it's not a case of one spider...
it's a case of spiders...
                             they can't reason with
the Big Brother opportunism, which exists...
turning the blind eye won't help...
  it will simply aggrivate such people...
and using this language has created such
frustrations... correctly? aggravate,
dance of vowels. phobias aren't big, they're small...
miniscule... tell people that something is
small when it's actually big enforcers
a postcolonial past more so...
   i see these children like the psychotic reaction
to a prophesy kindred ot Harold II's slaughter
of the innocents...
                  they're there to edorese someone...
      after all: who gives a **** about these people?
                                                         ­  (endorse)
the psychiatrist gets paid, the mental health nurse
gets paid... why would they give a **** in a way
that says: i wasn't paid for this bollocking!
  maybe up in Manchester... but down here in London,
they don't buy disguises, you're
labelled Romanian: you're bound home where
you could have been a plumber but are reduced
to a straitjacket because: some ******* said
you didn't **** her... Philip Collins and hey:
welcome to paradise.
                        down 'ere in Loon-town you get
your money's worth...      
                   i wish they took care of me...
   silence pays... you get your cringe's worth of ****
to the Kilimanjaro's worth of calling
               bottled crema-foam on a phallus
an anorexia... as i see it: anorexia in Freudian lingo
is an objection toward treating ****** artefacts
in culinary terms... means that paradox
of having a cake and eating it too...
                obviously you'll sexualise problems...
i think anorexia is a question of making
          ****** parts culinary aggregates...
                i'm not jotting: girl, aged, 16, ***-starved..
i mean in general... making ****** objects
equivalent toward a culinary status for a care
to make them more appealing in being ******...
the anorexic might start thinking: so i **** it,
and don't eat it?   penguin clap for an icecream cone!
ruffian yoga minus the slippers and the seal clapping...
the loudest revision of applause: i can guarantee....
cos the flippers were wet... hence the additional
aquatic acoustic.
                    this is very much akin to that quantum
theory of: tornado at coordinate a.,
         and a butterfly as coordinate b.,
          i can see anorexia as a substitute to sexualised
preferences in making body-parts partially edible...
            i see **** i think of the cow's ******-pouch / pillow...
    i don't know, maybe because being in my 30s
i can still fake arousal when looking at it...
       i am not the original alienist... some martian
took my title role...
          but i can understand anorexia as a way to rebel
against putting potato mash and a steak and a few
veggies with the same duty nod as one might put
a ******* object into one's mouth and having to
a Werther's Original suckling tactic on it and
never attach a bone to it, i.e. never eat it...
      anorexia by my standard is verily sexualised...
   you put something into an open space and
it's almost a trans-transgender movement...
      which is why i find the transgender "curiosities"
obstructs in art... post-transgender occupancies
           are not reserved for the easily pleased...
anorexics are such people...
             this is sexuality confused with dietary requirements...
this isn't a circumstance of pronouns politicised
and exploits of modern medicine...
                   i do tend to abuse seafood
whenever i am cringed by the suggested floral pattern
whenever i dare not see the benefits of cesarean...
and i just can't see islamophobia fitting the irrational
rationality of other conscripted phobias...
          poor choice of Greek to be honest...
                      i think they're referring to:
a subtler suggestion, minus the crusading empowerment
that's yet to be honed on...
                        well **** yeah...
once you've actually a philosophy book,
   you'll become immune to any writing advice...
                you'll actually become immune
to advice for writers.... bhy writers... because you'll
realise their opinions are disputable and therefore
disposable... because they forgot that the one thing
that democracy hates... is its subversion,
                     art is the foremost stealth-seeker of
despotism in democracy... because it simply loathes
plagiarism... art is despotism in democracy...
               and it knows it... it's just too "shy" (aah...
wee wee poo poo) to admit it...
                 from what i learned from athos?
the best advice? is to not give any advice.
                    athos? alex dumas, the three musketeers.
the moment you finish a philosophy book,
a creative writing workshop and a quote by
Hemingway will seems as nothing but a bad dream -
these quotes come from people who abhorred
the mere concept of spelling, due and through
it being an "inconvenience"...
this is from people who suggested you were always
an incapable narrator without a daydream to
escape into... these writers began sounding like
your english teachers...
              then again... is sexualising problem better
than abstracting them? personally, and
without due approval: and all the more happy for
such a circumstance having been presented for me...
            we know the sane are too numerous
because they are allowed to make too much sense
of their dreams...
                     i contend anorexia, not as an eating disorder,
but as a disorder of a culinary aversion toward
          sexualising non-culinary objects in culinary terms...
or adding cream to the phallus or melted chocolate
to the ****...
                 i find that certain culinary objects are
   and this is the norm: that extends into what
quantifies as the norm, for the norm is always
a quantifiable parameter than a qualifiable
      exchange, since an exchange never appreciates
     a qualification, or a grocer's worth of norm
for a conversation of two quid's worth of earning
equates to 20 tomatoes...
    we have assumed to know it all
whereas we are congregating in a plughole
     of close proximity prefixes, i.e.
re-: reflect, reflection, reflexion, reflex,
  reiteration, reimagining, retraction, reaffirmation...
    it's a tsunami of language / lounging with too
many images... it's "lounging" with too many images...
it's the proximity of prefixes... twinned with
the opportunism of the genus of synonyms creating
a deaf-shaft of faking rhetoric...
     i still placard the whole circumstance
a dance of vowels, or the unforced deviation of
keeping up an aesthetic....
                     no, i can't claim schooling,
because i don't want to claim being indoctrinated...
     and perhaps my Freudian is a little-bit
copper-wired / ageist...
                  but isn't food for the anorexic
  a bit like turning a ****** object into food
          for the ennobled aggregational stereotype?
the jokes aren't jokes for anorexics...
  the cucumber is doubly manifest
                         as both edible, as both sexually
arrogant... and thirdly as "inspiration" for
an architectural project...
                      oh **** fame... little albino blondie
can **** on my testicular cancer for all i care...
               and say the bulge was: like
******* on a cowish ******...
                                      i like puppets anyway,
cos i'm a bit laxed in that way...
                         for all the things that might be
given, of the few things that can't be translated
from house or car, or a wife and 3.4 children statistic:
personal integrity.
        obviously certain people can only hum along
to the achievements of a zenith's worth of a house
and a car and a dog...
                            personal integrity is almost too much
for them, such "essential" components of being
a human rather than doing a human reaction
       later involve the cliche of the ultimate gamble...
and we all know how humans love to gamble...
well... few ever manage to gamble the stake of:
a leap of faith... and we all know how Nolan's inception
         ends...           that's me seeing the film a few years later...
      so how does man, the gambler fair
   when he's asked to gamble with the odds
  leap ratioed against a stumble?
                                      numbered is that 10:1?
it's just fascinating that vowels are the sole assured
                        proprietor of "dyslexia",
or as i care to mind: even with a language proficiency...
and tongue-tied waggle that's excusable for
anyone ready to write something down.
      i can appreciate being an individual,
but i can't celebrate it... i'll only utilise my individuality
to create a new plateau, a norm, the most
distinguished liberalism of my individualism;
     i will only utilise my individuality to create a new
norm - and anything that comes against it:
can burn in hell.
Lunar Nov 2017
to find out
what we want
is to point out
what we don't want
in terms of dealing with clients' preferences when it comes to interior design, i figured this could apply in life too.

Stéphanie Feb 2019
Told my feelings were fake
Laughed at for crying
Brutalized for refusing
Depicted as anomalous
This is my "home"

I exploded, caught a breath as I felt the silencing

Crossed volatile environments
Misunderstood ephemeral friends
Bullied, ostracized
Experienced injustice
This is school

I performed, in the illusion of shutting silencing

Living my curiosity
Knowledge is my strength
Reflexivity makes me grow
Embracing my difference
This is my refuge

I introspected, in the freedom of their paralyzed silencing

Meet mind-like people
Discovered my emotions
Explored my preferences
Dug my family history
This is my travel

I free-fell, as in my trust I hit structural silencing

Communicating humbly
Nourishing healthy relationships
Trusting my positions
Affirming my autonomy
This is my womanhood

Becoming a mother, I urge to gather the pieces for her freedom
I wrote this poem after days of suffering from my mother's intrusion in my maternity… how she made fun of me and invalidated my thoughts, actions and desires towards my future daughter.
Sarah Gammon Oct 2016
Shocked and appalled to discover the truth -
an adult man who’s always looking at youth;
admiring pictures of girls who are too young,
I feel like this man should be shot at or hung.

We all have preferences and to each their own,
but the law states a person must be full-grown
before you start creeping pics on your phone
otherwise it’s in jail your *** will be thrown.

These girls seem to have zero self-respect
or don’t think about gross men getting *****
at images of their various juvenile parts,
either way, these young girls have no smarts.

I’m sad to say, I thought I knew this man well,
only to discover that he is sickening as Hell.
I’m glad to say, though, that at least I’m aware,
because I’ll do all I can to stop it; I swear.
Copyright Sarah Gammon 2016.
Someone I knew was charged for child ******* for viewing images of underage girls.  I notice on social media such as Instagram that A LOT of young girls post half naked or fully naked photos of themselves and I can't stop them, as much as I wish I could. I report their inappropriate photos and profiles whenever possible, and if you agree with me that viewing inappropriate photos of under aged girls is wrong, I hope you too will start reporting inappropriate under aged images when you see them.  I also kick anyone out of my life who thinks its okay to look at these images, just because these girls post them.  THEY DON'T KNOW ANY BETTER!!! And as adults, we do!! So don't look and don't like! Report, report, report!
Marshall Gass Nov 2014
We did not ask for agreements or signatures
even a due diligence, check out each others
entrails, internet outcomes, criminal records
social security numbers
marriage licenses, children's ages, moles
on our mountains of doubt
even a fingerprint on a bare breast
phone numbers, mates and mistresses
drinking and smoking habits
salad preferences, vegan, bogan or  whatever.

We did, however, listen to that heartbeat
the words we spoke, the pictures we drew
finished, the colours that we painted
between rainbows
and the children we dreamed
who would look like you and me
if ever born
and how smart they would be
and as naughty as those little titters
of laughter, that cleared every checkbox.
on this shopping list for a mate!

We knew that this partnership existed
there was nothing we could do
to unbreak this bond that grew
from a tiny little seed
into this one big giant momentum
of togetherness.

That's a worthwhile partnership
several levels above commercial simplicity.

Author Notes

The romance continues.......
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Christine Sep 2010
I want to know what your favorite is
Because I think it would tell me lots about you.

Whether you care most about intent
Or style or diction or timing.
Or if meaning is your all.

And then maybe I can use that for us
And see what you notice most there:
Intent, style, diction, meaning.
When our lips touch, do you judge it by the repetition
Or by the desire?

Slowly, I will come to understand you.
Owen Healey Jan 2014
We choose to prefer
We want to believe in something,
Rather than nothing at all.
Questions that can be answered.
We don't want the unsolvable or the unexplainable,
We want to believe truthfully,
Even if it is not what is true,
We do it anyway,
We choose to,
We prefer it.
Em or Finn Jun 2014
A time we are asked to draw our future lives
Our future families
But while kids are drawing houses with their future spouses
I draw myself alone in a house
All Alone
And I didn’t know why

My teacher tells the class to describe their future families
To describe the children, spouse, and/or pets we want to have
But I say I don’t want a husband or children of my own
I just want a pet that understands me
I get stares
But I don’t think I’m different
This is when the bullying got worse
When the mold of my face was plastered into the playground mulch
When I grew distant from others.

Second Grade
A time where the wedding bells are ringing
Where kids are getting “married” left and right
But when a boys asks me to marry him
I say no
It’s not that I didn’t like him
I just didn’t know why

Third Grade
A time where we make friends
A time to explore who we are
Kids were “asking each other out” and holding hands at recess
But I didn’t want that
When a boy came up to me and tried holding my hand
I let it go
Becoming increasingly uncomfortable
And I just didn’t know why

Fourth Grade
One of my worst times
Getting bullied so much that the dial couldn’t be turned up any higher
The frequency already alarmingly loud to me
Yet no one did anything
I stood alone
But I was comfortable and I didn’t know why

Fifth Grade
The bullying continued
Small rumors got around that I liked girls
They didn’t go very far
Seeing that I pushed away everyone that ever tried to approach me
I wasn’t lonely
I was content no one wanted to hold my hand
Or ask me out
And I didn’t know why

Sixth Grade
We are given “The Talk” this year
We must watch the movie without laughing or fidgeting
Or we have to watch it again
I watch the movie and become increasingly uncomfortable
Feeling the ***** rise
I no longer feel okay
And I wonder
This is what people do
So why don’t I want to

Seventh Grade
I’m starting to understand
Believe in myself
That I’m different
I realize now that I don’t really like boys
Maybe I’m lesbian?
Does it matter?
Whatever it is,
I keep my mouth shut
Afraid of any torture that may follow
Maybe the rumors in fifth grade were true

Eighth Grade
Relationships rise in intensity
Boys and girls kissing
I still believe I like girls
But not normally?
I seem to have closer bonds with them
But ****** ideas and thoughts never enter my mind
This broken down *****
Questioning its every move

Ninth Grade
Freshman Year
Where Hell begins
Where I am finally understanding myself, my preferences
Digging deeper into my heart
Clinging to this broken up, already defeated *****
That just beats in my empty chest to make me go through more pain
I do my research.
No, I don’t like ****** actions that much
The description seems to fit me well
Finally being the mold I needed
The mold to help put my pieces back together.
But who can I tell?
No one
Because no one will understand.

Tenth Grade
Sophmore year where bullying is an everyday struggle
I do more research
Demiromanticism calls my name
Where I feel romantic feelings for someone I grow close bonds to
And if I only grow bonds with girls
How will my parents understand?
My friends?
The beings that I cling onto everyday just to keep breathing.
They’ll never understand what kind of a freak I am

Eleventh Grade
Junior year
I come out to Callan, one of my best friends
And things didn’t go as expected
They accepted me
With open arms that I thought for sure would be closed
It was the first time I felt free
I came out to more of my friends
And then came my family
I expected them to not understand
But they were willing to listen
Enough to accept me
Well I mean … “accept” me
I could tell they didn’t fully believe me
Both plaguing me as a lesbian.
Someone I’m not
But I dropped it
And let them have their vision of me
This personality whom I’m not and never was.
I now fully understand who I am, but they
They seem to think they know me better than I do
Poem inspired by Patrick Roche’s “21” poem. Basically my story of dealing with my sexuality, but in poem form so yeah! =^_^=
When people say they're tired of a person, often a friend—
Do they mean, exhausted with the idea of submission to their actions
Responding to their preferences
Falling prey to all their ways
Or hearing them drone loquaciously
Putting down disagree-ers gratuitously
Speaking of themselves, about very little else
Until all hope and faith in them has deteriorated beyond all mercy?
I am yet to confirm
What is true beyond all else
Gone through the Rubicon,
Universal to all nations
But why must I tolerate a monk
That devoutly praises himself to the depths
Beyond all fierce comprehension,
His devotion remains a quandary
C Jacobine Nov 2011
The pounding in my head
beats the pounding in my chest.
I prefer no beat instead,
as the town with deadless rest
beats the sound of restless dead
berry Oct 2013
i don't want to smell alcohol
on your breath when you kiss me,
i want to taste the hours that you waited
and to feel how much you missed me.

i don't want to breathe in smoke
when i bury my face into your chest,
i want to hear your barely-beating heart
and feel it pulsate in the warmth of your flesh.

i don't want to see the moon & stars
swirl like diamonds against the onyx sky,
unless i can do so in the comfort of your arms
and have your fingers interwoven with mine.

i don't even want my morning coffee
unless you're the one that brings it to me,
having learned to make it just the way i like it
and committed my preferences to your memory.

i don't want sunrises or sunsets
if i can't watch them dance upon your skin,
or love you between dove-white sheets
on saturday mornings at half-past ten.

i don't want to see the day i become old & grey
an early grave i would sooner invite,
than to live to greet old age without you
by my side to guide me into eternal night.

- m.f.

— The End —