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Brycical Jul 2012
Immortality
is such an idiotic
idea. **** that ****.

Thoughts of prolonging
life through vegetables &
tea are greedy. sighs

I do those things cause
they taste delicious, & I
work out to feel good.

But I drink, often.
I smoke occasionally.
My body's been through hell.

I'd rather die tomorrow
than live to be like
100 years old.

My mind shutters
to think what this world will be
like at that point. sighs

I don't want to live too long,
I'll know when my time
is up, hopefully.
I do enjoy living and love everyone though.
Simply Lost Nov 2013
I really just want to cry,
Just let it all out.

I don't know why
I feel this filled with doubt.

I'm kind of done
And I no longer see the fun
In prolonging this pain.

There's nothing I could do..
I just can't keep sane.

And

As I look around,
I see smiles,
Hear laughs
which makes me wonder...
How these people can live without breaking a sweat.

It's pretty inspiring they can stay
This strong ...
I used to be strong,
But then I grew weak
And ended up doing the wrong
That shan't be speaked.

Since then I have started to pray
Every single day for his help
To get me through this horrid phase.

But...I guess I don't pray hard enough
Or
Have a big enough faith.

So...
The reality,I assume,is
I'm forever lost in this place.
The screaming
children of Gaza
torment the sleep
of a troubled world,
and remain a real-time
unending nightmare;
anointing The Levant’s
fevered brow
with a diadem of
incessant grief.

Gaza is a burning
ankh that sears the
madness of sorrow
upon Egypt’s skull.

Gaza,
an unblinking
third eye
of shame,
peers into
Lower Egypt’s
closed window
ever reproaching
it’s turbulent
conscience;
chiding fellow
Muslims with
the ugly memory
of abject affliction,
the endless images
of a living Guernica
suspended in the hell
of indefinite imprisonment
all Palestinians are forced
to suffer.

As Zionists ***** the
steep walls of Apartheid to
extend its occupation
of Palestine, it
condemns the youth
of Gaza to a life of
incarceration with no
possibility of parole;
hardening the hearts
and steeling the resolve
of a new generation of
militants to demolish the
walls and the wardens
that imprison them.

The Zionist jailers
bestow upon
Ishmael’s Children
phylacteries of shame,
wearing the rolled
prayers of wailing pain
scribed with bits of
dust from the
the broken walls of
demolished buildings
and desolate homes
beyond habitation,
now housing grief
of trampled souls,
forcing recitations
of deliverance
to Allah while
davening an
incessant drone
of anguish at
the Wailing Wall
of Resentment;
decrying the
blood lust of
undying acrimony,
victimization and
the slaughter of
innocents, carried on
with the imperial license
of state sanctioned impunity.


Father Ibrahim's
feuding children may
share a sacred paternity
but remain the
divided brothers
of different mothers;
stoking a sibling rivalry
more bitter then
Cain and Abel.

Our anguish
never dissipates,
the gnawing
impulse of empathy
to assist the distressed
of Gaza is dashed
by omnipotent
powers recusing
the ability to act.

Sympathy is
embargoed
in the black
obfuscation
of religious
partisanship
while timely
assistance
to aid the
distressed
lie netted in
blockades of
realpolitik
affinities.

Gaza, where
Hashim is granted
his eternal rest,
restlessly inhabits
his unknown grave
from the destitution of
his profaned homeland.

Ghazzat,  “the stronghold”
countlessly conquered,
falling to Roman Emperors,
Lionhearted Crusaders
Ottoman Caliphates,
and British Mandates;
slipping from Egypt’s
geopolitical grasp as
as a casualty of
The Six Day War.

Gaza is now a stronghold of
resent and desperation for a
desperate conquered people.

Ghazzat, the prized city of
the western Mediterranean,
a four star Phoenician port of
caravansaries now unable
to trade with any partners
due to ungodly blockades.

Gaza, has grown wholly
dependent on the largess
of UN aid and meager
subsistence portions
doled out by well
meaning NGO’s.

Gaza, the foot stool of
the Levant and surely
the pathway Father
Ibrahim, Jacob,
Joseph and Jeremiah
traveled to escape
Canaan's famine;
finding at the close
of their sojourn
a table set with the
plenteous bounty
the Blue Nile
unconditionally offered;
the veritable feast
of abundance,
the generous yields
of the blessed delta
that sustained the
Prophets of Judah
and a thousand
generations of the
Nile’s Children.

Gaza, the Achilles
heal of Middle East
peace, land of the
Canaanites, Philistines
and Old Testament
heroes.

Gaza, a fortress for
Philistines who
imprisoned the storied
Sampson, revered for
breaking the chains of
imprisonment and righteously
destroying a pagan temple
in a suicidal act of heroism.

Gaza, where the myths and
legends of rapacious
holy crusaders captured
the western imagination
with the chivalrous gallantry
of religious warfare and
valiant last stands of
Templar Knights employing
the tactical imperatives
of terrorism in service to their
higher God.

Gaza, an oasis
by the sea now
lies dry and brittle
as the precious Hebron
waters of Wadi Ghazza
are diverted to serve
the agriculture of
Judah; condemning
a dehydrated Gaza
panting of thirst
to an imposed drought
and a war of
self preservation
to remove
the dammed rivers
of justice controlled
by intractable powers
laying upstream beyond
Gaza’s mean borders.

The Qassams
lunched by Hamas
are desperate
expressions of
exasperated people,
eager to call
world attention
to the growing
insufferable plight
of a people living
in a perpetual
state of siege.

Its a modern day
David slinging rocks
against an armor
clad Goliath.

Each Katusha
serves as
a justification
for Zionist
intransigence
and condemns
any possibility
for peaceful
coexistence
of a Two State
Solution.

The pointless attacks
invite massive
disproportionate
retaliation and succeed
in prolonging and
increasing the
measure of Gaza’s
agony.

The mystic grace,
the divine power
of satyagraha
-a non-violent
response to the
cruel enforcement of
Apartheid- is Allah’s
way to secure the
moral high-ground
and the surest way
for Palestinians to
expose it’s unholy
adversaries innate
contempt for civil rights
and a refusal to
recognized the
shared humanity of
all of Father Ibrahim’s
wayward progeny and
recalcitrant prodigal sons.

Mubarak’s fall
has allowed the
Rafah Gate
to swing open again.

The concertina
wire that separates
Gaza and Egypt
has been removed.

The prisoners
of Gaza have
an open portal
of freedom.

It is a Day of
Jubilee, a day
of pardon for
for the inmates
of prisons built
for victims.  

It is a day of
possibility for peace.  

It is a day to declare an
Exodus from the land
of bitterness.

Humanity is
offered the hope
of escape from
the prisons of
acrimony, to
freely move across
the staid borders
of intractability
and exclusion.

The hearts and
minds of Palestinians
and Egyptians
are free to connect
and unite once again.

Liberation is
possible only
when we uphold
and honor the
affirmation
of all humanity.

Music Video:

Silk Road
We Will Not Go Down

Oakland
2/9/12
jbm
a poem from the epilogue section of Tahrir Square Voices
Kitt May 2018
I sat by the window and gazed out
at the rain falling down
in torrents and sheets.
The night was black as ink, save the stars;
barely visible behind thick storm clouds,
pinpricks of silver in the ebony scape,
as the rain continued to fall.

I thought of you, of the deliberation in your face
etched into every feature a painful, wavering resolve.
The decision before you:
two fates, the ending, or the prolonging of the time before the terminal predetermined.

I grieved as I remembered the pain in your eyes.
I know you too well. I have seen too much of you
for you to hide this from me. I broke
-a silent cry of realization, collapsing my furrowed brow into a contorted countenance
as I realized that you were gone
not just for now, but for good.

And so there I sat that night,
after I removed the gold chain you rested around my neck
after I scrubbed away the makeup
after I traded my lipsticked smile for a mourning countenance
-I sat, alone in the dark, and gazed out the window into the rain.
I wondered where things had gone wrong.

And so, May showers
drove away April's flowers.
It was all I could do to cry quietly,
face soaked with the saline of sadness
that dripped now on my chest.

Now, I sit again at the window
and the same song plays that had consoled me before
'you'll feel better when you wake up'
And I did.
The sadness stayed safely at the bay
while I tried to channel it again
But this time it wasn't the same.
Though I duplicated the mood down to the clothes I wore,
the heartache was no longer fresh
and my face remained dry.

Sure, I felt sad. But it was not from you.
It was not from a heartbreak or a brokenness.
It was inorganic sadness, brought on by my own need for closure,
the thirst for a goodbye that burned my throat in agony and sorrow
that my parched lips would never find.
Song quoted: "Wake Up" by EDEN
PART I

’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock
And the owls have awakened the crowing ****;
Tu-whit!—Tu-whoo!
And hark, again! the crowing ****,
How drowsily it crew.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff, which
From her kennel beneath the rock
Maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady’s shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
‘T is a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that’s far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest mistletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.—
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady’s cheek—
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright,
Dressed in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were;
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, ‘t was frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she—
Beautiful exceedingly!

‘Mary mother, save me now!’
Said Christabel, ‘and who art thou?’

The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet:—
‘Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!’
Said Christabel, ‘How camest thou here?’
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet:—
‘My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine:
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced, I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey’s back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
He placed me underneath this oak;
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell—
I thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand,’ thus ended she,
‘And help a wretched maid to flee.’

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,
And comforted fair Geraldine:
‘O well, bright dame, may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth, and friends withal,
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father’s hall.’

She rose: and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
‘All our household are at rest,
The hall is silent as the cell;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awakened be,
But we will move as if in stealth;
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.’

They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she opened straight,
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and without,
Where an army in battle array had marched out.
The lady sank, belike through pain,
And Christabel with might and main
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate:
Then the lady rose again,
And moved, as she were not in pain.

So, free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
And Christabel devoutly cried
To the Lady by her side;
‘Praise we the ****** all divine,
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!’
‘Alas, alas!’ said Geraldine,
‘I cannot speak for weariness.’
So, free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.

Outside her kennel the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make.
And what can ail the mastiff *****?
Never till now she uttered yell
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet’s scritch:
For what can aid the mastiff *****?

They passed the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will.
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady passed, there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady’s eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby,
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
‘O softly tread,’ said Christabel,
‘My father seldom sleepeth well.’
Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And, jealous of the listening air,
They steal their way from stair to stair,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
And now they pass the Baron’s room,
As still as death, with stifled breath!
And now have reached her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver’s brain,
For a lady’s chamber meet:
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fastened to an angel’s feet.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim.
She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.
‘O weary lady, Geraldine,
I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
My mother made it of wild flowers.’

‘And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn?’
Christabel answered—’Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born.
I have heard the gray-haired friar tell,
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle-bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
O mother dear! that thou wert here!’
‘I would,’ said Geraldine, ’she were!’

But soon, with altered voice, said she—
‘Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!
I have power to bid thee flee.’
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye?
Can she the bodiless dead espy?
And why with hollow voice cries she,
‘Off, woman, off! this hour is mine—
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman. off! ‘t is given to me.’

Then Christabel knelt by the lady’s side,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—
‘Alas!’ said she, ‘this ghastly ride—
Dear lady! it hath wildered you!’
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, ‘’T is over now!’
Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
Her fair large eyes ‘gan glitter bright,
And from the floor, whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright:
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countree.

And thus the lofty lady spake—
‘All they, who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake,
And for the good which me befell,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.’

Quoth Christabel, ‘So let it be!’
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress
And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain, of weal and woe,
So many thoughts moved to and fro,
That vain it were her lids to close;
So half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline.
To look at the lady Geraldine.
Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
And slowly rolled her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shuddered, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropped to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her ***** and half her side—
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs:
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Then suddenly, as one defied,
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the maiden’s side!—
And in her arms the maid she took,
Ah, well-a-day!
And with low voice and doleful look
These words did say:

‘In the touch of this ***** there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heard’st a low moaning,
And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair:
And didst bring her home with thee, in love and in charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.’

It was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak tree.
Amid the jagged shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,
To make her gentle vows;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resigned to bliss or bale—
Her face, oh, call it fair not pale,
And both blue eyes more bright than clear.
Each about to have a tear.
With open eyes (ah, woe is me!)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is—
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady’s prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine—
Thou’st had thy will! By tarn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
But now they are jubilant anew,
From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu-whoo!
Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell!

And see! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance;
Her limbs relax, her countenance
Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
Close o’er her eyes; and tears she sheds—
Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
And oft the while she seems to smile
As infants at a sudden light!
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
Like a youthful hermitess,
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, ‘t is but the blood so free
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
What if her guardian spirit ‘t were,
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call:
For the blue sky bends over all.

PART II

Each matin bell, the Baron saith,
Knells us back to a world of death.
These words Sir Leoline first said,
When he rose and found his lady dead:
These words Sir Leoline will say
Many a morn to his dying day!

And hence the custom and law began
That still at dawn the sacristan,
Who duly pulls the heavy bell,
Five and forty beads must tell
Between each stroke—a warning knell,
Which not a soul can choose but hear
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
Saith Bracy the bard, ‘So let it knell!
And let the drowsy sacristan
Still count as slowly as he can!’
There is no lack of such, I ween,
As well fill up the space between.
In Langdale Pike and Witch’s Lair,
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons’ ghosts are pent,
Who all give back, one after t’ other,
The death-note to their living brother;
And oft too, by the knell offended,
Just as their one! two! three! is ended,
The devil mocks the doleful tale
With a merry peal from Borrowdale.

The air is still! through mist and cloud
That merry peal comes ringing loud;
And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
And rises lightly from the bed;
Puts on her silken vestments white,
And tricks her hair in lovely plight,
And nothing doubting of her spell
Awakens the lady Christabel.
‘Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?
I trust that you have rested well.’

And Christabel awoke and spied
The same who lay down by her side—
O rather say, the same whom she
Raised up beneath the old oak tree!
Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!
For she belike hath drunken deep
Of all the blessedness of sleep!
And while she spake, her looks, her air,
Such gentle thankfulness declare,
That (so it seemed) her girded vests
Grew tight beneath her heaving *******.
‘Sure I have sinned!’ said Christabel,
‘Now heaven be praised if all be well!’
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,
Did she the lofty lady greet
With such perplexity of mind
As dreams too lively leave behind.

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed
That He, who on the cross did groan,
Might wash away her sins unknown,
She forthwith led fair Geraldine
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.
The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are pacing both into the hall,
And pacing on through page and groom,
Enter the Baron’s presence-room.

The Baron rose, and while he prest
His gentle daughter to his breast,
With cheerful wonder in his eyes
The lady Geraldine espies,
And gave such welcome to the same,
As might beseem so bright a dame!

But when he heard the lady’s tale,
And when she told her father’s name,
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,
Murmuring o’er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart’s best brother:
They parted—ne’er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining—
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between.
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
Sir Leoline, a moment’s space,
Stood gazing on the damsel’s face:
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine
Came back upon his heart again.

O then the Baron forgot his age,
His noble heart swelled high with rage;
He swore by the wounds in Jesu’s side
He would proclaim it far and wide,
With trump and solemn heraldry,
That they, who thus had wronged the dame
Were base as spotted infamy!
‘And if they dare deny the same,
My herald shall appoint a week,
And let the recreant traitors seek
My tourney court—that there and then
I may dislodge their reptile souls
From the bodies and forms of men!’
He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!
For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!

And now the tears were on his face,
And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look.
Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again—
(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee,
Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
Again she saw that ***** old,
Again she felt that ***** cold,
And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:
Whereat the Knight turned wildly round,
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.

The touch, the sight, had passed away,
And in its stead that vision blest,
Which comfort
Leisa Battaglia Aug 2018
I watch you while you're sleeping
You don't even seem to know
I watch your chest rise and fall
First quickly, then oh so slow

My thoughts turn naughty quickly and I wonder how much it would take
As I rub my naked ******* against your chest, to ****** you awake

I start to touch you and hear you purr
Then I feel my own familiar warm stir

I turn my back to you and feel your
poke
I reach behind me and with my hand, I stroke

You're awake now in every way
And you sense correctly that I want to play

I push back against you and guide you between my thighs
You rub against me and feel my heat and wetness and hear my sighs

You know I want you inside me, I can't wait
You decide to artfully tease me, prolonging our fate

I moan in protest, but your mouth covers mine
My breath is warm in that mouth as I beg you to take me from behind

You smile and take one ****** and start to softly bite
Then you're under the covers and out of sight

I feel your mouth on me licking, *******, tasting
You lap up every drop of me, never one for wasting

Then I feel your fingers expertly start to explore
Coupled with your mouth on me, it's more than I can endure

I'm quickly sent over the edge, my body shaking with pleasure
And then I feel your tongue inside me collecting all your treasure

Slowly I come back to reality as you slide your perfect nakedness back up to meet me
You kiss me long and hard and I taste myself on your lips and inside me is where I need you to be

You're pushing against my wet entrance and inside me you begin to slide
To the place that's silently screaming for you so very deep inside

You're so big and long that it takes a few strokes and a sharp intake of breath, before I can take you all in
The mixture of the pain your size causes and the pleasure of my sated desire, the very definition of sin

You entice and explore parts of me never touched before
I push up with my hips rhythmically, wanting and needing more

You growl and moan into my ear and I say breathlessly, "I am all yours"
Your movements increase with speed until you're pounding against my pelvic floor

This sends your body into a series of ****** convulsive jerks
And this is a feeling I can never resist, one that always works

As I feel your powerful release deep inside of me
My ****** meets yours pulling you in where you were meant to be

We collapse together, bodies intertwined, shaking and covered in sweat
We can't help but smile in exhausted happiness now, with all our desires met

Our breathing is ragged, your back marked with the red lines of my claw
I am throbbing and aching and I know that later I'll be sore and raw

None of this matters to us now as we drift off to sleep in a naked embrace
Because we both know we'll do it again even before our hearts return to their normal pace
Leigh May 2015
The story of a tiny gift, half chewed and fear-stained
Left on the alter outside the back door:

When first stunned with a slap or a precisely timed
Bite, a vigil is held -- wings twitch and flutter.
With a curious tilt, widened eyes record
Muscle spasms; calculating the
Flight risk; metering the force of the next
Outburst; prolonging the fun.

A game or performance art?
The victim's peers yell and screech
From the rooftops - do they know
The show is for them?

After few manoeuvres more it matters little
As a tiny neck snaps between missing teeth.
The audience scatters and the corpse is left behind
As an offering for those who feed the beast.
.

The joys of owning a cat.
.
rhys tyack Aug 2011
All things die
All kingdoms fall
Every waking hour
Incessantly recall
Grim reaps all

Drip by drip
Burn
Till wicks end

Choice, who here decides?
Pleasure beguiles, sets purpose via
Once voice strewn, lost through
Millions of cries in the continuum
Each time you blink your eyes
There is a glimpse
Behold! Nothingness!

Slaves to your own demise
What's the point prolonging?
When you are coming forth by day

Grim reaps all

All the while vitality escapes
Eternity succumbs to imminences of fate
Familiar pulsating rhythms will terminate

So what's the point?
Grim reaps us all
Coming forth by day
blankpoems Apr 2014
I like to find beauty in the things that hold on to us.
The universe has been writing wills and testaments on my typewriter and I am trying to listen.
It's saying things like "Let go... a little bit... let go... your grip has always been too strong".
The universe calls me dear and I want to scream when he tells me to let go.
Let go. Let the light in. I'm tired of letting things in, I am tired, universe I am tired
and you are a ***** liar.
Nobody is coming back.
Nobody is coming back.
My wrists are full of dead friends.
NOBODY IS COMING BACK.
And the universe replies "but when they do..."
Everything is always a hesitance. Why can't something be forever?
My words will die the day I do and what will be left of me?
A promise? A broken promise?
A broken promise.
I hope you know by my poems if I am doing well or not.
I hope you know it's usually the latter.
I hope you know I have loved you as long as I have thought
and oh, I have thought.
/
/
/
the universe never saw this coming
the universe quiets his mouth, lets her speak with only her tongue,
tries to decipher the back and forth.
the universe never knew I was a shadow.
nobody knew.
and all that's left, when the echoes die
all that's left will always be our prolonging.
our promise? our broken promise?
a broken promise.
Bobcat Nov 2018
Tell me baby who's on your mind?
Who do you see when your lips are on mine?

Is it the guy you kissed?
Or your friend you miss?
Or somebody that I completely dismissed?
Anyway, I guess I deserve all of this.
I put you through hell when I promised you bliss.

I know i'm getting fat,
And my habits are pretty bad,
I need to trim my nails,
And I'm just always ******* sad.

What a drag.

I wouldn't think about me either.
But I'll do anything I can just so I can keep her.
I can't imagine rolling over and not being able to feel her.

God I need her.

But do I really think she needs me?
When I don't know if when we kiss it's me that she sees.
I'm begging you, please, I'm on my knees,
Tell me what I have to do so that it's me that you need.

Baby please.

I just want to feel like I'm enough.
I'm sorry for the way I am and making things so tough.
I feel so helpless, I'm even asking up above;
What can I do to keep you from falling out of love?
Wandisa Zwane Oct 2015
Written by

Wandisa Zwane  


April 16, 2015



INT.  APT 3101 - THE BEDROOM  

It's 02:31 am and I find myself laying silently on my bed scrolling through Instagram...Twitter...Tumblr....and Snapchat. I find myself struggling to go to sleep.  I wasn't even able to sleep for an hour or two. It's not normal as its way past my curfew. I receive a text message. I'm confused because it's
still too early for anyone to be texting me, and I know everyone nearby is fast asleep because we have school. So who could be texting me?

CUT TO: PHONE SCREEN

HER ( via text )

I'm struggling with the math homework, help ? Are you up ?

ME ( via text )

I am actually. FaceTime, call or text?

20 minutes later my phone starts ringing. She was FaceTiming me. I stare at her name for about 5 seconds trying to put myself together.

ME

Hello, Ellie

I wasn't focused on the math. I was hoping that we could forget about the math and just talk about us and the futility of life. For some stupid reason I really thought you were gonna say something cheesy like I can't get you out of my head but can we just talk until we fall in love? But no it never happened as we had an hour long conversation about math.

CUE " MATH CONVERSATION"

The futility in that conversation was cosmic to the point where I began questioning existence. But when the call finally ended I was disappointed.

CUT TO: VARSITY

It's 8am and I'm at sitting in English tired and drained. Still contemplating about the futility of life.

HER

Hey, Tyler thanks for helping me with the math homework.

ME

Uhm Ellie do you want to come over too my apartment over the weekend and chill ?

CUT TO: APARTMENT 3101

It's 12am and the apartment is really untidy. I jump out of bed and clean the entire apartment in a record time of 12 minutes and 44 seconds. I'm going crazy over here as I'm trying to remember if I gave her the correct directions. Thank god I gave her the correct directions as I see the uber pulling up in front of the apartment complex. I start sweating and shaking and I'm fearful that I'm going to have a nervous breakdown. I start cringing.
I open the door the door and it's her standing directly in front of me. I can't breathe. I'm overwhelmed by an awe of emotions. Literally - she's beautiful

ME

I mumbled - Hey Ellie it's so good to see you ( the hug was very awkward because I was nervous - it was one of those hugs where both people don't know how to hug each which makes things really awkward)

HER

Hi


ME

So glad you could make it. How was the drive ( note to self: I should stop making things awkward ) I'm so irritated at myself.

CUT TO:  APARTMENT 3101 - LIVING ROOM

She's sitting on the couch. And I'm sitting right next to her. Okay let's just say there was a 30cm gap between the both of us. I was really nervous. I found myself drinking gallons of water. I forgot to offer her anything. I was nervous to the point where I couldn't even make eye contact. I just stared at her forehead and her lips.

ME

Aren't you exhausted I mean that drive was really long ( she lived like 3 blocks away from me )

HER

Not really , I'm just really stressed about varsity and stuff I guess.

We actually start conversing with one another for 5 hours straight.We smoke about 3 cigarettes and have the most fruitful conversation ever about female energy and the power of the the heart. She's really enlightened - I thought she was really basic. We both can't go to sleep because we're actually  enjoying the presence of one another. It was cathartic and refreshing actually.

ME

Want go up to the roof and look at the universe?

HER

I'd love too.

CUT TO : COMPLEX ROOF

I brought a blanket up to the roof cause I thought it was cold. It wasn't but we just layed down underneath the open night sky and gazed into the stars. We connected with the universe/ourselves/each other. It was bliss. We ended up falling asleep on top of the roof. To my amazement we were silently wrapped around each other.

CUT TO: APARTMENT 3101 - THE KITCHEN

HER

( chuckling )
How'd you sleep

ME

( Smiling )
I slept pretty well.

ME

Do you have any plans for today?

HER

YES actually...

SEVERAL HOURS LATER: APARTMENT 3101 - KITCHEN/BEDROOM AND LIVING ROOM

The sun is setting and she still hasn't packed her bags.

ME

When are you leaving?

She said she was leaving on Sunday

HER

In 30.

ME

(I tried to not crack in front of her)
Cool.


APARTMENT 3101

About 2 weeks later she surprisingly pitches at my door with her luggage.

HER
I'm moving in with you!

I was excited at the fact that she was moving in with me but I obviously tried acting cool and composed.

CUT TO: WOLVES CAFE

As they're sitting there talking to each other about their families, Osho and meditation over a cup of tea.

ME

I was adopted.

HER

WOW - That's a huge plot twist.

She sat there speechless for about 2 minutes trying to fathom the knowledge I just presented to her.

HER

So do you ever think about your real parents?

ME

All the time - they both died in a car accident when I was 3.

HER

I'm so sorry.

ME

It's okay - I mean I know they're somewhere out there in the universe checking up on me. I speak to them when I feel lonely.

Enough about my tragic past..How are your parents?

I've never told any other soul about my parents before. She was the first person I ever told .

HER

I never knew my dad but my mom has been living with a brain tumour for like 2 years now.

ME

Wow. That's must've been so tough for you when you found out about it.

HER

It was. I went through the most vicious cycle of depression for an entire year. But I'm trying to make most of the time I have left with her.

ME

How much time do you have left to see her her and stuff ?

HER

(She starts tearing up)
3 months

CUT TO: APARTMENT 3101 - LIVING ROOM

I'm still fascinated by the fact that she's into Osho, existentialism, metaphysics and epistemology. But I also felt like our relationship had escalated so quickly. We're we rushing things? The relationship felt like it was moving at the speed of light.

ME

Do you feel like we're moving too fast ?

HER

There's no such thing, if it's meant to be it will be, whether fast or slow as long as it's true, it will last as long as you want it to.

I was momentarily tongue-tied as I was trying to digest the words she just said.

ME

......

(Still voiceless)

She still had a lot more to say after that

CUES : "rants"

But in that entire rant she said something that echoed within me.

HER

YOU KNOW I MAKE YOU HAPPY

After she said this I felt like fainting. So not only did she make me voiceless I was overwhelmed by an ocean of indescribable emotions- wow

DAYS LATER: APARTMENT 3101 - KITCHEN

I'd finally recovered from those powerful words she preached to me. So I found myself sitting in the kitchen trying to write a letter to her about how I really felt. I wasn't the best at expressing my emotions through writing but I gave it a shot.

ME

Love is the unforetold explanation for creation. Love is life. It's the merger of minds. The marriage of minds. It transcends through time, it's timeless. It takes you into a dimension filled with possibilities and opportunities. It helps you understand you are that you are not worthless. Every time I am with you I understand we are here for a reason. And every time I stare into your eyes. I realise that you are mine.  

I sealed it an envelope and put it on the kitchen counter.

LATER ON THAT DAY:

She opens the letter and starts crying.

CUT TO: THE TREEHOUSE

I introduce her to some of the guys in the treehouse. They welcomed her to the treehouse with open arms.

HER

So what do you guys do in the treehouse?

PAUL : (one of the guys part of the treehouse)

Well in the treehouse we just try to expand. We write, make music, poetry, nothing much really.

MCDONALDS DRIVE- THRU

She was to lazy to go home and cook supper she was s bit hypocritical cause she said we should stop buying junk food. So we decided to go to McDonald's. We were down to our last packet of 2 minute noodles anyway.


CUT TO: HOSPITAL

We went to visit her mother. She introduced me but there was no warmth in the hug we shared. I could feel her shrill body disintegrating. She was really cold. You could see she was dying.

HER

How've you been mom ?

MOM

She couldn't even speak properly. It was sad but when she eventually managed to responded to Ellie's question.

MOM

I'm still fighting but I don't know if I can do this for much longer.

HER

No mum you can't leave me.

MOM

I don't want to make you empty promises my child.

Who's this handsome young man Ellie?

HER

(Smiling heavily)
It's Tyler, my boyfriend

She just called me her boyfriend in front of her mom. She just put a label on our relationship. I thought it was completely platonic.

ME

Afternoon Mam. It's a pleasure to finally meet you.

I knew her name ( Stacy )  but in that moment I felt like a child in primary school - so I decided to be respectful and call her mam. I wasn't sure whether or not I should call her "Ellie's mom" or Stacy. It was just a tricky situation. So I opted for mam.

MOM

( smiling )
The pleasure is all mine Tyler.

She told me to come closer to her cause she wanted to whisper something into my ear.

MOM

Tyler I'm clearly dying as you can see. So I'm leaving with you an important task of ensuring that's my daughter remains happy at all times.Take care of her for me - please

ME

I'll take care of her - she's in safe hands.

MOM

That's the spirit Tyler. Can you give us a moment please Tyler.

HER

Just go down to the kiosk and get me a bottle of distilled water. Please.

(Tyler leaves the room)

MOM

I remember the first time you wrapped your tiny hand around my index finger , you had my soul laying on 3 cms of palm.

( Ellie interrupts )

HER

Mom don't do this , prolonging life is pure idiocy.

(she smiles as a tear rolls down her cheek )

Die so your soul can have its summer ,don't worry about my pain cause I'm really happy for you, your soul can finally taste true liberation, see my tears as autumn leaves falling from trees , I'm naked and all I can show you is the truest forms of love.

MOM

You're so beautiful because you're so true. Our connection has no equation my daughter, as I leave my body just know that my time with you transcends forever.

HER

Mother it's time for you to leave. Take a piece of my happiness, it's futile anyway and I have it in abundance but I shall be lost without you in body, I shall be found when I'm with you in soul.

MOM

Clarity comes with the last breath, as hatred and love become nothing, you are nothing and everything all at once, I'm happy for you have given it to me, tomorrow and yesterday no longer matter

(her heart stops beating and her souls goes home - heart rate monitor indicates her mom has just flat lined)

Ellie starts screaming. The nurses and doctors come sprinting in.


DOCTOR

NUURSE HAND ME THE DEFIBRILLATOR !!

HER

(in agonising pain and disbelief that her mother is dead she starts screaming)

SAVE MY MUM, PLEASE SHE CANT LEAVE ME !! YOU CANT LET HER DIE.

DOCTOR

Nurse get her out of here.

She's kicking and shoving the other nurses as she is being escorted out the room.

NURSE

Don't worry the doctors are doing all they can to save her.

Tyler comes back from the kiosk with the distilled water to find Ellie on the floor crying.

ME

What's wrong?

HER

( Her face goes pale )
She's gone ....

2 DAYS LATER: BACK AT 3101

Ellie has locked herself in my/our room. We haven't spoken to each other for like 2 weeks.

She finally decides to come out of the room.

HER

(Breaks down, again  )
It's her birthday today.

I've never seen her so broken and disfigured before. She's in pieces - distorted.

NARRATOR

Death is the door between two lives; one is left behind, one is waiting ahead. Death is the ultimate experience of this life - Osho

“Birth leads to death, death precedes birth. So if you want to see life as it really is, it is rounded on both the sides by death. Death is the beginning and death is again the end, and life is just the illusion in between. You feel alive between two deaths; the passage joining one death to another you call life. Buddha says this is not life. This life is dukkha – misery. This life is death"

HER

I WONT CRUMBLE - IM A BIG GIRL NOW. MOMMA RAISED ME TO BE A STRONG WOMAN SO IM GONNA DO THAT.

She put up this facade as if nothing ever happened. She didn't allow herself to mourn the death of her mother. She was apathetic for the next 2 weeks.

This  was a tricky phase because she either woke up angry or sad. She just rampaged through the house, didn't attend lectures - she just left a trail of destruction wherever she went. I even have the scars to prove it.

A FEW WEEKS LATER: THE DEATH ORDEAL IS FINALLY OVER

She gained about 5 kilograms in that entire period. She just kept on stuffing her face with ice cream and chocolates

HER

Tyler thanks for being there in my moment of absolute depression.

ME

I thought you were never going to be able to get yourself out of that dark abyss you were trapped in.

AT THE BEACH

The sun is setting and the couple is walking along the sand enjoying each other's company.

ME

I've got something for you Ellie

( I hope she likes it )

HER

Yes?

ME

Close your eyes

(Takes out a heart shaped pediment from back pocket  and places it around her neck )

You can open your eyes now.

HER

(Smiling)
It's lovely, thank you

ME

(Smiling back)
I'm giving you my heart but not my soul.

HER

(Blushes)

ME

(In my head)
I'm giving her my heart she better not break it.

Have you ever had that feeling before in a relationship where you think you love the other person more than they love you. To the point where you'd even get their names tattooed onto your chest. Cause that's how I feel right now.

IN THE CAR:


I'm driving Ellie to the airport. OR Tambo in fact. I'm playing some Jamie ** but I quickly change it and play my favourite song Female Energy.

CUE "FEMALE ENERGY"

ME

You excited?

HER

Yes I'm really really excited for this.

ME

I'm really gonna miss you

HER

Me too.

Ellie was completing her mothers bucket list - so she had had to travel all the way to Tibet and learn Buddhism. Nothing much really she was leaving  for 2 months.


But little did Tyler know that this was going to be the last time he sees Ellie because her plane never landed in Tibet - the plane crashed and it sunk with no no one  surviving.

STILL IN THE CAR:

Ellie hands Tyler a letter

HER

Tyler please don't open this until you get home.

ME

(Smiling)
I'll try my best.


Car parks at drop and go zone at the airport. Tyler takes out Ellie's bag from the boot.

They hug and kiss

Ellie cries.

CUT TO : "APT 3101 - LIVING ROOM "

Tyler opens the letter.

CUE "ELLIES VOICE AND ON OUR SWEATERS "


It's funny how for someone who has been so used to being lonely, the second I grip onto something that seems real, my biggest fear is losing that grip - even though for the longest time ever I've become immune to the feeling of loneliness. The same way people become dependent on other beings, people can become dependent on loneliness too - you become immune to self reassurance, your insecurities, your vulnerability and after a while it seems ideal and okay, but only because it's all you've got. You allow yourself to be consumed by this self indulgent energy making you think you don't need anybody because how else do you get by when you know that you have nobody. So when someone comes creeping in through the front door, with nothing but good intentions - you shut them out because you've lost sight of the difference in the realness of someone coming through the front door and the fakeness of someone coming through the backdoor. I struggle to fathom your presence because I didn't see you coming, through any door, you were just always there in plain sight. I don't know how to describe what I feel when I'm around you because I have never felt anything like it. All I know is that it leaves me in a place
An incomplete screenplay.
Mike Hauser Dec 2013
So young and newly married
Hanging on by the thread of love
Sometimes though in life we see
That thread isn't wound tight enough

Through the daily struggles
Most of them unseen
What happened to the newlywed
Where went all the dreams

Holding on
Barely holding on...

A father and husband out of work
A family living out of the car
Is this the American dream we've built
Is this now where we are

Cardboard serves a purpose
As a bed and a homemade sign
To keep the cold off of the floor
Hey brother can you spare a dime

Holding on
Barely holding on...

The doctors diagnosis
Doesn't give much hope for life
Just a simple six months ago
There was no thought of dying

Even less hope in your case
Just prolonging time
You could spend what little you have left
Or go ahead and say your goodbyes

Holding on
Barely holding on...

No matter your life's lot
The position that you hold
We're all in the same boat on the same stream
Trying to stay afloat

There are so many different scenarios
Which could haunt many a page
That in life continually follow us
Throughout all our days of

Holding on
Barely holding on...
Jowlough Apr 2011
I do not believe in fairytales, so be straight,
Experience was present, and it's worth the faith.
I do not want to rely, on repeating hopes in oblivion,
If promises were prayers, I don't have religion.

Continuing is just a self-detonation, prolonging the agony,
blaming myself, living life hard sadly.
I am seeing the inequality, on every angle and scopes,
sometimes I am thinking hanging my neck on the ropes.

and as I blame,
negative tendency,
occurs.
comes, sudden,
unexpectedly.


but,
when I see you, negativity's gone,
my inspiration's overflowing,
keeps me away from frown.

but,
when I see you, my depth dissapears,
and all of a sudden,
I want to lend an ear,

but,
when I'm with you, my heart skips a beat,
I step out of my seriousness,
in your cup, I sitdown and take a sip,

but,
when I'm with you, I want to listen
I want to know you further,
overlaps, to what they're just seeing,

to hear every stories told, with your cheerful voice,
your warmth, that caresses my body,
builds up my poise,

transcends a choice, to be happy or not,
I forget all my worries,
and say I'm a little pessimist, but

..I am looking forward,
to stay this way,
for as long, as we both can,
complete our days.
(c) 4.25.11 Positivity - jcjuatco
ERR Jan 2011
Paradise
Men falling from the sky using parachutes of peacock plumage hues
The professionals plummeting in perfect spirals
The novices sheepishly prolonging their gentle, gliding drop
The salmon shade adobe dwellings with their thatched, lovely roofs
Shelter me in their auspices from an unforgiving star
Handmade tiles of authentic design line each steep stone step
A covert staircase leading nowhere, we lounge near the pool by day
There I observe a couple through a sour tequila haze
A scarlet clad native and her sometime American lover
Their hands never leave each other’s guilty bodies, sexually charged
His absence of wedding ring betrays his intended affair
In the distance crushing waves claim territory on the shoreline
I underestimate; in a death roll I lose all sense of direction
The blushing sky with rosy smile watches over its children
A lighthouse by its lonesome guards the cliffs from clumsy ship
Locals sell their wares by approaching fair-skinned tourists
Necklaces of beads require long hours of work
Their labor goes unappreciated, sells for meager dollar
Popcorn man blows his lonely, dissonant horn forever
Into the deaf night
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.oh sure, just pass the mortgage payments, i might pay, when i pay off whatever life i lived, and the life i didn't... and some third-party-whatever... oh yeah... just fax me the existentialist details... overloaded with pop Darwinism for the simple answer of a complex question / mode of being... yeah... such the mode of being... give me the mean of non-being... the **** life once was, but became reduced to an epitaph... and only if, if! i am rich enough to afford a gravestone.

don't worry...
if we're just clausit instances
of humanity,
the whole closure chapter...
just wait for the Holocaust
survivors to die with the deniers...
and then you can come
after us...
i'm all up and arms for
en masse euthanasia schemes...
****... let's bypass
the ponces and cowboys...
i'm ready...
   so...
..........................................
tick tock tick tock
tick tock..........................
           missing *****?
****... they castrated you before
they gave you authority
to **** me ethically?!
the *******!
          idiots don't even understand
the whole...
   altar, sacrifice of water mammals...
a beached whale is not
a beached whale...
******* can't even allow
a whale to commit suicide...
even whales ingest a Kamikaze
mentality...
whales don't beach...
but what is the poor ******
going to do...
jump off a bridge?!
   i'm not buying it...
who needs to be saved,
if they can't even be considered
redeemable?!
how can you, "save" someone,
when you cannot provide
redemption for them?
the non-redemption clause:
can't redeem them,
subsequently can't save them...
all you're doing is
prolonging their suffering,
elevating the suffering through
the elevation of failure
in the failure of ending
the suffering...
  so... no one spotted that
the beached whales...
as mammals...
were attempting to commit suicide?
beached whales are whales suicides...
no one saw that?
it wasn't an eye-sore
staring back?
the suicide has already a conundrum
before him...
the lack of suspense,
or rather, the element of surprise...
at least homicide involves
a rush of adrenaline...
       adrenaline... surprise...
     suicide avenue...
     brave people...
                    brave because there is
no suspense of surprise...
absolutely no adrenaline...
          the aspect of consciousness,
the contradictory "choice"...
that contradicts the "choice" of
encountering esse per se,
  or qua vivo...
          i'm not about to solve
this noumenon...
i can't solve it,
because the noumenon of suicide
is already a phenomenon of
a million counter arguments
worth justification...
      but a beached whale?
a whale is a marine mammal...
a beached whale...
what is it? usually a young male...
don't you find it odd...
aren't dolphins intelligent?
aren't whales intelligent?
      so something stupid...
  couldn't exactly elborate the concept
of suicide... could it?
perhaps a stampede...
but surely not a suicide...
         god?
sure... intelligent animals came up
with with god...
but the same intelligent animals came
up with the paradoxical
contradiction, of suicide...
whales...
            beached whales?
you think they were stupid enough
to become, "beached"?
they were in the act of committing
to suicide...
and you were stupid enough
to make attempts at "saving" them...
whatever god is, within the focus of ideal...
suicide is, what god isn't,
within the basis of the inevitability of, will...
we're mortal!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
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| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an
Steve Page Sep 2018
Fathercraft
has been passed down
from father to father
losing and gaining
at each slow bequeathing -
less heavy-handed there
more soft-hearted here
as each generation rejects
the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder
what's left of the original art
and what we've lost.

Food for thought
as I feed my daughter -
crumbled digestive
with mashed banana -
perhaps a favourite of mine
and my father's,
while she grins and chortles
blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles
with absolute child-delight.

Food for thought
as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek
and laugh along,
prolonging the rare perfection
of this father moment.
My dad was far from perfect but I picked up a thing or two from him.
blythe Feb 2015
Leaves aging gray covered with dust,
Iron losing its will to cope up with rust,
Flowers withered losing their lust,
And the hope pulverized by the broken trust.

Days swiftly passing by like a river flowing
To those memories from the days of yore they are holding,
With mournful souls they are living
Each passing day feels like dying.

Not much do they have, still surviving the wave,
Crawling their paths, on which the traces will engrave,
Swallowing the curse and exhibiting the traits of a brave,
Succumbed to temptation, still prolonging their grave.

Holding on to what is still left of them after being broken
With bruises all over - purple and swollen,
Hearing those painful words that remained unspoken
Their hearts lost, stolen.

As love never fades, but grows each season,
People do change, for love is the reason,
It reigns in any region,
*A salvation emerging, shining like a beacon.
Our second collab! I enjoy writing with him. :) It seems like we belong to each others poetry ;)

©bluestarfall
©blythe
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.hell... what perfect antithesis of how woman perceive *** as an ancestral "past-time" of chasing & hunting... what... with female genitals? how about i farm oysters?! one song comes to mind, to give this piece overtones... chris rea... stainsby girls...

****... and there i was thinking that
i coined the phrase...
voluntary celibacy...
    well... there was that one time
i picked up a Thai bisexual
in the park, took her home,
played her some Miles Davis,
and later ****** her in the garden...
or my diet of... two *****
with prostitutes per year...
and i'm fine with that...
but i was worried with the Thai
bisexual... i actually did think
i was going to get a Thai surprise...
what with her sports-bra...
i can't remember ever being on a date...
i never used a dating-app...
*** as much animal as random...
hard time getting an STD
with prostitutes these days...
you'd be surprised...
one told she gets her STD checks
every month...
funny, eh? that a *******
can wield so much moral
authority...
you can't spank them like
in the pornographic flicks...
i'm old school...
pictures are just fine by me...
why?
the imagination runs wild...
the urban dictionary beat me
to it, but... they would have...
i was working on the concept
since 2007...
their entry reads 2014...
how did it began?
oh... you know...
i once watched a few monks
come to your Catholic
school
and play basketball with
the kids in the playground...
and... Taizé...
that was a big game changer...
i mean:
when a **** comes knocking
on your door...
and you don't require
to peacock...
you're not exactly going
to turn it down, are you?
******* beat me to it...
in word alone...
like i said,
i've been practicing this
7 years prior
urban dictionary picked
it up...
but with prostitutes it's like:
it's an hour...
it's not a "relationship"
with all its quirks...
i'm past 30...
   you wanna marry,
marry young...
and thank **** i didn't marry
a teenage girl...
she either was pregnant,
or she faked pregnancy...
she's also ~30 now...
one engagement (moi),
a second marriage...
and i could have had a happy
marriage...
that one Farsi girl...
and that one Aussie half Indian
half Irish...
it would have been just fine...
but...
           i wouldn't have these
thoughts,
or this writing... gamble?
well... it's always a gamble...
the sort of gambling that encompasses
the stratum of mortality...
not the sort of gambling
with coinage,
the cheapest thrill...
the minor rewards...
   i gambled with life,
for the point of wondering...
will i die a death worthy,
or a death of assault by
self-inflicted kamikaze wounds?
now... if you want to gamble...
that the best gamble there is...
i wrote this...
because...
i'm still...
     not drunk enough to complete
what came prior to this...
the "poem" entitled
the cultural exchange program...
*******...
i can't believe they beat me
for the coin of phrase...
and what if i only feel like
having only two erections
a year?
   i can bypass the madonna-*****
complex...
   i'm less nostalgic about
the ***,
  and less inclined to "experiment"...
less into latex suits,
less into lost ambitions,
    less into position conundrums...
pretty much less of everything
associated with routine...
but... ******* isn't my favorite part...
homework...
steal a kiss from a *******...
go on...
no... wait...
1, 2... 3... try stealing kisses from
4...
            one with giggles,
   one with closed eyes
having kissed her eyelids prior...
one with tears...
   and one... god... that last one...
not having trimmed my ***** hair...
just enjoying a classic Hollywood
kiss of prolonging the touching
of lips, no tongue, no slobbering...
with her leg rapping around
my torso...
                     apparently i was being
"nice"? i was momentarily
suffering from a gender dysphoria...
remembering i was once cleaned
shaved, and donning long hair...
believe me... short hair, and a Moses beard?
- and i was thinking i was a woman,
well... i wasn't thinking,
i was "thinking"...
**** shame i didn't trim my burning
bush of *****.
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.
Natalja Handy Mar 2013
I was surrounded by darkness. The kind that’s so pure, you can’t even see your fingers in front of your face, and you’re too disoriented to even know if you’re even holding your hand anywhere near your face. My heart was racing; I could feel the fast thumping of its beating against my chest. My skin was grimy with sweat and dirt and I could feel my hair glued to the back of my head and face. Where the hell had I been? Where the hell was I?
I took a step forward. Or at least I thought it was forward. For all I know it could have been backwards or sideways, or even upside down. I tried to gain my bearings but it was no use, I had lost almost all of my senses and found myself relying solely on touch. Suddenly I kicked something; a rock? I kicked the same area harder and was rewarded with the clinking of a cement stone against a wall. A whole lot of good that did me. So I’m trapped in this arbitrary darkness. Oh, but at least I’ll die with a rock for company! I thought in cheery sarcasm.
Suddenly, I lurched forward, the ground beneath my feet rumbling and seeming to shake its way free from me. The sound of the engine hit my ears just a millisecond after the blinding light. The cold, sickening feeling of fear clawed its way through my body, sending my skin crawling and my blood rushing. Now, I longed for the darkness, for the light to disappear and take along with it this metal monster.
Before I could think I turned and ran, almost falling three times and pushing myself back up with a light touch of my hand. Fatigue nagged at me in the back of my head but I pushed it back and ran as fast as I could, my feet seeming to trip over every possible bump.
The light was getting closer, illuminating the pathway in front of me. A never ending road of wooden slates lay out at my feet. Two metal tracks lined the wood with metal brackets the size of my face keeping it bolted to the ground at intervals. Its cold metal seemed to vibrate as the monster ran across it. The rail ran too close to the wall of the tunnel for me to take refuge behind it so I kept running, knowing that it was only prolonging the inevitable.
I heard the whistle of the train behind me, the sound booming impossibly loud in my head. Tears ran down my face, making it even harder to see in the gloom, and mingled with the streams of blood pouring from my ears. Abruptly, my pant leg caught on something and I fell to the ground, slamming hard against the wooden planks and the broken pieces of concrete between them. I tugged on my leg three times, each time getting progressively more pathetic than the last. What was the point? I’m stuck and even if I did manage to get up, I could never out run a train! I thought ultimately.
The train appeared at the end of my vision in the tunnel, quickly gaining pace towards me. Everything about it overpowered my senses; The intense light blinded my eyes, the powerful reverberating took away the final scraps of any sense of direction I had left, and the whistle grew so loud, it sent a wave of pain crashing over my body, only to leave it behind almost utterly numb. I covered my ears harshly, my fingers slipping and fumbling over the blood, to drown out the cranking of the wheels, the snarl of the exhaust pipe. The train continued towards me until its metal build completely covered the whole of my sight.
Ten seconds. Nine seconds. Eight seconds. I counted down to my death as time seemed to slow. Five seconds. I never quite imagined I would go like this. Three seconds.  I closed my eyes, not strong enough to watch the impact of the train to my body. One second.
Everything turned warm, the sensation a stark difference from the cold, wet despair of only a few seconds before. My arms had crept up to cover my head and the skin of them was touched with warmth. Then the warmth augmented to a blazing heat. I could feel the fire licking at my flesh, shoving away the numbness and replacing it with absolute pain.
I turned around and tried one last attempt to run. I remembered my pant leg at the last second and winced at the unavoidable enlargement of my already unbearable agony. The smell of singed hair burned my nostrils. I screamed as I felt the flames burn into my trapped leg, creeping mercilessly up to my back. I pushed my face into the dirt to spare it the fire and swallowed smoke and pebbles in atonement. A contradicting sensation of tingling and pain racked my body as I felt the skin shrivel from my bones. Flames engulfed me, rushing past my arms as they left their searing marks on them.
Pieces of metal shrapnel flew, clanking against the concrete walls of the tunnel, the monster silence forever. No more cruel whistle, no more speeding dæmon. Pieces of the train, half melted half on fire, fell around me. The vibrations from their collisions with the ground were just vague impressions against the extreme pain. Another shriek ravaged my body as a piece of burning metal landed on my back, smoldering the already burnt skin. The tears didn’t even make it over my eyelid before they were taken away into the atmosphere.
The last morsel of strength was leeched from my body as I relaxed every aching muscle of my battered being across the gravel. The fires had extinguished themselves and I was left in the dark once again. The sick stickiness of blood felt almost pleasurable as it flowed over and cooled my wounds. The thick substance poured down my neck and pooled around my mouth, cutting off air from reaching my shallow gasps. Not having the will to move, I let the liquid overtake me. I closed my eyes and let it bury me in a crimson grave.
Salil Panvalkar Apr 2013
The penguins march
On a stretch of  snowy starch

Ignoring the onlookers
But wolf whistling among the crowd, the hookers

The sounds clearly getting louder
Is that... is that gun powder?

Gouging out the eyes to block out the sight
Is definitely not the answer to your plight

The confetti flies upwards and away
To turn into a  malleable *** of clay

Juggling the yard of goat string cheese
More after this message? Yes please!

Longing on the thought of belonging
As our not so miserable existence we seem to be prolonging

Your thoughts, i wish to sway
With my words, let me take you away
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i can't believe i came across this today,
but i am certain did...
   an experience so vague i couldn't believe,
i actually experienced dyslexia,
call it quasi call it pseduo... but it was very
much akin... from the book's narrative...
but not from the footnotes, i read the footnotes
at perfect cognitive speed, but perhaps
returning to the narrative i did experience
a slack of the + (add) of how words are
dissected and quickly put back together...
  yes, that other arithmetic with very little
breathing room, yes, that thing without
a soul... the word... or god...
    i turned custard brain, fudge...
     i felt like watching the gymnastics at
the para-olympics... and if i was going for a cheap
joke / english black humor i'd probably
laugh at that... but since this is the most
perfect ideal, i can't only make that comparison.

and so it was, i sat there doing nothing productive,
nothing... counting sheep to encourage
day-dreaming...
       so i said: 'i'll read a book', like i might do
on the whim in my grandparent's house
(one of the many reasons i decided to be "canadian" -
and establish a firm belief in bilingualism -
since if i didn't speak the tribal tongue
i wouldn't be rummaging in my grandfather's
library... and stealing books from him...
  well, exporting them to england, where he said
on my last visit: your library is bigger than
mine, isn't? well... it can fill a double-bed
   and be stacked at about 300cm up...)
    maybe the fact that being immersed in the tribe:
polish on the radio, on the television,
the fact that i can be without the internet for
weeks on end and have no quick-canvas outlet for
my earned tongue is the reason i could read
Kraszewski's* Dei Ira / bozy gniew / god's wrath...
    (there is too much subtle differences between
capital iota and little-town lambda -
   or why iota had to have the dot above it, anyway) -
so dei ira looks better... which is why i'm
not orthodox about using capital instances all the time...
   what a whirlwind...
         but prior to that i was watching
a david jacoby film - love is the devil: study for
a portrait by francis bacon...
                                         and all i could think of:
what marvel, to have a **** shoved up your ***
and speak so beautifully...
  have such a vast array of narratives...
     i can only assume that experiencing **** ***
gives you the other man's **** shoved into
your mouth that acts like a tongue and speaks
      so many truths as could be possible,
as in Freudian dream: when a woman wears a hat...
a talking ****** on her head from slurping
at the vaginal grotto of another woman...
     such a marvel though, homosexuality, esp.
the type of homosexuality that has art to express
rather than a civil partnership, civil rights...
  i mean, i could watch this stuff for days and never
yawn or need to watch protests and marches...
  just the image of what is best described
   john william waterhouse's
   painting hypnos and thanatos...
      i can't help but see it like that...
         francis plays the female role, his model the evident
dominant male... and sure, francis having his
**** punctured for what could be best described
as diarhhea either side of the equator does so...
it's as if he is eloquent enough / intelligent to allow
this to happen, for another man to speak through
him somehow... the model's phallus in francis' ****
becomes the model's tongue in francis' mouth...
    which becomes the stage for hypnos and thanatos...
in that francis' tongue becomes a phallus in
the mind of the model: and it whispers him nightmares
in his sleep... a vicious cycle indeed...
           that's the homosexuality that's highly regarded
by me, not the confetti functional type that
    exploits science and social norms and can no longer
lend itself to art, to transcending the taboo...
      with homosexuality divorced from art...
i can't see anything profound by gays from now on...
i really can't... if there is no art in this deviant
love, no art is worth being expressed by this
once glorious realm that has grovelled into the gutter...
so let's start once more: with Onan!

and everyday i awake wake with only one identifiable
fear: will i not write a single verse as of today?
it's not a case of a single day encapsulating my
fear, but that that crux day: furthered into a silence
that can't compensate the act of writing with
anything, other than sleep... i just can't seem
to smarten up concerning this very rational phobia...
    and having said that: here is the incision mark
denoting an interlude, and how: what are originally
intended to be of enso quality, cannot
   stand up to the biological tick-tock of needing
the loo...
     and do i think o'keefe's music foundation
by children is so much better than the original
done by tool concerning the song forty six & two?
yes, yes i do... just look at the kid on the bass guitar,
the fact that bass guitar is allowed to state a layer
of cake just above drums to set the rhythm
means the rhythm guitar doesn't have to solipsistic
******* and scale the everest of solo...
   it can remain in the rhythm section,
actually be worth a rhythm,
   the guitar doesn't need to overload into a solo...
the vocals belong to that domain...
   as long as the bass guitar is allowed to be heard
(unlike in metallica) - then i must be tone deaf!
revise me!
                    jazz knew the importance of every instrument,
and the need to be spontaneous, but also
the need to be anti-synchronisation,
  and therefore anti-muddle tsunami of:
all together now!
            n'ah, **** that **** (yes, the Vulgate is
coming along, i like the pooch, i don't care what things
i might say, the rude growl-bark is coming along:
so we can admire him licking his *****, and for no
other reason he's coming):
as in the birth of sexes... which the animals don't
seem to comprehend that much intently...
                 i can't like my ******* or **** one off...
but i know i can abstract a woman into
a hand and just pretend it's me doing the ****
crap with her... than myself included,
   or as i might add: never drink or *******
before the mirror... soon enough your reflection
becomes a bit odd, not because of what you do,
but because you hide so much perplexity before
you in Lucifer's daylight with which
  the moon Narcissus governs the moods...
that you start to look at your actual shadow
   with more clarity and fact...
  looking in the mirror is the reverse of looking
at your shadow under a street-lamp at night...
the mirror sort of becomes a shadow...
             the form becomes a bit (ha ha, what
an exagerration) vague... i look into
a mirror and i am but looking into shadow...
                   and i can't exactly recognise the eyes,
or make our geometric approximations
of a skull...
                      it's not even a case of a poor Yorrick
blah blah.
    or as the new governing body put it:
there are to be no mirrors contained within
the gates of Pandemonium...
        each to his own shadow, each to his own abstract...
   for the shadow will be deemed the new mirror...
   the new found glacier of, yes:
when salt water freezes, comes pure white floating
on the oceans... but must you freeze fresh water
and there's this matrix...
as in icecubes...
       dropping from a vendor machine...
and i knew i shouldn't have digressed so much,
but then again, if there was no ****** tick-tock
       rebellion, i probably wouldn't have revealed this much...
with ancient lore...
    who'd use the word Pandemonium these days,
if you're merely trying to call it: the Houses of Westminster...
well sure, accusation due: i prefer
a bunch of kids feeding me a nostalgia over a song
i heard aged 14... such is the power of the song 46 & 2
done to a... wait wait...
  i was talking about bass guitars and jazz...
(i could never get to like rap...
            i liked when the blacks deconstructed classical
music, but they did after: i'll never like,
mainly people of blackies and that general fanfare
of rap feeding tribalism) -
          the greatest aspect of jazz:
that on some recordings there's a chance to hear all
the instruments having a solo moment...
you'll hear a quintent solo:
  the piano, the drum, the saxophone, the horn,
the double-bass solo... each doing a solo...
not some erectile dysfunction of rock music from the 1980s...
i mean: each one will do a solo...
  and **** me, that's grand... and given there's no vocals
makes it all the better... but where, the ****, can i hear
jazz music being kept with such high regard as i
might find mozart pickled and even mummified
     to suddenly rise again and compose like i might hear
it on classical.fm... maybe acid jazz killed it...
   i can't seem to hear of one place where i can hear
the range of jazz music i have in my collection...
which probably mean's i'm lazy and don't fiddle about
with the radio fm and am channels... to "look" for jazz...
  i'm all applause though: jazz allowed for
deconstruction of classical music and paved the way
for the current state of polyphony in plateau...
    meaning: too much drum, too much ump-pst-ump-pst...
   jazz paved the wsay from orchestra,
   and yes, maybe because it was too impromptu
as it was necessary, that there was no jazz composer...
  there could have been no jazz script... no pre
           to what was otherwise alway and only: uno...
a once...
    sure Thelonious Monk did use an orchestra at some time...
  but if only someone decided to do a solipsism
and write out jazz like mozart wrote out
      concerto... but no... jazz descending from on high
and invoking african villages could never do to
its practitioners the deadly fate of breeding a jazz
composer...
                   it was the communal idea, the musketeer
unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno:
   you could never allow a silent dictator like
a mozart dictating to a throng of people contained
within an orchestra... which later made the once
silent dictators very very vocal... speeches in Munich
alike...
           the fact that jazz has no script,
and the fact that if someone tries to play a Miles Davis
from script... is completely an ***...
     put him on a donkey (backwards)
                     donning a sanbenito and lynch him
to the nearest traffic junction to **** louder than
a car klaxon... that will do the trick...
       they did bother to script led zeppelin though...
    maybe it was the stiff competition that did it:
jazz. airy... breezy... but what a quick moment it was...
i'm almost jealous of the beat poets experimenting
with jazz musicians... but then i'm not:
i like to think of them as parasites...
   you know... those things feeding of spontaneity...
parasites... or dare i say: plagiarising leeches...
plagiarisng what? well, not the content, the context:
feeding of jazz spontaneity... not working from
old composers like Milton or Dante...
thank god for Ezra Pound and Sylvia Plath.

seems i have a ****** for a larynx...

perhaps i just seem to mean: i am a firm believer
in bilingualism... perhaps that's based on
some sort of religiosity,
    and let me tell you: it's born with
a schismatic nature, siamese, but not like a
siamese twin, in that it really needs a surgeon...
  it's a nucleus that's inherently schismatic...
i can't blame the english nation being
so lazy in its multicultural ethos,
i quiet like it: i don't live in a ghetto...
but forgetting my native tongue just so i could
sing a national anthem with conviction?
na'ah, that's not me...
            we'll come to Kraszewski's rex piast
in a minute, and it really was a genuine
experience of placebo dyslexia,
the one on the other side: should i have written
zilch...
      i believe in something quiet Canadian...
i don't believe in isolated communities,
   or ghetto tactic... i am a firm disciple of the advent
of bilingualism: forget the *** for just one day,
your genitals won't suddenly drop off with
gangrene scabs... you don't need a doctor
to say that...
                i mean: bilingualism as a concern
for incorporated culture, and the culture you were
born in... why can't these people just care to juggle
three testicles?
                   oh, elaphantisis got in the way...
sure, two oranges and a watermelon: makes sense...
no!
      have mutual respect, you come to me sprechen
Piast i'll speak Piast to you...
   well: given that polish and polish aren't that far apart,
i'd feel inclined to utilise
           idiosyncratic lingo...
   lingua genesis...
                children are so much easier to utilise than
angels: they have yet to experience anything at all
on the Socratic basis...
            so if i talk Piast to me, you will know what
i'm talking about?
     it doesn't matter if you do... i chose to be
a library, rather than an encyclopoedia of immigrants...
    there's not need to test me on general knowledge:
the stuff i "know" already gives me membrane...
     i respect both the culture of my birth and the skin
i am sometimes told to make sure is called tattoo,
and what i see before me, and quiet frankly:
i see nothing before me... a turban here,
    a sausage & mash there, a pint of guinness there,
noodles elsewhere... all in all: globalisation
and the elements: earthquakes... torandos...
   there isn't much to see in a poly-ethnic society...
there are too many major changes taking place
in a pyramid of non-ethnic ascriptive
         non-this-and-that pawns...
  it's not even painful: just a bit disgusting to watch...
  and yes i have access to a voult of monochromatic
society:
   you know how many ethnic minorities i spotted
in a train station in Warsaw? three...
two asians and one black woman...
              i haven't experienced the cold winters in Poland:
but i knew there was a limit...
         only about three apaches in a crowd of
albinos... which doesn't translate as:
    i was somehow content, it just meant
that most signs in Warsaw are written with a bilingual
bridge of Polish... and Ukranian Cyrillic...
plenty of Ukranian Mecca-bandits, for sure,
     but that's the end of the line with what
western Europe is doing to itself...
        every time i come back from Poland
i'm smeared with a rainbow of variety,
   it's either: i want to **** all these girlies
or i want to **** them... mostly the former,
  but you get the picture of experiencing the alternative
of the western experiment: since marxist economy
was "doomed" or simply expected to fail...
the economy finally seems reasonable with safety
for the old and the pension plans...
that marxist-culturalism had to emerge... if we are not
on the same dough plan of being content with a table and
a chair: might as well say we're all prone to don
a ******* afro.
                ***** are naturally curly, no?
going back "home" is always a weird experience, i tend
to read books there... like Kraszewski (who,
even the locals **** as being an unbearable bore
and joke that Joyce is easier read)... with his dei ire...
my grandfather just dropped it into my hands
as an experiment, thinking i wouldn't read it...
    well, in terms of translation Kraszewski is a myth-broker...
no one would read him,
  meaning: i'm kind of grateful that poles
seem to sorta: not exist, when it comes to citing examples
that include modernity and the history being
formed... i could sorta believe it if i were Estonian
or Lithuanian, or from Liechtenstein...
          but we're talking about a place with a large
enough population to be a major player in some
wordly conflict... Poland isn't that small...
    but yet it appears like it appeared from
the 18th century onwards... a state partitioned...
    and what i love about remaining tactifully bilingual?
i can talk about my native in a "colonial" tongue...
hence the " " definition: self-acquired...
             that's why i became spastic-fantastic reading
Kraszewski's rex piast - nothing came in,
i lost all trace of syllable construction, i read the books
so slowly i had one page done in about 10 minutes:
prolonging my musing of world powers, thrones
and crowns on a toilet...
        *******... another interlude.

can anyone see the, dodo project? i really just see a dodo project, yes: eine dodo projekt... i'm white, i'm male: can i be allowed to express these nouns in a pronoun, or am i schizophrenic prone? it seems i c
Jade Oct 2018
Ten
By my standards,
he is a ten.

I'm sure you're
laughing right now--
"ooohhhh, she think's
he's a TEN"--
but that's not
what I mean.

What I am trying to say is that,
on a scale from one to ten,
one being indicative of
experiencing little to no pain
and ten being indicative of
experiencing a pain whose presence
is capable of knocking the wind
straight out of me--
a pain that I do not
dare to fathom
for fear of prolonging it--
he was a hurricane.

My hurricane.

The eye of the storm,
his aloof ignorance
paralleled against the
violently cyclonic nature
of this heartache--
cacophonic in its impact
and blasphemous in
every context of the word
Love.

I don't think
getting caught in the rain
has ever hurt quite this much.

Yet,
I surrender to this hurt
the way the sea surrenders
to the Almighty Poseidon;
the way my feet surrender
to the rocks
tied round my ankles;
the way my soul surrenders
to its contusions
(so is a casualty
of a broken heart).

Still,
I imagine what it would be
like to kiss him
when I wake up in
the middle of the night,
lucid dreaming and
shivering against the bed sheets
(must be hypothermia,
I think;
the coldness of his
absence settling among the
loneliest parts of me).

I try to remind myself
that he was never
any happy ending of mine--
just an ending.
And something tells me
kissing him would feel
a little less
like thimbles
and a little more
like sewing needles.

After all,
he always did have
a way of silencing me,
my lips stitched together
into the most morbid
of embroideries.

Because god forbid
you dare question
a tempest--
even when he has
left you
to stew in your
own ruin--
for fear of provoking
his stormy wrath.

Part of me has
always been
afraid of him,
you know.  
Looking back now,
that should have been
my first indication
that I had been entertaining
an abusive relationship.

No,
he never laid a hand
on me.

But
I was terrified that
there would come a day
when he would eventually snap.

I can envision it--
ribs crack like lightning;
bruises congealing beneath
my eyes like grape jelly;
fingerprints seared
across my cheek;
my head held underwater
until I've stopped
breathing altogether.

Of course, there exists
more than one way
to destroy a person,
though he will claim
that he has done nothing
to wrong me.

Surely,
he would tell me that
I am just reading
too much into things.

S'pose it's your turn then,
darling.

Trace the brailed veins
of my shattered heart,
and feel all the ways
you have broken me so.

Let your eyes flit
across the expanse
of these water-logged stanzas--
and tell me,
does the poetry not speak
for itself?

Or does my drowning not suffice?
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer for an optimal experience)
Mystery Girl Aug 2016
It always starts with just a sip
Maybe a shot
Then the games begin
And I want it
The burning in my throat
The room keeps spinning
Round and round
I keep downing more and more
Prolonging the buzz
Until it's more than just a tingle
Elizabeth P Jun 2016
Flowing steadily, dancing on skin-
Losing control, darkness consuming-
It drips, drops, pooling on the floor-
Scent of sin stinking and bruising...

Hemorrhaging, scratching profusely-
Shades of beautiful crimson red-
Open scars from stitches undone-
Prolonging agony and pain...

Satisfying the blood lust within-
Stingy smell of primal needs of man-
Nothing beats the euphoria felt-
Flesh opens and gore gushes out...

Regret comes only after it's done-
Washing the red stains off shaking hands-
Is it regret? Satisfaction?
Either way the deed is long done...
*written in a rush after watching Maroon 5's Animals Music Video
WA West Aug 2018
Barely do my Wednesdays fill with longing,

Lost observers rendering August whims to the scrapheap of infinity,

Galvanized entities downing tools schematically,

A posse of awareness pronating towards incandescent light,

Mostly everything a prolonging of jest and belly laughs,

Dawn brings the sick belly of listlessness,

Hordes of happenchance and imaginers of silence dancing,

The chitter chatter cadence does dim for a minute stretching yonde
#listless #wednesday #shortpoem #silly
Creases cemented in skin of ages,
bending forward ratcheting wrinkles
piled like a car crash, systemically dried
routing for moisture moguls, malfunctioned,
marked measures of time spelt skin attack,
pillowed ruts run deep, prolonging
their birthmark, plumping....out on a date
with new age spaces yet to be filled

Sarcasm streets, filching frowned brows
suns' stolen chastity, lifting out brown
messages spotted at random
grey mandarins, juiceless, bribing
to be heard, a manifesto hidden,
shrivelled prunes wallowing in dried skins
reaching out for the bottomless custard jug
Lucy Sky Apr 2013
Despite all attempts
To thwart emotion
Like a boomerang, it'll return

Lurking in the shadows,
Upon the corridors
Waiting for opportunities
To creep back

Though this beast
Can lay dormant
One day it will awaken,
So be warned

Prolonging this natural yearning,
Can only sink you deeper
Into the forming pit

Now that you are aware
Have a nice day
Take care
R J Apr 2013
El testigo of the ego,

avowal amid amigos
Pero sentidos dormidos
Seran the death of me though.

Querido Mr. Reap Sow
do you hear yourself go?
Host the dog show of that 'lost hope'
An ego weaves abrigos
Con todo los gran peligros
Morose recallings of your parents belongings-

Still longing,
still longing

Prolonging
Belonging in algo
Un trago, dos tragos, tres please
“to ease the squeeze” of life, they mean
“Yeah, of course, duh, hello
They're guys with big dough
They can play strip shows of words,
Pay for pinchos de dolor, por favor!
Con calor y sin aguantar.”

Tus llantas de Esperanza,
Creciendo debajo tu alma,
estan puesto en exactitude?
Tu attitude;

does the longitude and the latitude always point to you?
timeless Mar 2016
The abysm of the unbodied Infinite;
A fathomless zero occupied the world.
A power of fallen boundless self awake
Between the first and the last Nothingness,
Recalling the tenebrous womb from which it came,
Turned from the insoluble mystery of birth
And the tardy process of mortality
And longed to reach its end in vacant Nought.
As in a dark beginning of all things,
A mute featureless semblance of the Unknown
Repeating for ever the unconscious act,
Prolonging for ever the unseeing will,
Cradled the cosmic drowse of ignorant Force
Whose moved creative slumber kindles the suns
And carries our lives in its somnambulist whirl.
                                         --By Sri Auro,Book I,Canto I
dawn
Erica Forever Mar 2014
My imagination places me on the precipice of a giant void, the wind against my back. I could just turn around..
But I know the truth. I'm already at bottom. I search for the slightest sign of a transient light.. anything that would give me a reason to move. Anything. To make a change. Please?
But there is nothing.
There's nothing left of me. I'm gone. Lost.
The steps I take are mechanical and dull. A last feeble attempt at prolonging the facade that I'm still here.
This is my fault.
To think I used to be so driven. So awake.
I don't sleep anymore.
As much as I want to blame you,
or the wine glasses my lips have such affinity for,
or your haunting indecision..
But what's the point anyway?
I curl up on my floor, a heap of mud.
An inaudible sigh escapes my lips. A catch in my breath.
My attempt to choose which flavor of Kraft would carry my body today has failed. I'm out of time.
I'm late.
I'm always late.
Maybe I won't even go.
I hate it anyway.
But I can't change it.
I am powerless.
I tilt my head towards the shelf. I can't lift it. I can't force myself to lift it.  
Hair falls over my face. Why am I so weak?
It's all my fault.  
Was I ever enough?
I can't even hate you in the ways I wish I could.
Even hatred would propel me to stand.
But it won't, and I won't.
It's too late.
I'm always late.
Maybe I won't even go.
Cunning Linguist Oct 2018
Your lips taste like regret,
& stale cigarettes
Nevertheless;
You make me fly through space
right up in
my rocketship

Its celestial,
so ponder this
Always stuck inside
your head and  *******br>While these memories,
they eat at me
four walls,
my only scenery

I drink just to not feel things
Or contemplate the dark and strange
Is this insanity?
Deranged, I'm glued to my seat
stuck on repeat
& lacking in mental clarity

Poor  D i c k  just lost his family;
Her heart, it hasn't skipped a beat
Its on her sleeve and honestly
I swear she'll be the death of me

I'll never show the pain that grows
but stow away these mental notes
til one day my mindscape's exposed,
& explodes
As my brains leak out my ears
most infinitely, no?

Yes I'm depresso I must confess oh
Double barrel shot in my espresso
Can't express though
I wear a mask so
You'll never know when I'm upset

Overlords, gimme simulation reset
Situations got me already
steady hot & heavy
Cos I be boiling in my skin

You see this boi is your kin
But a toy in the bin
For you to discard
When you find it most convenient

And I mean it;
Please disregard the "bars" I spit
I still think your aesthetic's lit
A succubus with fetishes
Of draining me, til nothings left

And after all the time I spent
Prolonging an inevitable end
I'll say the means were justified,
Even if it was really just pretend

I only hope its unreal
A living nightmare, u feel
Every waking moment, lonely
And you can't sleep at night
without choking

So button it
Just shut it  b i t c h
I care not for the words unsaid
in a casket's where I made my bed
One foot in the grave
and I'm better off dead
Kirsten Lovely May 2013
I lay here now with tear streaked eyes
And with tear streaked eyes did realize
The words I speak are in my head
I'm going to die here in this bed.
He sits and waits, sits and watches
And on the glass his nails make notches
They pass the time and wait till it's right
He's going to **** me on this night.
He speaks no words and his mind is a blur
I know he moves but I've not seen him stir
Right now he's sitting outside my room
Waiting to bring me face-to-face with Doom.
His nails are long enough to cut me from there
Long enough to force me into a silent prayer
His skin is sickly gray and comes out in patches
And from his ****** scalp his hair detaches.
His body is long and very strung out
His frame is bruised and beat about
His eye sockets are a 'beautiful' scarlet
Beautiful if they weren't making me a target.
What made him stick to me is still a question
I've never even shown him any aggression
I've let him stay there and watch me sleep
But now he sits here and watches me weep.
He's my secret admirer, but no secret anymore
I thought his spirit was just folklore
Did my faith in his nonexistence make him stay?
Can my faith when he's here make him go away?
Apparently not, for now he's coming in
I lay here still with the moon showing his grin
He sits in the corner, watching me still,
I see now his teeth sharpened with a drill.
He's teasing me now, and I know this is not fair
I've got to keep quiet, I'm not consciously there
Maybe if I'm 'sleeping' he'll leave me alone
But I'm prolonging the inevitable, his eyes are locked to stone.
I'm not getting out- I've accepted this now,
But his pride in winning is not something I'll allow
You see, losing is not something I take lightly
And dying with him I will not do politely.
Now that I've seen this coming for a while
I've kept my escape hidden in a small little pile
I'm not getting out of here, and he can watch me as I die
I'd rather off myself than let him win, I won't lie.
I swallow the pills and he creeps towards the bed
He tilts up my chin and gets a good look at my head
I watch as his smile turns angry and frustrated
Because for all this time he's just sat and waited.
I've foiled his plan and I knew all along
Now I know he'll never be strong
Those shiny red eyes are the last thing I see
I've won, he's not gotten the best of me.
Reece Jan 2014
She sat and watched the translucent orange leaf fall
and with it every aspiration of her ego
She noted the way the dull morning sun shone through it
  
Ego and leaf alike

Her house is a happy one
Sisters smile
baking cakes when autumn appears
Brothers smile
when furtive grass rises in the spring
Her life is a happy one

She sat and watched the fire burn
cutting her own hair
and whistling

Her song was happy too, as the dwindling dream faded and the afternoon moon shied away
fears once ever present now vapour on crisp dewy winter evening breezes


He sat and watched her trace faces in the air
with a delicate finger
And he drew her face in his mind with ease

His self collapsing

His house is a happy one
Father smile
playing raucous games in the summer epoch
Mother smile
huddled with baby on winter snapshot days
His life is a happy one

His words were happy too, as he scribbled on ragged notepads whilst the wind blew
and so many newspapers broke free from the vendor by the statue


(Though they can't shake that one impression
of the world dematerialising before them
and the prolonging of time
in the interim ghost world
of lost memories
and sadness
on DMT)


I saw them rise on a January morning, lights cascading over treetops
Flittering life and love combined in sun-drenched washed out skies
watching them floating so high
and their smiles were new stars
a transcendent tenderness
that I was in awe of
and still am

Repressed sadness manipulated into shapes
when they made love in the sky
Every bleak memory of their time dissipated
and the cityscape below began to bloom
All industry halted, a million stood and watched
as new life radiated around them

Convoluted linear time was now disrupted
All events in history, happened simultaneously
The birth and death of a cosmos
Captured in a kiss
Jaanam Jaswani Sep 2014
i could spend my life in utter awkwardness
watching my brothers smoke and my sisters cry
aunties smiling and prolonging straightforwardness
my ***** cousins won’t ever say hi

i could spend my life sitting at the corner writing poems
about these drap people who refuse to stay in their homes
the kids would play hide and seek
the mannequins with heads up until it’s too awkward to not speak

skinny waists, blackened eyes, and porcelain faces
daru desi banging loud; turning us deaf
high heels; no flats no laces
horrible is the food beautifully prepared by the chef
(who, by the way, thinks we're unbelievably uncivilised)

i see them drenched in forgettum juice
they’re deep in drunken oblivion, you see
it’s incredible - when they say ‘let loose’
’cause their eyes pry when you let yourself free

the ladies enjoy their liberation;
those poor oppressed dearies
no more doting on their husbands in juxtaposed veneration
they give a grave attempt to personify their reveries

the men enjoy pelvic thrusting
they’re sly crooks who love lusting

i guess i’ll be alright;
for a mere few minutes, if i’m out of sight
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
variation in what's dyslexic in English:          roy-     (+)     -al - like Al Pacino - or? roy-       (+)        -all - a different slug for a tongue caged behind the 32; alternatively say: casino royal - two pronunciations of the same word, and no distinctive two-lane stresses added to say them intentionally with variance - basically one variation is missing an acute a (á) - alter to acute: dentistry's alphabet - say A - you end up adding an invisible hark of prolonging a sound from ~aye into ahhhh; the tetragrammaton is more than a noun, the Hebrews didn't see it coming, the two H variations are involved in how diacritical marks are asserted and used - i too thought it was something to do with déjà vu  - but it turns out it isn't that simple - how diacritical marks are asserted and used, or upon second suggestion: how they're not used, and what complications arise from omitting them.

for someone as concerned with people's ****** lives
as *richard von krafft-ebing
was,
with his mangum opous: psychopatia sexualis -
i'm surprised he didn't throw a *** party -
stage an **** - richard brautigan apparently read
this Victorian - may i say trash? -  compendium
and giggles with friends; modernity has no stamina
for the seemingly idyllic *** lives of bowler hat
gentlemen - a sample from psychopatia sexualis:
homosexual feeling as an acquired manifestation
of box sexes (the androgynous stipend to exercise
all mouth **** and ****) - however you like it,
quote: almost every self-****** individual (originally
masturbator) at last reaches a point where, frightened
on learning the the results of the vice, or on
experiencing them (νευρασθενια), or leg by example
or seduction to the opposite ***, he wishes to free himself
of the vice and re-instate his ****** life.
you could say that, unless of course you're put off
when a girl reads you a questionnaire from the cosmopolitan
magazine, and you've seen too many Jame Bond movies,
or heard stories - or how you figured: well,
totalitarian governments aided heterosexual marriages,
championed them with the standard myths,
democracy doesn't really do that... democracy likes
the odd fetish... hence with the aid of science the fetish
marriages - surrogate prostitutes aplenty -
that's not ONE HOUR AT £120 A POP... THIS IS NINE MONTHS!
someone once lived and said: Jews and homosexuals run
the show - i think it might have been a Bukowski citation -
yeah, but who's the audience and not the puppets?
the politically, what's the word? ah, uncomfortable -
there's a strategic unit in medicine that's not the MI5
or the MI6 that deals with them under the alias P.S. -
not post-scriptum, but paranoid schizophrenic -
formerly known as premature dementia -
to me creative, to others worth sedating - meaning:
why would i write about western society in defence or
in apologetic language like C. S. Lewis and his love
affair with Christianity when i'm pretty sure i'm not
writing about utopia? why? oddly enough niece is also
said likewise for Nice - or 'aw, how nice.'
staged on the promenade des anglais - is this a clue?
anyone in touch with the security forces?
could be a pattern clue - now there are two fronts to be
worried about, the achoo right - boy, what a sneeze,
and the already involved actors -
mind boggling, how, ever, could, it, have, happened?
and i swear language was intended to be flexible,
like a gymnast - flex flex flex - which is strange that
the unimaginative always attack from their rat cages
bewildered at seeing a way out of a maze and then blocking
it (e.g. Ezra Pound, mm, the prime fascist of them all) -
it's called censorship, but in the west it's hardly a Stalinist
plot (believe, it's not utopia, i don't understand this
collective delusion that it is - somehow - and indeed,
somehow it isn't - it's called a superiority complex -
the same happened in Iraq - coverage almost zero -
subterfuge requests all over the media - now i have to live
as ethnically placed in close alignment with the people
that regurgitate all this hype - i have absolutely no reason
not to fake a clownish tear and whatnot -
it just is. so yeah, why didn't rich von krafft-ebing throw
an ****? a swingers' ball to cure all the pathology noted?
even now, or *** lives are hardly concerning -
why poets **** over the book of genesis
and leave the other books to themselves - reducing
the book of exodus into only one pair leaving -
it becomes harder and harder to relate to these books
and the people that venerate them after reading Don Quixote -
it really does - it's almost like talking to an illiterate literate
person - as agonising as it is to say it, it's exactly that.
i wonder if anyone bothered including the prefix in-
to all the scientific words in the dictionary - denoted:
in-pathology, in-sanity etc. - i.e. the first person accounts -
i do it because i would hate to go back to the gym
and complications of talking over a sunday roast -
my life in a nutshell? my laptop was so ***** that i decided to
clean it today - anti-bacterial wipes and dried with kitchen towels -
i thought the mouse of the laptop was broken,
ages ago i bought a mini-mouse with a USB port -
after cleaning the laptop, to my disbelief, the laptop mouse
started working (you know, that little touch-patch of plastic
towing two clicks) - that's life, uncomplicated -
a marvel to behold such daily problems - bound by choice
we choose what is to worry us - the next
chapter in my adventure with Kant?
the critique of all theology pouring out from the
speculative principles of the mind -
so for i've passed the ontological, the cosmological
and the theologically-physical impossibilities for the
existence of an absolutely necessary being - even if atheists,
we're all chipping in - basis? presupposition of such
a being and argued counter (cf. Satanic rebellion) -
not the agnostic quasi-supposition (basically speculative
tact) - at 274 (page no.) ending at 442 (page no.) -
oh i'll finish it - transcendental methodology should
be interesting - it's just a question of how much distraction
becomes fused with blank pixel pages and my irritability
as to how or why poetry ought to be stripped from
banal / predictable technique - rhyme is definitely go,
listen to BBC Radio 1 at any time and you can just hear
rhyme ****** - well, if painting could be stripped down
further than cubism - i don't see why poetry
can't have conversational overtones to it, one of the few
unearthed secrets of modern intimacy, just sitting there,
like ducks.

— The End —