"profiles" poems
We want to see ourselves
see ourselves
because we're afraid that nobody else will
ever want to capture us
in a camera flash- so we take our own pictures.
Click. Our front camera becomes
the one minute we had hoped our fathers had for us
when he wasn't busy on that same phone, speaking,
not clicking. Without us.
Or it becomes the one minute we had hoped
that our lovers would hold us
before they settled on to someone
with more likes,
more comments,
more friends,
more happiness...
than we could ever wait for.
We are impatient
like the frequency of data on our profiles:
here are our feelings now... here
are our feelings again, five minutes later,
performing for social algorithms
in place of photographers
besides ourselves who
see ourselves.
But our ignited pixels,
and overstuffed inboxes,
and masturbatory statuses,
and glittering timelines,
and social everything-
are popularity contests
that all of us are losing.
Yet still we want to see ourselves
see ourselves
even though we are afraid
of what we know is true...
...Because what difference
is a poem to a tweet
besides the number of characters
that we wish we had to populate our own stories?
Please let us be different,
just like everyone else.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
You don't limit your life to social media.
In reality, social media limits you to your life.
A selfie with this and a selfie with that.
Your life is race for comments and likes.
Instead of having a personality worth praising
You are now judged based on your social media profiles.
Status update: I wish I could visit Paris some day.
In Paris you're like, "Where can I get signals for wifi?"
Your achievements are unlocking new levels of Candy Crush
Is that the legacy you'll leave behind?
As if all these achievements will benefit you
to unlock the doors of heaven when you'll die.
Your 940 friends won't be able to help you
by sending a booster or an extra life.
Relationship Status: Happily married.
Happy and married until the moment you both go offline.
You buy everything from behind the screen
Error 404: Cannot buy love and time.
It's a complicated maze that you won't accept
Even when they themselves call it a website.
You don't limit your life to social media.
In reality, social media limits you to your life.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
When I'm bored
I like to go on pretty girls' profiles
And imagine what it must be like to be them
To post a picture
And get that many likes
To have their perfect hair
Perfect bodies
Perfect smiles
To be beautiful
Sometimes I feel pretty
But no one ever tells me I am
So I go to their profiles
To remind myself
Of what society can say
But refuses to say to me
And I conclude
That it must be
Because I'm
Ugly
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 9:10 PM UTC
Just a wicked peacenik’n quick draw from the Paw
Game of Thrones’n the Shah, cRussian bones of the law
And still spewing the news like the red dragon’s maw
When the baby-skull splitters want nuclear winter
Ideal New Cold steel and send Chernobyl shivers
Down Roman Republicans’ severed headlines
Till there’s no more dead kids on for prophet front lines
I’m in exile sharpenin’ [sic]kles in style
Pyongyang’n Kuomintang climate denials
Erasing their nation-hate racial profiles
Outpacing their skinhead disgraces by miles
Shell casin’ this place like the Nuremberg trials
For Fords sellin’ swastikas stockpile bibles
Defiled by Normandy tide genocidals
Fresh meat off the boat spreadin’ Plague mercantiles
I smile and **** ‘em with kindness
Then grind
Battle tax in my acid bath
Salt Marchin’ prime
Because WAR IS THE CRIME
I’m the Clown Prince of Rhyme,
Level 9 state of mind
Like the state of Rakhine
The Black Hand before time
Runnin’ Africa’s Luciest Sky Diamond mine
I’m the ronin alone in
The monkey god shrine
And my guile’s reprisal’s Versailles treaty signed
Strippin’ pride from the Rhine
‘Till your Motherland’s mine
Swine
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 2:37 AM UTC
They hate the shadow of the bird
over the high water of the white cheek
and the conflict of light and wind
in the salon of the cold snow.
They hate the bodiless arrow,
the precise handkerchief's farewell,
the needle that keeps the pressure and the rose
in the cereal blush of the smile.
They love the blue desert,
the swaying bovine expressions,
the lying moon of the poles,
the water's curved dance at the shore.
With the science of tree trunk and street market
they fill the clay with luminous nerves
and lewdly skate on waters and sands
tasting the bitter freshness of their millennial spit.
It's through the crackling blue,
blue without worm or a sleeping footprint,
where the ostrich eggs remain eternal
and the dancing rains wander untouched.
It's through the blue without history,
blue of a night without fear of day,
blue where the **** of the wind goes splitting
the sleepwalking camels of the empty clouds.
It's there where the torsos dream under the gluttony of grass.
There the corals soak the ink's despair,
the sleepers erase their profiles under the skein of snails
and the space of the dance remains over the final ashes.
7.5k
Social Media World
Waiting, longing, wanting
Never finished, never complete
Silence makes our ears ring
Always busy, looking to compete
Social media world
Everyone and no one
Never alone, your life is unfurled,
Tap, swipe, post, I’m done..
Never done, never finished
Your social media masterpiece
Do we leave ourselves diminished?
Even though we constantly increase ...
Increase and build, our profiles grow,
Piece by piece an ever changing image
So fast, so rapid, makes me want to go slow
In my mind I pretend and try to envisage
And yet I’m entirely torn
A hypocrite through and through
My very own image I’ll adorn
My eyes, my mouth and what about this hairdo?
I love it and I question it,
I label myself, but why?
Basic, white, “this is lit”
I’ve found that social media high
Parents worry, kids rebel,
Are they happy !?
Perhaps time will tell
For me, it’s the content that’s ******
Stop seeking happiness,
It’s not an end game
Stop talking mindfulness
Whilst putting others to shame
Let’s stop talking the talk
Preaching and self indulging
Watching and waiting like a hawk,
A lifetime wasted, wishing
But embrace the conversations!
Open dialogue; debating, discussing,
Thoughts, ideas and revelations,
Platforms for all, we could do anything!
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 6:09 PM UTC
The devil howls at the winter moon
Screams with ecstasy at the hunt
His shrill cry piercing those around
His hoofs shake the ground.
The devil sees all around him
Profiles all upon the earth
His gaze hypnotises everyone
Will never retire until his evil work is done.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
Lisbeth stands watching
The artist as he prepares
To sketch. Her elder sisters
Stand in shadows whispering.
Her younger sister plays
With her doll on the floor.
Their father said to do as
The artist instructed and
Don’t misbehave or be rude.
The artist stares hard his
Dark eyes searching their
Every move and expression
And body gesture. The elder
Girls mutter in shadows
Their hands over their mouths
Their blue eyes like shallow
Pools. Ready? The artist
Asks putting charcoal to
Paper his fingers blackening.
Lisbeth says just as we are?
The artist nods. His grim
Features express do not disturb.
The youngest sister plays
Ignoring the artist her eyes set
On the game at hand. The girls
In shadow turn their profiles
Set to mystery their hands on
Their abdomens like guardians
Of virtue. Lisbeth wonders as
She watches the artist’s stiff
Moustache and beard the slow
Movement of his mouth as he
Mouths words and stares hard.
The last artist employed some
Year before younger and less
Brutal in expression and manner
Had drawn them each in private
Rooms and set them down on couch
Or bed and kept their images inside
His head. He was dismissed and the
Drawings destroyed and nothing said.
Lisbeth had thought it just a game
Something done as lover might in
Private corners or lonely spots on
Quiet nights. The artist sketches.
His blackened fingers move and
Made their mark. Their images
Captured. The scene set. One sister
In the shadows yawns the other
Stares in still contempt. Lisbeth
Poses as young girls do. Nothing
To show of interest and nothing
Hid no secret self no other you.
That’s it the artist says we’ll begin
The painting another day maybe
Next week if all is well. The girls
In shadow look away and resume
Their secret games. Lisbeth studies
The artist’s blackened fingers as
He rolls the charcoal sketch and
Puts away. He gazes at her standing
By herself a glimpse of smile and
Glimmer in her eyes like small fires.
He closes the tired lids of eyes
And smoulders down his old desires.
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 8:26 AM UTC
It is funny to see banners wishing Happiness displayed with cinematic glamour,
the pictures and hordings of Banner heroes.
The one at Tannery Road junction was peculiar to mention.
Here it was common
The captions "Happy" used to summon names of sundry festivals-Local and national, even internstional.
What's uncommon was the bold prints
of a hero's name ARUMALAI outshining
The caption and his larger than life picture establishing the photographer's digital brushing skills.
A passer by wondered who'd be this Arumalai,
Is he so great as to be advertised in polivynil?
His glorious deeds may be what they want you to heed
Still never ever seen or heard of his manners
Anywhere than in these motley banners
Just as a function
at the Tannery road junction
Each one passed by this colossal glance attracted provoking protracted ruminance what do this expensive banners really mean?
In another occasion
the glaring glorifying picture
of ARUMALAI followed the tag
Corporator,
Below the man posing a DICTATOR.
That was a period to a period of mystery!
Banners changed with seasons
with greetings on religious occasions
Festivals of importance
Birthdays of men even
with crowded profiles of hailers
Whose unrully manners
Too clogging up the banners
Like a wanted list of jailors.
One day a strange banner
hooked by the Tannery cross over
Spooked and shocked every passer-by
There the usual banner cut out
the larger than life image blings-out
Arumalai the BBMB corporator
Posing as dictator!
There was no wish of any kind.
It was a notice startling any mind
The sad demise of ARUMALAI
The BBMB corporator
Still possed as dectator
By his living promoters.
"He was sick and the local dispensary advised a minor operation.
He was administered
the necessary treatment.
Was referred to a super-speciality
centre and was declared dead.
His sad demise was advertised, he was forty.
His chummies complained of medical negligence", was the only news summary
in major news papers...
What was the reason for the minor surgery
What're the preparations
for the corporator's operation
All are mystery for a causal itinerary
passer by crossing over the Tannery Road junction, wondering at the strange envountering with banners
that come and go
Keeping no annals
Floating on the mind for a while
Stopping at the red's knell,
Moving with the green signal
The rise and fall of heroes
As binary one and zero
The banners tell a story tertiary
Of the rise and fall of a luninary
Within a plane ofmomentary
Variation of red and green
On the Tannery road's screen.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 5:13 AM UTC
The Sun shines on my computer
Creating a protective glare
But night comes like an intruder
At pictures I begin to stare
After I view their portrait online
I want to see their body on mine
We talk all night
Until I see the light
That they're not that bright
Or that they like to fight
Desperation swirls
I enter a world
Where the randomness of human interaction
Meets the randomness of my attraction
And the low visibility
Endears no civility
Will I spend infinity
In this digital city?
The creatures try to hide
They scatter in the distance
They're not hard to find
When their profiles leave imprints
But the parasites are quick
And the scavengers stick
Vultures fly from iPad to iPhone
Leeches try to make my pad their home
Devouring me until I'm bad to the bone
Like the solicitous predators
Who act like creditors
And the sly foxes
Who claim they're locksmiths
They all have claws and fangs
They're all just jaws with brains
I play possum
Until I've lost them
When monsters are made from loneliness
They try to trick me with phoniness
They feel I wouldn't want us to be together
And they're probably right
Because all I want is to spend forever
In love's divine light
Nocturnal animals just want the meal
Of my motion
They don't want to honestly feel
My devotion
In the wild
I am a child
The creatures cut deep
They make me weep
Until I choose to sleep
But when I avoid their glance
I avoid love's chance
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 4:39 AM UTC
Okay The Vibe To Write...
Is Now A Part of My Life...
It’s Just A BEAUTIFUL Thing... !!!
When I Start To Think...
And Start Writing Lyrics...
That QUICKLY Sink...
Into Papers Where Ink...
... Display Wordplay...
That Comes From My Brain...
It’s A Vibe That Invites...
..... REALITY Lines.....
RATHER Than THOSE...
Where Lines of WHITE...
Create Mental DOPES...
Who Embrace That Coc’... !!!
Or Yes... *******
That They’re QUICK To CLAIM...
Helps To Keep Them STRAIGHT... ?!?
The Vibe When I Write...
INFLAMES MY BRAIN... !!!
With Things To Say...
About The World Today...
From GREATS Like USAIN... !!!
To Things LESS HUMANE...
That Are NOT So Great... !!!
You Know What I’m Saying... ?
Or..... DO YOU..... ?!?
Cos’ The Vibe When I Write...
Is... NOT For Fools... !!!
Who DON’T Use Their Brain Tool...
So..... Is That YOU... ?!?
One Who’s Confused...
When It Comes To What’s TRUE...
Cos’ The Vibe When I Write...
REJECTS Those In DENIAL...
It’s A Style That Profiles...
A Great Deal MORE...
Than... Peoples’ Green Miles... !!!
It Relates To Flicks...
That EXPOSE How We Live...
But Also Deals...
In Things MORE REAL... !!!
Than Things That Are Filmed...
On... 8 Millimetre Reels... !!!
Because Words I Write...
Do Not Promote Lies... !!!
Or... FALLACIES...
The Vibe When I Write...
Is..... REALITY........
So ISN'T Written To Deceive...
Or Make People... ANGRY... !!!
... It Is What It IS....
So... If The Cap Fits...
You’d Better Deal With It... !!!
You See The Vibe When I Write...
ISN'T MOULDED To PLEASE...
Because THAT ISN’T Poetry To Me... !!!
It’s About Being REAL...
And Relating What You See...
In Ways That Display...
TRUTH And HONESTY... !!!
And Reflections On Life...
All It’s Lows And HIGHS... !!!!
And Those Last Lines...
Are The Things That DEFINE...
Why... Whether Day Or Night...
I Continually Find That My Mind’s Eye...
QUICKLY Provides A Mind Like Mine...
With...
... “ The Vibe To Write “...
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 11:44 PM UTC
It is funny how we can get to be ourselves with strangers
Our complete truest version of us
No guards up and no painted window panes
To be able to stare through, untainted reflections
Our deep dark secrets and or biggest fears
To confess them in rapid succession
And not feel the need to hold back
It is funny, how we need to hide away ourselves
From the ones who love and know us best
Constantly dancing around the fullest truth of truths
Strangers don't know us, nor do they probably even care
The obligatory third party
Just sit and listen
Let the masks drop, and the honestly flourish
Online profiles make for free therapy
And self awareness
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
You scroll through your social media where people have sworn not to show what they feel like so their 'profiles' can be aesthetic to look at.
You look at dog videos and swear not to think about your dead dog with whom you never got to cuddle one last time.
You walk through streets you've never been to hoping that it'll lead to a story.
You kiss boys and girls you don't really like and pretend you're waiting for the three-days-later call. You constantly listen to Cardi B because you can't take another Bon Iver song.
You fake a smile, an ****** a brave face.
You look at where you're staying and pretend not to long for that one little park in Paris where you could spend your entire life.
You unblock the ones you lost and feel a fleeting sense of comfort in knowing that they're not happy either and block them again, to feel 'powerful'.
You look back at your journey and sigh because you haven't done enough. You curl into your uncomfortable bed.
And then you realise you're not done.
You realise your journey is just starting. There's so much left for you to say and do and teach and feel. You realise that the best part about yourself is that you're hopeful, despite it all. You realise that despite all the bad that has gotten to you, there's still good, and you can create it. You realise that you've places to go and people to fall for. You've learnt to become your own teacher and your own pupil. You realise that the sky is not the limit for you. You think people calling themselves a work in progress is a cliché, but you know you're one yourself. You're not magnificent. But you will be.
So you light up a cheap cigarette and play the Bon Iver song. And you wait.
Jun 9, 2020
Jun 9, 2020 at 5:07 PM UTC
Love is tacky.
Love is cheap.
Love is scrolling through an endless amount of ****** online dating profiles
on a Saturday night.
Love is not subtle.
Love is two people bargaining,
lying to each other,
lying to themselves.
Love keeps track of every misstep
so as to hold it against their partner in an ongoing war of attrition
so that they get to pick what to watch on Net-Flix.
Love does not rejoice in itself,
but does so on Facebook,
so that you can rub it in the face of your ex,
and all those friends that just really want to watch you fail.
Love is cheap.
*** with a price tag marked to sell.
Love is dead.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
someday, i won't flinch as your name
appears on my screen.
someday, i won't stalk and visit your profiles.
someday, i won't be bothered
when someone mentions your name.
someday, my world will not stop
for a moment whenever i see you.
someday, your glances and smiles
won't make my heart skips a beat.
someday, i will not miss your hugs ang cuddles.
someday, i will no longer crave
for your presence and kisses.
someday, the places where we used to go
won't make me remember you at all.
someday, i can have the spirit
to read love stories again.
someday, our sweet habits will fade from my memories.
someday, your promises which turned out to be lies
won't hurt as much as it used to.
someday, all that we had won't matter to me anymore.
j.m.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
Reality can keep the glamour and it can also take the glitz,
cause nowadays we discover ourselves on computer chips.
We see how others live in all kinds of far places
then try to be individuals in books full of faces.
And lets face it these days our lives are being recorded;
information on your likes and activities stored and sorted.
You ignore it; never get hurt by what you don't know
more concerned about how you'll crop your next photo.
Gotta make sure to fit in all your clothes logos
cause it'll for sure make haters go loco.
When they see how you live life with the motto 'yolo'
it will make them all wanna examine their livesand say 'oh no'.
Man I swear this yolo fad has gotta run into the ground
cause if you lived twice your second one wouldn't be spent ******* around.
But nowadays we become a grown up on webpages
with profiles full of pictures and landmarks to chart phases.
Some might call it art in the way that we all make it
but, its a mirror to ourselves til the minute we all break it.
Can't shake it - the feeling we've crossed realities borders
into a digital realm ruled by coded orders,
with back doors and corridors,
and plasma screens and lots of cords,
USB's and PC's,
Web Cams, and DVD's,
terrabytes and touch screens,
reach out and you can touch dreams.
but all that you touch it just seems
without the intention to be.
Because locked inside the screen is reality invested
you wouldn't waste your time if no one else was interested.
It's been suggested that staring at the screen is bad for your eyes
but I do imply that being glued to it is bad for our lives.
Now when we meet face to face we cannot even socialize
we apply on dating sites and get further categorized.
So now it's like who we are is only what does appear
to others on all these sites we might never even come near
some attraction that was natural pulling in with real excitement,
so I guess romance is gone in the age of social enlightenment.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
Does she notice the four sugars,
You sneak into your tea?
What’s she like, this girl?
The girl who isn’t me?
She hasn’t even realised,
The weird dent on your knee.
Who even is this girl?
The girl who isn’t me.
It’s been more than a fortnight,
Since you made me leave my key.
Did you give it to the girl?
The girl who isn’t me?
She’s thinner, smart and cooler.
No one can disagree.
But can you learn to love,
A girl who isn’t me?
Your clothes are where you left them,
in piles on the settee.
That girl calls it a ‘sofa’.
The girl who isn’t me.
**** this, I’m getting wasted.
One shot turns into three.
I’m tempted to drunk text her.
The girl who should be me.
It’s not like I’ve been stalking
Your profiles frantically.
I just can’t believe you’re seeing
A girl who isn’t me.
Does she put up with your mood swings?
When you’re loathing your degree?
How can you stand to be with?
A girl who isn’t me?
Just answer this one question:
What do you really see?
In that wretched girl you’re dating?
That girl who isn’t me?
I must be going crazy.
Who still writes poetry?
I bet your girlfriend hates it.
The girl who isn’t me.
I’m keeping your new console,
And your comfy blue hoodie.
That’s what you get for kissing
A girl who isn’t me.
Maybe I’m just jealous?
I think it’s clear to see.
You clearly love your girl,
Your girl who isn’t me.
You told me all your secrets,
Under that big oak tree.
Can you trust this girl?
This girl who isn’t me.
You can’t, that’s why you grab her.
Silence her every plea.
You laugh and call her stupid.
That’s what you did to me.
I must have dodged a bullet.
I know I’ve been set free.
I hope she breaks your heart.
The girl who isn’t me.
I cannot be the girl,
The girl I used to be.
I guess that’s why you’re now with
A girl who isn’t me.
I see this as a blessing,
It surely has to be.
You’re now stuck with a girl,
A girl who isn’t me.
Your days, my friend, are numbered.
You listening to me?
‘Cause I still know your secrets.
And they’re not safe with me.
The cuts, the bumps and bruises,
I claimed I could not see.
Does your girl have them too?
The girl who isn’t me?
I’ll do my best to save her.
She’s too naïve to see,
that you can’t control your temper,
with a girl who isn’t me.
I wear these scars like war paint,
For all the world to see.
They show how hard I fought,
For that girl and for me.
I did my best to save her.
I tried to help her flee.
But you damaged, hurt and ruined
the girl who’s now like me.
The creaking of your window.
How cold your house must be?
You’ll always have to live with,
the girl who once was me.
I hope this poem haunts you.
I’ll never say sorry.
That girl you called a weakling?
That girl just isn’t me.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC
Days and nights at home alone
Swiping left and right
Tiny movements seeking love
A quest for someone right
Profiles pass before their eyes
One stands from the batch
Buzz and flash goes the phone
Tinder, it’s a match!
A chat ensues so they court
To find rapport is great
Best to strike whilst irons hot
And so arrange a date
To meet and greet by the sea
For coffee and a stroll
First impressions made are good
Seems they’re on a roll
Finding common ground they laugh
And think themselves hilarious
Keen for more, dates arranged
This one could be serious
And then it starts to blossom
The months ahead are booked
These two people fall in love
Now for life they’re hooked
What a wondrous thing this app
Without it meet they’d never
Parallel lives yet hadn’t crossed
It brought these souls together
There’s no need to go to bars
Or parade upon a stage
Stay at home with phone and swipe
It’s dating modern age
It served them well this app of love
Used wisely there’s no folly
Happily into sunset they ride
That’s how Brian met Holly
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
We can't have colour on our profiles.
We can't have colour on our streets.
We can't have colour on our bodies.
We can't have colour?
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
“Just don’t leave marks,” we said,
Profiles illuminated by the hazy Manhattan skyline.
Wine trickled down our sides
As I learned I’m just a number in your phone
So maybe I’m just someone for you to ****
But ******* does it feel thick and rooted.
I’ll press your words back onto your skin
So you’ll know I’m not just a myth,
I’ve been here all along in the echo of everything you do.
I filtered life through a colander
And you’re all that was left.
I’m open and star-shaped for you.
If you’ll hold my hand in a diner,
Will you hold it in central park?
Let our lips realign,
Let me wrap you up again
Let me fold into you like origami spoons.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
******
A foggy head is a dangerous situation.
Can't think.
Always over-think.
I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
But, the tunnel is long.
Or it seems so to me.
Old friends seem old.
New ones too cynical.
Some groups are too loud.
No minute to despair.
Swear,swear and get back to work!
Some groups are too idealistic.
Salaries,profiles,de-profiled and
other depositions are discussed.
I watch them like a TVC,
Mindless yet grasping words.
Minimum to maximum.
Ina flushing of hormones.
Some women I meet ,
they complain about laying low.
Office politics, national politics,
play Tom and Jerry Show.
Each chasing each other.
Stuck in a vicious circle.
Egg rolls have been had,
and I am feeling a wee bit better.
But the vinegar-onion,
does nothing to my sketchy mind.
Its still foggy.
But I am patient.
I shall be calm.
Just like my love Siva.
Shall I be the quiet and the dangerous.
Or shall I be the butterfly to sit on your nose.
And kiss you silently.
I shall wait and give the fog some time.
I shall stand strong..
A foggy mind shall pass.
******
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 5:50 AM UTC
checkered tiles
speckled smiles
obscene trash piles
maps dissected into miles
broken in church aisles
misogynistic facebook profiles
banned to exile
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
The beauty of life isn't captured in files nor profiles.
It's in a blink or a thought of a distant place.
It lies in emotions that reminice of a time not yet spent.
It is a few seconds in a multiple uncaptured frames.
It lies in the ignored existence of composure.
It influences the untapped recognitions of appreciation.
The beauty of life is not about me showing or telling.
It's only about a few thoughts that inspire ambitions.
A few dreams that elevate fantasies.
The beauty of life is about me in a second painting a picture of elegant brush strokes,
the motion of the eye that composes a visual symphony,
it is an organised cluster of sounds that co-ordinates the performances of all other senses.
It is about leaving open a beat of the heart, only to fill it with the energies of the living.
The beauty of life isn't about searching for joy,
but learning from memories of both depression and tranquility.
It is about the heart losing weight,
the smile gaining width and height.
The beauty of life is about the value of sorrow depreciating.
For me it's about ploughing joy from seeds of madness,
or overturning a frown into a thing of beauty.
It's about dreams that don't need me to sleep and nightmares that have no back up files.
The beauty of life...
As much as I try to define it,
the statements always have a questionmark at the end.
So forever I search, for the beauty of life...
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 8:19 AM UTC
Internet dating. Profiles online.
Hoping for answers if people have time.
Checking daily to see what responses are there.
Hoping to find someone to care.
At last a response. I haven’t talked for a while.
Finally someone who can bring me a smile.
A few friendly words from someone I’ve not met
But I’m not your sweetheart, not yet.
Messages back and forth each day.
Never quite knowing what to say.
How long should we chat? Should I ask her to meet?
Am I being to forward? I type, I delete.
But the messages keep coming, to and fro.
The level of intimacy continues to grow.
I hope I say nothing I live to regret,
But I’m not your sweetheart, not yet.
One day we will meet and the emails will end.
The start of a relationship or maybe just friends.
Over cups of coffee and glasses of wine.
We share loving glances, your hand in mine.
Planning meals, nights out and weekends away.
The first person I think of when I wake each day.
The lonely years we can both forget
Then I’ll be your sweetheart
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC