"premeditated" poems
The spider, dropping down from twig,
Unfolds a plan of her devising,
A thin premeditated rig
To use in rising.
And all that journey down through space,
In cool descent and loyal hearted,
She spins a ladder to the place
From where she started.
Thus I, gone forth as spiders do
In spider's web a truth discerning,
Attach one silken thread to you
For my returning.
44.3k
Murdering murderers
done gone
melancholy
in the moonlight.
It's midnight.
The perfect time
to commit a crime.
Here's to premeditated drug dealing.
And everything else that can get me
a one way ticket.
To the Devil's bed-room.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
In my pursuit of a higher education
I am now starting to study the process of human decomposition
And how strange we all rot away like road **** and plant vegetation.
I see the word Casper and my memory takes me back to when I was a child
Remembering he was a sad and lonely invisible cartoon character.
I am now reading it is a proven scientific law, that after you pass
And you give up your ghost, your body then becomes
A breeding ground and you are the decaying host.
Trying to hide the evidence you’re now digging a shallow grave
Don’t do that because it takes eight times longer
Thinking about submerging in water? Yes, it’s a little quicker
But if someone did you seriously wrong and unfair
The quickest way to decompose them is,
Just leave them hiding under some brush and in the summer open air
So then the flies, insects and bee's’ can make a home in their hair.
Sir Isaac Newton told the world how gravity should behave
And now a modern man proved it is no longer so
I can see now, Newton is raging hard and deep inside his grave.
I have not a single fear the only thing that scares me is,
I know without any doubt now that I am insanely brave
Trust me I’ll drag your corpse also and hide it in my make shift grave.
I’m out on a night prowl to change Casper’s law
And prove to you all that it was really only just a theory
Reading books about death gives me a thrill,
Better pray and hope I don’t someday become terminally ill
Everything I do stems from my madness and with it,
Premeditated thoughts and also a great conspiracy.
(SirCARSr. 3-2-2013)
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
The world's on fire, peace is extinct
Look how fragile peaceful minds can get
All hostile minds are having a ball right now.
It's like peace got embellished in chaos.
Where's peace at, what happened to her?
Regional, global local, peace is in short supply.
This is the renaissance of a new world order
Where partial peace coexists with total chaos
People only search Google for mostly facts
Not for solutions to some distorted peace
What is peace then, how can it be?
Just a routine rhetorical question
Coming from the disturbed mind in me
Listen, One-minute partial peace
Bang, another minute total chaos!
Nowadays, Instability everywhere is commonplace
As unscripted hate rhetoric freely echos,
From jihadic podiums to confused minds.
The conspicuous birthplace of premeditated evil.
The mind, soft spots of those totally confused
Call it the hotspots and playground for the devil.
I, the skeptic, to say the very least,
See this quiet storm as a distorted peace!
twitter @ivaclappers
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no!
Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know.
Searching through the pages’ mist
And imagined deeds
Of poets’ needs…
I found my favourite word,
As asked,
Neither sacred nor profane
That describes the Venetian rain
In my beloved’s eyes
And the Florentine sun upon her hair:
“Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”.
Oh, it is not fair,
To liken an object
Of my lust and love
To anything as mortal as autumn air!
Nor “October’s orchard Haze”;
She had her own
Inscrutable, premeditated ways!
Rather let me say that she was perfect,
Though her eyes, pale and myopic,
Her shuffling gait and
Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends
Fey charm, the power to mend
My suffering and
Delusions of a poet’s end
As anything but pathetic,
(Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics)
And I left softly hanging,
On a girl’s new taste,
A tang of russet apples on her face,
But no, not that, the sum
Of my love, My Lo!
Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand
That none of you brutes could understand;
The pure love,
So sadly consummated,
Between a lover
And the one she hated
Yet loved once with inexplicable delight,
On one stolen, frightened night…
In which the two of us agreed
To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need,
And then depart…
But I could not,
You see;
She was my life,
My love, my heart.
Humbert Humbert 1950
Sharon Talbot ca. 2005
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
i.
He stared at the woman, eyes darting to memorize her angles and features,
at any moment this mirage could disappear.
For two full minutes he was unable to speak, too scared to let words loose;
they can no longer be hidden once they’ve been exposed.
So he kissed her instead, because he liked how it felt to no longer feel alone.
ii.
The grip of loneliness refused to let her go, like the claws of a jealous lover.
“One thing for certain, there is no god. We are completely alone, love is ********
“What if I showed you that you are not alone, how would it change your life?”
“I think I might actually be happy.”
“You are happy when you let yourself be…there is this…fire inside of you, but
every time the momentum starts to build you tell yourself whatever you need to
hear to keep it from taking you.”
iii.
“Why the hell are you starting this with me? This isn’t right.”
“Who says I’m starting anything?”
“Oh, you’re one of ‘those’ guys.”
“What are ‘those’ guys?”
“The type of guy who pretends that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and
doesn’t admit to what he’s doing so he can play innocent when he’s called to
the carpet. But in reality, he knows exactly what he is doing, and most of it
is premeditated.”
“Like ******
“Yeah, something like that. There is a good chance something or someone
could die in this scenario.”
iv.
They laid still for a while, trying to catch their breath.
“I think your parents named you after the wrong Craig Finn character.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“They should have called you Hallelujah, because you sound like an angel
when you ***
She smiled and she kissed him and they made love again,
and she felt like an angel.
v.
He started out the door and turned, lifting his shy head to look at her
“As far as I’m concerned, you are the only one I’ve ever slept with.”
She stopped breathing, afraid to believe the nouns and verbs that were floating.
She repeated the sentence out loud after he walked away.
They were the most loving, pure and perfect words she had ever heard.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
red stains, fading, cracked, scented
_if i kissed your prints, would they kiss me back?_
sighs, thoughts, spaces between prints
spaces between words, between parted lips and floating thoughts the world! is so crowded with space but yours is the one i want to fill .
but where are the lines? lines of loss, lines of lawns, lines of ink and rips and more stains and letters, in the hands and on the pavement
where are the lines?
why won't you go there?
why do you hover in these foul, indomitable spaces? why do you seek that which you should not?
if the shadow of lines slinks in your quiet expression, then why are you still here?
if the echo of your soft face lingers in my hands, if the whisper of your breath and the heat of your skin still singes my own, then why do you disappear?
lovely wraith, lovely memory of a thing that once was, why do you sit so alone?
because i am coming to your space, and if you can see me, of shadow and fog, then i will meet you there,
on a line of our own.
_>because it's a death premeditated and i can see it unfolding,_
_sharp wounding painful_
_and the discourse in the sky is telling me so, yet why do i keep walking west?_
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
a ****** of crows gathers
over Hamburg, carrion carrying on
with business as usual.
feeding on the festered flesh
of a gentrified populace.
in private jets coughing carbon
they fly from the west on turbine wings,
engines screaming as they dive towards a nation
secured by razor-wound walls
and barb-wire borders.
they pitched a battle in Germany,
convinced that austerity
would ******* the resistance
and give justification to premeditated violence.
but the tables have turned on the thieves again.
we are the end result of your failed policies,
globalization has destroyed our homes.
if your cabal rallies like a kettle of vultures,
you will do so behind closed doors,
cowering in your fortress' halls.
you shall not pass. watch as the power shifts
like the melting gears of torched BMWs.
we will tear the vestiges of your authority down.
we will black out your surveillance cameras,
smash your windows, and block your limos. no pasaran.
flee, while you can still run. this city belongs
to the wild ones, a black bloc, thousands strong,
dancing amidst the tear gas, tossing molotovs.
marching to liberty's sturdy drum,
equal in our solidarity song.
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
From sleeps sweet embrace
To become realities eyes
Clouded with a dark imagination
Set forth in a torturous rhyme
Insanity my love
Premeditated thoughts undisclosed
Revealed the prophecy
Attired in woe
Each long night when dreams turned to sand
The delicate soul lay bathed in tears
Doing battle protected by the amour of loyalty
Overcoming the conquests of fear
Nightmares emerged from sleeps sweet embrace
Memories became realities stark face.
Morning comes and ends the assault
A peace that is gained
At a terrible cost.
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan.7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC
I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
The rooster swivels on its axis returning
coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues
raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands
from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity,
ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against
the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases,
between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck),
mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream,
onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts.
The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light
on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first,
Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner
of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator
thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of
hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter:
deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot.
Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly
to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing
me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I
snap backwards, up 21 floors,
pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing
backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement
and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take
wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up
mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread
to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot,
moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the
annals of failure and
shove the Fs of my past back
then
I take the bus instead.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
Premeditated Amnesia 1
For nothing here is old, save for deep layers
Of moss and muck and mouldering remains
Civilisations lit by visions and fire
Now lost beneath a Wal-Mart Parking lot
Incuriously the tentacles of Now
Slither more deeply into the pale past
And churn up yet another housing estate
At the corner of Kingsford Lane and Heather Way
Near the Motorcycle Church, for piston prayers:
For nothing here is old, save for deep layers
1”The U.S. is probably the contemporary world’s purest example of a society which is perpetually trying to abolish history, to avoid thinking in historical terms, to associate dynamism with premeditated amnesia.” -Alexander Woodside quoted by Susan Sontag:
https://bostonreview.net/susan-sontag-interview-geoffrey-movius?utm_source=Boston+Review+Email+Subscribers&utm_campaign=b581739691-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2018_08_17_04_17_COPY_01&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_2cb428c5ad-b581739691-41080789
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
I am a criminal,
A low down ***** convict,
Robbing old ladies and turning the youth into like minded thugs and killers.
With my gun, I can turn any day into new years eve.
Bang! Pow!
I've just shown you how,
I ***** somebody's light out.
I live by the gun
Ready to pull it out and start blasting away,
And if you're in the way?
I hope you've had an eventful final day.
One more body to my death toll is of little consequence.
And to those who choose to cross me
will be dealt with in a premeditated sequence.
So many women I've widowed,
So many children I've left with only half a family.
Do I care?
No.
For my heart is as black as my skin
I have no feelings of remorse or empathy.
Or do I?
Am I really this despicable person?
Is what I've just said is not me at all,
Or just what people perceive me to be.
The truth is, that's all it is
A perception
A perverted perception forced upon me and others like me by illogical stereotypes,
A perverted perception perpetuated to the the point where it has become the status quo,
A belief so deeply ingrained in the minds of the masses that I become public enemy number one, two and three,
so deeply ingrained that I should not know what it means to be free,
so deeply ingrained that I should not even be given the change to better myself.
Does this perception out rank reality?
Does conceptuality govern the actuality of reality?
If so, I perceive this world to be full of ****
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 5:37 AM UTC
Urdhva Hastasana
Salida del sol.
Her paws are bare
Ablaze against the black stone heat of the morning stroll
Pausing for the last monsoon, whispering
Salut?
There would not exist consequence for a dampened nose of pusillanimity
Carelessly drawn to the astrophysical realm of celestial bodies
Illuminating the chivalry once more.
We'll sing chansons
Oh cabaret!
The circumstance and pomp eliding
Lavishly rouged lips from sterling glances
Exposed by the slow and sultry raise of copper eyes
Premeditated, so that they lift in perfect timing
Beneath dark lashes to seem accidentally mesmeric.
I still lose amethysts
They drop from the back of my ears unexpectedly
Their plunge of contact against the water
Catches my attention but no more
Of a thought should surface except to surface
The stones from the depths pooling around my ankles.
The rain won't drain and hasn't for months
She scratches her hair but the pining never stops.
I rub her ears so she'll display such an ardor
Revealed in company and solitude simultaneously
To be weighed and doubted and accepted and declined
Beneath the stony gaze of the eyes of a god
Swindling a wrinkle in the shower curtain.
Alas what a shame it is
Besitos aren't quite fancied here.
Ne prennent pas garde aux berceaux, Que la main des femmes balance.
Puesta del sol.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
Growing up never comes when you expect it:
It's when you realize that the suicide note under your mattress
Probably has a few too many commas where semicolons should be,
And a little too much emphasis on the last four years of your life-
Missed due dates, flunked exams, and friendships that were supposed to be forever.
It's when you figure out that the boy you spent your freshman year of college worrying about
Never even knew the name of your favorite book,
Or anything else that really mattered.
It isn't something you can predict, or prepare for-
It isn't a sudden shift of priorities that all of a sudden appear
Somewhere in your subconscious, making it a lot easier to get up at 9am for a statistics class
That you're inevitably going to fail.
It isn't anything you do that will change, but rather
A shift inside of you that slowly shakes your entire being.
Youth is only beautiful until it's corrupted,
By the sultry hands of time, beckoning you forward when all you ever wanted to do was hide.
It slowly seeps down into the darkest corners of your mind,
Swallowing up all that innocent ambition
Flung upon you in the fifth grade by a board of indifferent teachers
Who decided to deem you gifted, introducing you to a world of knowledge
Too fascinating to mingle with the uncertainty of responsibility.
There's something frightening about growing old,
Maybe it's because you spent one too many hours of your childhood
Pretending to be someone else- caught up in a storybook world
Full of daydreams and simplicity, too one dimensional for reality.
It's not that it goes away all of a sudden: all the premature doubt
And impulsive wishes of death, or something like it.
But rather, it takes a different form-
That which was once a big red ball full of passionate emotions,
Has deflated, leaving you with only a faint residue of what you used to feel.
Maybe, you got your wish after all- something had to die, you know,
In order for you to carry on without losing your mind.
It's a sad paradox, this sequence of living,
As intuition slowly deteriorates, and common sense
Slinks in, in its premeditated, yet lackluster manner,
And before you know it, you're not a kid anymore.
Peter Pan flew the coop years ago, but Neverland still remains,
A testimony to all the lost childhoods of the ones
Too eager to lay their stake in the land of milk and honey.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
You said my fears were irrational
But how do you deem irrational
That which a person whom
Is deeply in love with you
Deems rational,
How do you deem
My fear of losing you
Irrational?
Look at us now
The mess we've become
We've become such a wreck
A train wreck,
That even the finest form of grafitti
Cannot modify
How do you live with yourself
Knowing that you're the one
Who sinked our love boat
Now we're just another superstructure
Consumed whole,
By the unfathomable depth
Of the endless sea,
From the brutal storms of life
We didn't foresee
We cried of pain from heart fracture
Is it love that you lacked
Or was your sense of reasoning somewhat hacked?
How do you sleep, knowing that
You're the one who ripped apart
The delicate petals
To this precious rose of ours
Perhaps you won't make it
To be in the running,
In the Oscars
For the best actor award
But you do at least, deserve a few medals
Like the paraplegic athlete Oscar
For the best disloyalty
I confessed my fears unto you
And all you could do was laugh it off
You brushed the subject off
As if it were a speck of dust
On your shoulders
Rendering your pride, a form of rust
How could you have traded
Unconditional love
For irrefutable lust
You were once my pride and joy
But now a stranger you've become
Another somebody, I used to know
Sad part is that your presence
No longer brings any joy
How could you say that
My fears were irrational
When you fell into the same trap
I warned you of
How could you say
That my fears were irrational
When you succumbed to the spell
And didn't get choked by the smell
Of our burning bridge
How could you just stand there
And watch, while everything
We've ever worked for
Is burning down to dust?
Look at us now.
A premeditated crime scene we are
No evidence left to prove how close we once were
Not even a chalk outline
Look at us now.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
I woke up very early this morning, restless and bothered, itchy for the day to happen. As dawn broke orange, the city was revealed. I’ll never get tired of watching that. The snow was gone but a gloss over the city streets indicated ice. I scanned the landscape for movement - for life - like a predator.
Lisa and I are headed back to school today, at 11am, by air, which our parents feel is the best way to avoid our old, holiday nemesis omicron (doesn’t that make us sound like secret agents?).
Once everyone was finally up, Lisa and I got our busy-on, doing the last load of laundry and final packing. Lisa, packs a suitcase, by throwing clothes in without bothering to fold them, while I meticulously fold and roll my clothes, like a marine headed for deployment.
As Lisa and I worked, Leeza (12) was lying on Lisa’s bed, on her back with her head hanging over the edge - watching us pack upside down. Her red hair looked like a thrown plate of spaghetti.
Leeza was talk, talk, talking and gnawing on a toasted bagel at the same time. “How do you feel about going back to school?” she asked us. “OH, feelings!” I gasped, “A free therapy session!” “No, really,” she said, grown serious and rolling right side up.
Leeza is cute as a button and vulnerable - I could almost feel her anxiety. As the youngest sibling I’d been left behind too - you don’t want the holiday to end and your big sister to leave - it’s a singularly lonesome feeling. I wanted to grab her, like a puppy, wrestle her and tell her I love her and I’d miss her - like my sister used to do with me. I decided that as soon as we were done packing, I would.
“My GOD,” Lisa said to Leeza, “will you PLEASE shut up! I have to think.” Leeza blushed and shrugged “I’m just making conversation, grump-face, you’ve packed a million times before haven’t you?” “Does counting to 10 make ****** premeditated?” Lisa asked the ceiling.
Suddenly, Lisa dropped the blouse she’d been holding and pounced on Leeza, tickling her as she squealed with delight. In a second they’d become a ball of flailing arms, legs, hair and playful noise. I slunk out of the room to give them their sister’s goodbye.
Besides, I smelled bacon.
Jan 14, 2022
Jan 14, 2022 at 9:19 AM UTC
My hands above my head,
I grasp for purpose,
and pull the Sun to my chest.
Circles become arbitrary.
Squares, the cousins of
rectangles are discredited as
man-made. That's why metaphors
known as squares are seen as
vulnerable shapes in a misunderstood spectrum.
They are dotted lines
dependent on right angles,
left ashtray to explain anomalies.
So for order we justify lines.
We contain music within them.
Until, of course, the Holy Ghost
is found. Because that strike
against the canvas is thought
to be premeditated.
But that isn't human nature.
That isn't God.
It will only become recorded
notes on a page.
It's retrospect.
A future remembrance of the past.
It's the Sun in your heart,
knowing that containing that
kind of energy is hazardous
to your health.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
There's a peculiar feeling about emptiness.
Like hundreds of misshapen rocks
Have all been carelessly dumped
Into the cavity which should hold
My red, pulsing heart.
It's not obnoxious
Or tangible,
But it lurks somewhere right beyond
I love you
And I miss you
And I don't care.
Like termites slowly devouring
An old pewter coffee table
Left on the corner in front of a tall
Decaying townhouse.
The legs slowly deteriorate,
Revealing their soft fleshy wooden insides.
There's no warning sign for this kind of
Isolation.
No tell tale symptoms
Or home made remedies
Of honey and camomile.
Flashing neon lights
Flicker and fade into the
Heavy night.
And symmetrical posters
Don't illuminate the pathway to loneliness like they should.
Instead,
It just creeps up on you when you're least expecting it,
Between casual conversations
And vulnerable moments of passion.
You can't stop it,
Or push it into a corner
The way you can with guilt
And premeditated promises.
It's too disfigured to be shut away in a symmetrical closet
Or empty dining room.
It's the absence of understanding,
The congested feeling in your lungs
And heart
And stomach,
That comes when you suddenly realize
No one understands.
It's unpredictable in that way,
The sudden realization,
There's no telling when it will spring upon an unexpecting moment,
And devour the innocence of longing.
But when it happens,
When your whole world feels frozen,
Stagnant and stuck between the cracks of reality,
And covered with a thin veil of dust
And failure,
When your throat is dry and chalky,
Full of almost there sentences
That dance in the chaos of your desperation,
You'll know.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC
I Bounced Back,
From Being Attacked,
I've Gotten Letters In My Mailbox,
Evolopes Onyx Black,
I've Cried Myself To Sleep,
I've Lost Sanity,
But I Bounced Back
I Bounced Back,
From Being Hated,
From Being Degraded,
So Close To Being Disintegrated,
It Was ******
Premeditated,
But I Bouced Back
I Bounced Back,
From Falling On My Face,
From Being Called A Disgrace,
From Being An Outcast Of The Human Race,
Inside My Veins Swims Emence Strength,
Because I Bounced Back
I Bounced Back,
From Blood Which Dripped,
Secrets Which Slipped,
My Heartbeat Tripped,
My Throat Was Being Gripped,
I Jumped Into The Ocean Just For A Dip,
That's When The Sharks Came And I Got Bit,
But Yet, I Bounced Back
I'm Sure If People Knew,
They'd See How Much We Grew,
And As If On Cue,
They'd Have Respect For Me And You,
And If They Had A Clue,
They'd Realize Our Strength 2 Preserver Through,
It's Hard To Paint A Master Peice,
With Our Colorless Hue,
Our Hearts Are Held Together With Super Glue,
Thoughts Askew,
But Me And You,
We're The Strongest Ones They'll Try To Cut Into,
Because We Bounced Back
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 8:33 AM UTC
why do you insist on calling
this a rose when we all know
its really a thorn
and why do you stay in this room
when all you want is a tree
Sometimes, its nice to know
that crying in the dark is the same
as crying in the day
but sometimes i feel like we should crawl on
our knees
and beg for forgiveness
not from 'the big man up in the sky'
but from a garden that we've forgotten about
i mean, which one really
has more power?
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
IV. Isaiah
If ever on the moors in seeking
Zarephath she faltered—
White of gossamer and lamb—
And the well in running over
Colored bloodred clay
Lapis Lazuli, sweetened to dewpoint
As for what it meant
To those that saw and waited
Prophets and disciples of an
Instant; bear witness to the
World reborn (not premeditated)
At muddy dawn in unloved scrubland plots
Subsequent to love running sacred between
The pages of an unloved tome, a fissure
What is a truth?
Could I reach out
And touch you?
What holds your heart, Elijah?
Who can you see beneath the glass
Who stares back from the bottom of a raindrop
Flashing past before convening
With the ground?
Did you know, my dear,
I stem from the disillusionment of ground
And the resurrecting of fraught winter
Sky?
Did you know,
I am alive and dying to go, now,
To arise from Pelas and walk free in sun again?
I want to love the rain
So that it knows
I want to lavish love upon your
Lips, your hands,
Your neck that holds
Your temples, the gaps between
Your ribs, and vertebrae, and 50 billion stars
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 1:01 AM UTC
It all started
So light,
Until I heard
A voice barely say,
“Welcome to the Dark Fairy Tale,
Run for your life."
Then these thoughts
Crossed my mind,
The warning signs
Were all there,
I should have turned
Back at the masquerade ball;
Pulled off the mask,
Face revealed,
Smell of her
Perfume in
Your hair.
Kept the truth
Locked up with
Gingerbread
And sparkle dust,
"Love."
Trapped
In a toxic tale;
Couldn't sleep,
The Gothic prince
Took my hand
So charmingly,
And said, "Come with me..."
He spun me round' and
Swept me off my feet,
Until I fell to the
Floor and couldn't
See.
Cinderella Dream;
Coated with Candy Cream,
It was all fun and games,
Until I realized his
Premeditated plans
To take away
All the best parts
Of me.
Poison apple
Portrayal
Forever
Frozen in
Glass frame
Would be
An unlikely
Ending.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC
Hello Dear Friend,
It’s been a while since I’ve wrote you.
Woes of lost friendship must have driven me here,
in fear of other lanes that is, to this letter.
Laughter and joy has been had, them in lieu of you.
Ewes can ape wolves, as you’ve seen in three years prior,
the choir sang the same triad, this time quiet.
Quite sad— I know, but I’ve spoken enough on me,
for thee I am writing, and to thee I now write:
You must have been busy bringing joy to the world;
or joy to a world, of one I’ve met never.
Another basis, wherefore, I stop this stasis
of silence. We’ll needn’t recall to remember,
for like the migrants of nature, nothing has changed—
only the season, or maybe just the weather—
regardless, the moral stands as thus: History
has shown those of the same feather flock together;
so, as such, we do not lose time in relearning
quirks or behaviors—innate powers take over
Then, again, the inane behavior shall ensue.
Fluid synchronization of minds—now union—
is source to the river highly known for knowledge.
Dialogue sows the seeds, such that comprehension
of grand ideas, which sprout like fruit at the Lethe,
can be harvested to feed the minds of others.
Thoughts that they found too puerile, we now encounter
regularly, and never have we thought to laugh
at any one. Instead we laugh coyly, as we
discuss things of great measure absentmindedly.
The weight of measure felt by us knows few others—
wherefore, I ask: what deserves merit? But One knows,
and those answers lie in the minds of the many.
But here I must stop, for I, quite abashedly,
feel your response to this notion has bearing on
the rest of my premeditated first letter.
With Godspeed I send this, in hopes—with haste, you’ll read
and respond. At last a new dialogue begins.
Remember: those who look— will find,
Your Dearest Friend
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC