"prodigies" poems
It is worse for a tulip to live again and be renewed
than for the tulip to die and be dead.
“What happens when you die?”
I asked several romantic partners over the course of my adolescence.
“You’re dead,” they answered.
It is worse for the tulip to be born again,
dust to dust, dirt to dirt, true god from true god,
in a process that spiritual peers define as, reincarnation.
No tulip is an individual (that is clear), but a process.
A perfecting oneness.
I can’t admit or bend to any resounding belief that every tulip is the same.
That FernGully was a farce and Pocahontas, a phony.
That is just not going to fly.
Maybe it is the environmentalist inside me speaking,
or maybe it is God.
I refuse to believe the prodigies and professors of renewal and rejuvenation.
I can not discount individuation, even in tulips!
Tulips are victims of suburbia, they have been relegated to the lawn, to the mulch bed,
but inside of them there are remnants of humanity.
I couldn’t believe it, ever.
Not ever, even if you convinced me or bribed me or seduced me.
No chance.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
Who is she but blood of that demise
In fiery passion her own blood consumes?
Like powder waiting for the heat of flame
Whose heat in lonely agony she bathes?
What is it but fire of that demise
Whose sacrificial prodigies be made
To keep him superstitious of the flame?
And in triumph, like fire, they consume.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
*Butterfly Desires & Fictional Highs,
Magnetic Spells In Her Emerald Eyes,
Bleeding Perpetual Fire & Toxic Cries.
Lucid Screams Of Her Plastic Love,
Paper Towns & Serenity Above,
Refracting Into An Apocalyptic Dove.
Postcards Of Her Estranged Serenity,
Diffusing Into Polaroids Across Infinity,
Rhythms Of Lusts Erupting Obscenity.
Bluest Shade Of Her Misguided Confessions,
Uncharted Fragments Amplifying Obsessions,
Profane Prodigies Detonating Desecrations,
Digital Dreams & Fictional Desires,
3D Symphonies Inside Her Crystal Wires,
Purple Streams Translating Fires.
Tunnel Visions Transmitting Reality,
Suicidal Trance & Static Eternity,
Molotov Solution Is Her Lighthouse Of Ecstasy.
- 04:19AM -*
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 6:56 PM UTC
Consisting of grown, persisting as shown and unknown. Insisting entities, rivalries and sworn enemies! Deformed, forewarned, formed, informed, mourned, performed, reformed and scorned. Dates of great storms! Family tree of hate, horns and thorns. My family tree of gore, horror, more, poor and sore. Perhaps of mishaps galore. Briefly sit
back! I’ll roughly take you back… Heck! Back to a time of attack,
blacks, slacks and whacks. My family tree of practical, tactical, methodical Aztec. Some beckon and reckon in seconds. A family tree of crime, grime and rhyme. A nation of communication, dedication,
dissemination, motivation and procrastination. The splendor of sin
of my corruptive, disruptive kin. They rely more on the color of one’s
skin. My family tree of abuse and misuse that misuses and seduces! Family tree of warfare and welfare legalities, moralities and family-prodigies. Picture this scriptural twist! Some assist on a kiss. I insist
some are idealities in social technicalities. Alcoholics, diabetics,
****** exotic, fantastic, Catholics, eccentric, horrific and poetic. I persist… some gnomes, some roam, some in poems, some with no homes. My family tree of adventuresome, awesome, handsome and troublesome. My family tree of beautiful and bountiful! Some are a
handful some handicap some locally and vocally-rap. Some slap,
gift-wrap and yap! Some are snuggly, pretty, witty or ugly. In my family tree, some crippled, some with pimples, some with freckles
and some that heckle. Some belittle and little, some wrinkled and old. Some are bold and pray to the lord! Some are Frio, meaning cold we
were told. Some I say, are poor with no Amor. Some are here no more, in my family tree of Amor.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
My anomalous trip thus far has been dichotomous.
Harbingers motivate my advent: a chorus.
Acceptance of frolic ventures sent: a quest.
My sneakers meet familiar soil at last.
Designed to be a panacea, yet I fall ill.
Sleets of rain impact my soul: a slight chill.
Hazed trance, awashed clean of all acrimony.
A lurid stroll, downhill, parallel, perfunctory.
I, a stoic mercenary, avenging my ties tonight.
Arcane magic flow through my veins, my sight.
Moisture sparkle, glistens through my mental maze.
Resistance, control: I attempt to regain ablaze.
Synaptics fuse, burn, misfire, discombobulate.
Higher functions remain: calculus, formulate.
Veritas! Visual focus be on 2D layer sharp.
Disintegrated data sung with melodious harp.
Laissez-faire slayed by Communist meritocracy.
Mental hierarchy arise from wayward sorcery.
My affection for her nets only melancholia.
The amity cease... yet reborn by spying cornea.
Upon a hill from sea to sea brings forth diplomacy.
Lively lads, enshrouded in black; they be prodigies.
Persons of worth: one stranger joins their ranks.
If my creed offend, beg you pardon pranks.
Silent drizzle softly sings of night and majesty.
Lament under moonlight, behold gray sanctity.
Ne'er shall dreadful turmoil befall our facilities.
Literature conceals such divine secrecy.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:15 AM UTC
Your interest is piqued
By we the people,
The prosperous poor.
Pacified by things
As simple as passion,
We push,
Pull,
And punch
Our way to the peak.
You're puzzled
By our paedarchy
Where the puerile rule
For they are the prudent.
We are the prosperous poor,
The pauperized children,
Packing our hearts
With dreams of progress
And thoughts of prodigies.
Poor by birth,
Prosperous by personality,
We are the prosperous poor.
We, the children of poverty
Who have been pure only in heart
Will proceed
To prove that the poor
Are prosperous at heart.
The prosperous poor
Are only prosperous
Because they have felt the pain
Of the poor.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
i would like to write a cute little poem so i can post it on facebook
and have everyone tell me how adorable i am
how good at mediocre poetry i am
have them repost and like and comment
on my mediocrity
but every time i sit down to try
the word **** pops out
and ****
and
*******
and "cutting"
and "help me"
and "go to hell".
and no one on facebook would like that
they'd unfriend me
not that i ******* care
just that i have a hard time being adorable
no matter how many times people comment on my cute face
i am not a cute person
i'd cut you,
*****
forreal.
i almost wish i could be like my little sister
the prodigy
but **** prodigies, man
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
Here I stand on the 108th parallel,
the bridge between sanity and belief,
a train station situated between the hectic and the inane,
around me stands a group of strangers.
Some of us are good looking,
some are intelligent,
some are both,
all are worthwhile.
Some are talented,
some are prodigies,
some will change the world,
all will succeed and all will fail.
Some are believers,
some are confused,
some will blaze trails,
others looking to them for direction,
all will eventually find their way.
Some will teach from the pulpit,
some from the altar,
and still others from the streets,
all will make a difference in his eyes.
Some of us will live happier ever after,
some will fight depression,
others will struggle with anxiety,
and in truth,
all are loved.
And so here I stand,
on the 108th parallel,
surrounded by friends,
in a place that we may one day forget,
but in the end,
when all is said and done,
the remnants will remain,
although the stitches holding us together are often unseen.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
The fools' contempt is what we need
When everyday is all filth and greed
And while the heavens sing from above
The hurting children cry out for love
We open our filthy palms
Just to escape this terrible fate
Of lies, and thieves, and worthless things
And only words of hate
The gay men, the starving children, and the drug addicts are bombed
Satanists and alcoholism
The freedoms we had
Now prejudiced and gone
Suicides are left and right
As the animals start singing
The Moon weeps for her children
As the Sun is merely sleeping
Where did they go?
What is wrong
It is time to escape this fate
That we have invoked all along
And as the blood in our veins feels like it's about to burn
The end of the day
And the tears we cry
Is all a lesson learned
Now cry for the last lullaby
All hope is gone
From the voices in our heads
And now we die!
Side by side and hand in hand
On the battlefield
Where our bodies are merely one grain of sand.
We cause pain to our dying brothers
And become ourselves, merely traitors.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
The beat, the snare, the drum
Starting in at the floor and flying to my brain
**** all the people who say I’m numb
I’m sane, oh so sane!
My thinking, once a cloudy, congested, coagulate of incoherent thoughts,
Now flows free from its once catastrophically, closed chasm,
Bringing fourth meaningless, mindless motions and movements,
Showing all, that you are who you are, don’t be afraid to fall.
As the smoke clears, the crystallized casts of crushing vocals
Radiate to my ears; all we hear is the hate, the hassle, the hustle
The bustle. Look beyond what has spawned to see what you find fond.
Blinded we remain; we fight, frightened and furious against this foe.
Conformity hinders our ability to show individuality. They attack us
With ambidexterity to keep us statues of our own subconscious design,
Yet we continue to follow these wrongly deified prodigies. They’re using
Us as antibodies to cleanse what are others conformities.
Enlightened I will stay to ensure Elysium for my fellow enthusiasts.
Free from these prodigies, my persistence will not fade
To grey, black, white, withered, wretched wasted thoughts.
My mind is free, my soul deep, this music is the up-beat.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:03 AM UTC
I aimlessly drifted in teenage years,
From subtle scion to zaftig plebe.
Seen phony glory, vanquished fears,
And the stench of a wicked glebe.
From below, saw the stars up high,
Igniting horizons with callow wonder.
Beheld colossal beauty with mine inner eye,
Begged for chained thoughts asunder.
Amidst the serene flock to be slain,
Oft' a titan, seldom a vacant savant.
Known sorrow, elation, gain, vain, pain,
This mortal hour, hear joyful lament.
How quick we are to bid farewell,
How slow for friendship to pierce the cloth.
The rhythmic ache of that darkened knell,
The sobbing whimpers for a lover's warmth.
Nix for reciprocated amity, yet!
My seat of affection thrives in twilight.
Herein discipline is adamantly set,
Whence shall this ****** ire take flight?
Into the night that covers my soul,
Unleash that verdant star I see.
The divine abyss have taken its toll,
I pray the shadow is only me.
Note the ease to neglect one's clan,
Yet savored glee of reunions by blood.
Fury cease my elder ties, an infant plan,
By filial ardor, I still kneel in mud.
Star-shine ablaze onto vivid blooms,
Arise the stench of broiling debris.
Beauteous summer-tide metronomes,
The sinking scythe follow gales of peace.
Labor come sweat yield sweet fruition,
Tis annual come the bronze harvest.
Wrongful vengeance seek humble redemption,
Autumn under siege of well-fed zest.
Stormy vista rime graying meadows,
Entrench the sepsis by the ice age.
Taste weeping woe of guilty widows,
Lest their beloved hunger in cage.
Arise young lilac out of barren frosts,
Touch the vital aura to begin anew.
Altruists gladly pay auric costs,
To stalk vile leviathan into dew.
May stones bear indistinct distinction,
So my stride shall stumble and falter.
Peace paint heroes of sluggish fiction,
Chaos rouse prodigies from quiet slumber.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
solitude and shadows are one
the sound of the sun
as it falls towards the horizon
lift up your eyes to the sky
for it reminds me of why i love you
burn up these memories
allow dreams to disagree
for if we are truly meant to be
then we’ll surely see each other again
ferment the leaves in jars
our lives may lead to scars
but if we allow our hearts to guide us
we may find that there
has always been a star inside us
blinded by beauty’s face
the secrets you have kept safe
its time to let them out
the knowledge of the soul
removes all doubts as it unfolds
all is one forever, without
all is one forever, we shout
blessed are we
lovers and angels
blessed are we
thousands of faithful
blessed are Thee, light’s prodigies
for lovers and thieves are all equal
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC
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Quartermaster qualified quaint quaffing quadrilateral Pythons. Pyrex pylons put purdy purposeful puny punsters punching. Pumpkin pumice publicized prudential protean pros properly pronouncing prolific prodigies.
Proletariats professors' problematic. Pro privileges prioritized. Principle primates prevaricate. Preppy pregnant, praying prattler possibly Porgie. Poseidon pooping poodle ponders poppycock. Plum? Polite poison pods ply pitiful pinterest.
Pinhead Pillsbury pillager Pi. Pigskin pierce petsmart pests permanently. Perdition percolates peppered PennState pedigreed PearlJam Patagonian. Pastor pastes passion passably. Papas' paginated orbitz okayed. Nutty node needs money.
Next netzero nee naugahyde. Nattering nationwide nabob Moxie Molly McGee. Monosodium livingsocial joyus je kickstarter. Identityguard Huffington GMO. Gluten Glutamate footloose fancy free footlocker. Fingerhut fetishistic fabrication Cingular.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
I don't understand it.
Everybody want to be a savage.
Upscale and overdramatic
90's mentality, I'm still fightin' madness.
So tell me
What you know about classic?
Better think, before you pop off at the mouth
and do anything drastic!
I never changed
I continue to do me
956 to 323
I got power
I am father to many prodigies
I'm going to stay on top
of the game, until they body me.
So you made a couple of hits
So you qualify as a hitter?
Stop calling yourself a killer
if you ain't about it ni**a
Gotta be outside the box
This is why
You cannot frame me
for any picture!
None of you, about the smoke
but be so quick to burn it all
Just like a swisher!
I cannot face time, rather not waste time.
Most of you get loco
When you be on the liquor
My foundation stands by me.
This is not vengenace, this is vigor!
So stop trying to use my lines
You's a stolen-style shifter
You ******* stolen-line-spitter
I'm not saint.
I rather not be a sinner.
I tell my child
You can do
ANYTHING!
Daddy will always rock with ya!
2021, new era, new me, I am done
******* with you pretenders!
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 12:16 PM UTC
I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly that night.
And even more sorry to know that you had the shock
of finding my ’not wanted on the voyage’ body.
The useless carcass I left behind.
That shouldn’t happen to anyone,
to find your lifeless partner by your side…
That’s how you’d see it anyway.
But me? I’m off now into the wide blue yonder,
never to return. Not as you knew me anyway.
These are the rules I’m afraid.
Apparently some people do come back.
****** Spiritualists & Clairvoyants… They make us all,
up here - seem like part timers.
Not that I wouldn’t… But it’s complicated.
There’s a kind of apprenticeship,
a protocol to follow…There are still rules
even in death. There has to be a trade off.
No pain… no anguish…
And, you can just dip in and out of your old
family’s life - PAs… Personal Appearances.
That’s what 'Head Office' calls ‘em
Pacifies the loved ones that you are settled.
In the dying mode of things that is.
Really what you’re doing… as a soul,
is waiting for a suitable donor body
then you're born into a new family!
That's the way it goes!
To end on a lighter note… Kind of makes you wonder
why there aren’t more child prodigies around…
Maybe only the smartest ones make it back! Who knows?
All that knowledge gone to waste… Just saying!
Sep 3, 2020
Sep 3, 2020 at 3:27 PM UTC
Underneath our masks
we paint our faces too pale;
Fraudulent smiles
Only must we wear in this play?
Tragedy makes the inks run
Audience sobs too,
yet we are too numb to vex;
Merely convincing
Plot: ignore true emotion
Please enjoy our props
Sensationalist
amusement at its finest;
Ready made to sell
Come one, come all and feel
Masques and poems enhance the play
Scripts all written by
poets, Saints and Prodigies;
Artless art makers
Publish our dear Mother Earth
Her manuscript grows everyday
Their realities
denied with good intentions;
So that we may live
A life of meaning and play
In a world of vast settings
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
A game of lies
Spoken between the lines
And it all boils down to
Who knows who
Who knows you?
You know Sue?
She's real new
I heard from Stacy
She's got a man or two
***** **** for *****
But sits on a pew
Every Sunday
And confesses her sins
With her slate wiped clean
She does it all again
Wearing a grin
What nerve to think
Life's a free for all
As long as you pray
On your knees everyday
Six days show the truth
Unholy, and without shame
But on the seventh
Your god takes his claim
Who knows
Maybe he likes this game
Maybe god's sick in the head
Who are we to say
Why the games?
Why this life?
Nobody knows
That's just how it goes
It's a game of thrones
And a kingdom of lies
Daddy's caught up in the throes
Of a coke head fantasy
Mommy's all alone
Seeking comfort in the Hennessy
And children are born
As a result of the adultery
We call those game pieces
Pawns from an old game
Old flames and new tricks
Come back to haunt you
And your new fix
Girls to moms
Baby food and fresh kicks
For Christmas
Grown women
Or old girls?
**** if I know
But it’s the kids that suffer
Growing up
With tears for supper
Until they became cold
****** around and got old
At the age of sixteen
Old souls
Or so it seems
This is the world we live in
Not even the worst
Third world tragedies
Fronting like
First world prodigies
With only songs of sorrow to sing
We are the American dream
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
They tell us of places and theories
speak of the radicalness of our flesh
say that we must take responsibility of ourselves
as they sit behind their hard earned desks
they speak of their authority
and empowerment through words to the point that I wish to acquire such audacity
isn't that what our liberation is all about?
Recreating patterns of oppression
reach elitist capacities
sound … well structured and become one of the prodigies they can throw in their collection of so called advancement
I no longer seek validation of my processes through your bureaucratic systems
my knowledge does not emanate from intellectually justified sources but from las historias passed down to me by my fore-mothers
keep your favors, sympathy and unreasonable accommodations
yes, I will move on
but con un nuevo entendimiento:
de que ustedes no dictan las bases del feminismo
ni la capacidad de mi criterio
resisto sus juicios
y no acepto sus terminos
no firmo
por que mi educacion
no tiene fecha de expiracion
ni es un producto o contrato
al mejor postor.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
We met when our lives were breadfruit chimes
and squandered our lust for True Life before Swine
and our Bejeweled Youth...
prodigies of fire and stall. We nurtured the Other by being Ourselves.
Mercurial and murky with our tender bright fierce
and our soft on crime...
we held hands.
We will always Love Us.
So I Love You. Best -
So I am.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
The Dreamers©
I think oft what it would be like to be one of them
To look at the world through rose colored glasses
Where the world is perfect according to my childhood dreams
In that dream I would be a pilot, handsome and tall
A world traveler to boot
I would be married to the girl next door
The vivacious blonde with that voluptuous figure
Somehow as if by magic I would be rich as well as famous
My model looks would have me featured in a magazine
This would be a follow up to my bestselling book which is
Now being turned into the greatest movie of all time
The movie is a documentary about my days as a rock star
It would highlight my younger years
As a pro athlete and renowned artist extraordinaire
The captivating television interview for my hit movie
Held at my countryside estate overlooking the ocean
It is prominently featured in Homes & Gardens magazine
Having won the lottery my days are filled with
Time to spend with family and friends at will
Or inventing the greatest next best thing
My ideal children seemingly raise themselves
To become childhood prodigies
When I come back to reality in my modest home
Readying myself to go to my everyday job
And writing poetry waiting to be discovered
I wonder “Is this as good as it gets”
Andreas Simic©
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC
Time is but subjective
It passes much like dreams
Recountable is the content
But not the beginning or the end are seen
There in the distance
Where time is of essence
Prodigies count time through notes
Bars are a pulse composed of worth
Life, it streams from young ones throats
In what is now a far off land
Where time is measured
Through blood and sand
Many an end was met by steel
Whose other edge did hope reveal
The place where myth and legend fly
Rarely stops to ponder time
For it is plentiful and runs like wine
Immortal they are, and divine
Unbeknownst to human kind
Here on the page
Where all flows from pens
I tried to gain control again
Through fights for fabrications
I nearly lost all sense
And still the time continues on
And tears won’t stop for this
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:02 AM UTC
Children of my days, living prodigies,
Blessed with wit, by the Lord Almighty
Amidst the poor city, through sin is cursed,
Entwined his warning we’re summoned
Amidst the dark where we stand,
Here is the battle looms
The combat against fraudulent,
Through wisdom we’ll coup
For as the eagle sees food from afar,
So as we despite the dark,
Envisions as hope of the future sprout
Arise oh youth, march with thine heart with raging fire
Such courage lies on you, innate however numb
Silent courage once waken is supreme
Same as pony serene in pen
Whose spirit is loud in the valley once freed
Like a soldier in a battlefield
Clothed in the armour of valour and strength.
Arise oh youths, his mighty warriors,
Come and yell in audible chorus
For courage is innate, and wisdom is indeed sonorous
Don’t you hear, don’t you see?
The vineyard where wine overflows?
Arise oh youth, the land is ready
And victory awaits in the hands of the Lord
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:05 AM UTC
I sought you in heartbreak
I sought you behind doors
I even sought you alone
in the dark where my
candle light shone
I sought you in my hell
I sought in my heaven
I even sought you
when I mentally traveled
I sought you for therapy
I sought you for peace
I sought you when no drugs
could bring any ease
I sought you in times of anger
I sought you in times of love
I sought you when battles twisted
my tongue with wars
that were not worth of
I sought you in my sleep
I sought you in dreams
I sought you with pens and pencils
aching to fabricate futures
that exist in my mind
where they fixture
I sought you drunk
oh, I did
I created love stories
fantasies, tragedies too
even some ***** thoughts
that my mind could not endure
I sought you in confusion
hoping as stanzas flow
so will the solutions too
I sought you in prayer
on paper, on walls
on my palms too
so that when I lay my hand on my chest
my heart could read them
and beat in rest ...
I sought you in others
prodigies and peasants
I sought you in twisted art
and wordy inspirations
I sought you boring afternoons
and rowdy dancing
I sought you in my memory
hoping you'd stay
and make it to my paper
I sought you in song
I sought you in blank papers
I sought in 4 am's
when my mind is diluted with chemicals
that danced with every idea
every thought
before it flees with dawn
I sought you in him and her
I sought you in messy bedsheets
and crisp bright dawns
when my skin crawled
with goosebumps
reminiscing about
yesternight’s
escapades
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 12:35 PM UTC
The second light of sunrise filters
through the blinds of a broken transom window, gliding the kitchen.
There’s an instant
in which bottomless jars, worn out dishes
and a headless Mickey magnet that has fallen off the fridge
Seem to levitate in a sea of dusty honey.
I haven’t witnessed the scene.
I think about all the other ordinary prodigies
That must be happening somewhere.
A trembling chrysanthemum blossoms in the frosty gardens of Nagoya.
Six grey wolves fail to hunt down a white deerling.
A middle aged man whispers into a hollowed stonebrick, then covers his secret with mud.
Two giraffes disappear in the middle of a starlit Colosseum, to the astonishment of a roman dilettante.
Twenty years of boredom; then an ex con feels the tact of dewy grass under his feet again.
In a balcony over the Seine, two lovers prepare a padlock.
Some skinny kid from La Matanza scores a last minute free kick to win the neighborhood derby.
A pretentious teenager watches The purple rose of Cairo for the first time, and discovers his true calling.
Days before dying, an old man stops by a bakery and inhales the same caramel fragrance he would inhale in the afternoons of his childhood summers.
An older brother decides to throw a game of Mario Kart to his sibling.
On a deserted reed bed, a blackbird sings the most beautiful tune in the world. There is no one there to listen.
A single mother finishes cooking breakfast for his son, and decides to let him sleep for another five minutes.
A physics grad student solves the meaningless quantum noise model that’s been torturing him for weeks, and stops wondering why he didn't choose to be a lawyer
Two old friends share the same espresso in a hidden Manhattan coffeehouse, perhaps for the last time.
None of this everyday miracles are
happening to me.
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC