"proofing" poems
.
;
when,
all fine people come around you,
its proofing,
that you are the fine one.
when,
all good people stay behind you,
its proofing,
that you are the best one.
-
Marisa Habibie
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 2:08 AM UTC
It began in silence,
The kind that bruises,
The kind that teaches you
How pain can wear a smile.
It wasn't pretty like the movies
It was ugly
Like what they did to me
A cruelty
I would never place
On anyone's skin.
Bt even broken
I gather myself
Rising from what tried to end me
Proofing that pain
Cannot silence light
Still burning in me.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 1:45 PM UTC
Sparse grass adorns the hillside
Thinly green against the grey,
Where lurking bull ant wolf packs
Hunt where chirping crickets play.
Way too thin to waft in breezes
Way too thin to really count
Like bad dealerships in Chevrolet
Mostly struggle to surmount.
Like thin pacifists in fist fights
Race, back peddaling for the door,
When, in fact, the convenience
Is a bullet through the floor.
And hot starlets jiggle **** jobs
Strutting carpet, red as rose,
Imitating, superficially here,
Whoredom wishing to impose.
Those roaring Russians, in denial
As their cheating athlete’s pale,
All denied their right of entry
To Olympia’s Holy Grail.
And insipidly they all collapse
In fracking’s blatant wake,
Leaving gloating, fat Americans
Gorging merrily on steak.
Whilst the oceans are advancing
As the ice floes dissipate,
And the clamour is ignored
Though Island nations inundate.
Fractious currencies do vacillate
In global bouts of greed,
Where the rich are fatly richer
And the rest in desperate need.
Where all truth is but a fantasy
Which everyone ignores,
Where expediency is the answer
And future proofing snores.
Black distrusts the whiteness
Islam hates the Jew,
East and West at loggerheads
What hope now…. for you?
Oh sparse grass adorns the hillside
Thin green against the grey,
Where the morrow is a vaugary
And worrisome it’s way.
M.
Friday 13th November 2015
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
Life needs a fire of happiness inside me.
The one inside me died when people refused to even have a look at my independently published novels.
I tried to write books inspired metaphorically by my own life-threatening coma-inducing high-speed bike accident. When the Indian publishers rejected my manuscript, terming it as poorly written or full of proofing errors, I self-published my novels on the Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing Program.
So far, I have successfully achieved twice as much success than what I envisioned in my first novel. I completed my graduation despite that accident, just like Akshant did so in the novel. Then I even got the M.Tech on institutional scholarship. Afterwards, I even started a PhD course in Animal Biotechnology from the same ICAR-National Dairy Research Institute as my M.Tech on institutional scholarship, but had to quit it when COVID19 struck. I started preparing for various competitive recruitment exams.
I qualified as a Probationary Officer with the Bank of India through the IBPS PO/MT CRP-XII, but joined the State Bank of India as a Probationary Officer because that was a better option.
As I had cleared even SSC-CGLE AAuO exam, I later quit the SBI PO job when I received the call letter from my present job.
Some people have even dared to defame my novels by rating them badly on Amazon.
Now I have to accept that I can't ever expect my friends, relatives, or colleagues to read my novels. I'll just focus on my job and forget that I wasted 14 years in writing and self-publishing the 9 titles on Amazon as Kindle eBooks and hardcopies. Maybe my depression will help me passively **** myself one day.
My blood pressure is already much lower than normal. Vitamin supplements help, but temporarily.
So many artists have died due to depression. I shall not be the first one. People can go berate my novels on Amazon. My parents tell me that since I have a job now, I shouldn't focus on my creative expression.
Aug 19, 2024
Aug 19, 2024 at 9:03 PM UTC
Is
Is not
these two
no more
Actual
Fact is
There are only
two types if people
those who believe
and the zeroes
ity
On
Off
True True
It's skewed really
False False
By its own nature
Exhibit A
was it G?
everything exists
evident in hard lines
proof
Even backholes
What if
proofing
God
equates
proving
Art
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Flashing lights....
Invade my sights
when my thoughts
are like...
Divorced thighs..
lips Swelled prepped
to resist my
goodbye...
Constricted hello's
while I play peek aboo
with her insides... her
breast dance to the melody's
played when satisfaction stops
to say hi...
I love her music, encouragement
for our momentary desires to
continue fusing..... Her ******
brewing, intimate temperatures
beg sensation to convert into
fluid, her appreciation
oozing...
waste that demands
a volume increase
in her music while
her legs mimic the
speech of someone
in need of a pronunciation
improvement... Her stomach
too friended that stuttering
movement.... Excitement's
introduction to the lungs
is a bit confusing altering
the amount of air needed
and what the body loses
I love her music...
Soundtracks of lust
play from our bodies
as we continue this
bonded movement...
her tones, multi pitched
moans mixed with the
bathing sound of her ocean
cruising... our boats collide
lending us such blissful
bruisings,
smooth sailing.....
her unlimited supply
of friction proofing
I love her music
Day dreaming
© 2014 viewtifulink
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
~~~
as we lay beside each other,
about twelve long inches apart,
both tablet-engrossed,
human flesh coffee cup holders,
I proffered this rejoinder/rejoin her:
*"if you were closer,
I'd kiss you hard,"
but for now,*
be satisfied with this my darling:
distance makes the heart grow fonder"
then she looked up, up, up,
removed her sound proofing earbuds,
asking the ceiling,
"what's that you said?"
~~~
as we lay beside each other,
the symphonic orchestra struck up
"The Human Cantata"
the sounds we frailties issue,
when thoughts course
throughout our bodies and minds,
sounds of melodic purring,
foot stomping, jumping for joy
drums and timpani,
violins cry soaring and moaning
and this particular vignette
of music never-ending
has never been recorded
till now
~~~
as we lay beside each other,
we lay inside each other,
the vines of new stories shoot
every which way,
and you contemplate
a poem title emendation,
why a mere three,
perhaps,
endless vignettes?
~~~
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
It's hard dealing with not being accepted
But it's worse when your thoughts are always intercepted
By a screen, by a door, sound-proofing your brain
By that "censorship" **** that drives you insane
And it's hard, concealing all those stray thoughts
Being force to think something you do not
It's worse being locked in a cage
That immediately closes when you have something to say
Something to say that is said to be wrong
So you suppress that **** thought until it seems fully gone
It's hard when it comes back, it's hard when it returns
When you're raising your hand but it's never your turn
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
Behind the smoke and mirrors
Are discarded dreams and futures
Next to the buckets of collected tears
And sound proofing so no one hears
The pain and agony
The curses and profanity
As I try to beat the life out of me
Feeling my will fade gradually
Laughing like it's funny
And should the curtain fall
Exposing the brawl
Shining light on it all
Then I'll
Be forced to make the call
To build a wall
Four times as thick and twice as tall
To keep out all a y'all
©2024
Nov 10, 2024
Nov 10, 2024 at 2:52 PM UTC
Let me love you
He said
Directly looking at me
⏳⌛
He wanted to play
Like with any other girl
⏳⌛
He wanted a game
That's what I gave him
⏳⌛
I looked him in the eyes
And saw the hint
He was nothing but a liar
⏳⌛
No-one likes a girl
Like me
My heart as cold as stone
Something he could not see
⏳⌛
In the name of the ones who suffered
I will make his life miserable
⏳⌛
From me
He had gotten time
For proofing himself
⏳⌛
But
Before walking away
I told him to
Let the game begin
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 2:51 PM UTC
Our caps flew like confetti.
Thank god I customized mine.
I'll keep it as a memento of all-nighters,
friendships formed in the academic trenches,
dismissive professors and group-project-tortures.
This isn’t another ‘drunk girl’ holiday, despite obvious similarities.
Our parents, sisters, brothers, and grandmothers are here.
We came in doe-eyed, holding overpriced planners,
and enough provisions for two year Mars missions.
We hoped to discover friends, decent Wi-Fi signals
and perhaps our adult selves.
Now we're holding diplomas, those future-proofing talismans.
Mine’s in molecular biophysics and biochemistry.
Which is wry, because when I was in high school,
my sister accused me of not knowing how to boil water.
I've been asked "What’s next?" a thousand times in the last month.
I have plans—but I was dying to shrug and say, “that’s tomorrow’s problem,” like I’ve spent major duckets, degree wise, but remain the ditzy blonde.
The standard graduate answer, I’ve heard, is "I dunno."
(though honestly, it’s a great answer).
Congratulations, all of you graduating overachievers out there—everywhere.
Go forth, be fabulous and find that next big dream.
Can you believe we actually did this?
Argh! I gotta go, someone wants another picture.
.
.
Songs for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Summer Wind by Robert Mosci
Tomorrow by Wings
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 11:57 AM UTC
The Hallowe’en decor
has been put away for another year.
Christmas lights line each house and door,
illuminating every single tear.
The day of the dead has passed
but next holiday is one more for me,
since I’ve got the ghost of Christmas last
following me eternally.
Because you can’t weather proof against memories,
and you can’t keep grief from seeping through the windows.
The cold is the coldest of enemies
and it freezes you each time the wind blows.
The wind’s slapping at my face
and there’s a chill biting at my bones,
and in every snowflake; a feeling laced
“in our own arms we die”; all alone.
My mother was the spring,
just like it; she couldn’t stay very long.
The breath of fresh air she would bring
until her own breath wasn’t very strong.
Because you can’t weather proof against memories,
and you can’t keep grief from seeping through the windows.
The cold is the coldest of enemies
and it freezes you each time the wind blows.
No you can’t weather proof against memories,
and you can’t keep regret out of a locked door.
It has been that way for centuries
and it’ll be that way for centuries more.
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 8:16 PM UTC
it comes up in conversation how his dogs, ******* and ****** were killed during a bout of baby-proofing. biters both; like mirror their mother. she is only god in that we sent her a son. he says this, and also this: the act of swimming is a creature that comes to my knees. we bring him the raccoon. no raccoon, no moon.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:35 PM UTC
Nonsense hiding in an autobiography,
Starting down dusty roads,
Where you truly found yourself,
Daring the mountains and questioning the cold,
To high rises with coke that guy you didn’t know too well brought,
She was there naked and gleaming,
Maybe she had od’d but ****
She’s great at acting,
Just ask her mom,
You saw her face before,
In flashes of hot breath playing against,
Folk songs and guitars in a punk bathroom,
You didn’t know the faces then,
But you will,
Trust me,
You will,
Weren’t you there at the great protests,
Arm bands and water riots?
You saw what they saw,
But really,
“it’s poetry, not an autobiography”
Spelling errors speak to those who are deaf,
And you say it like it’s fact,
What else do you got?
You remember staring down a gun,
That didn’t belong to you,
In fact it wasn’t aimed at you,
It was aimed at them and all you could do was shake,
But the shakes don’t change when you,
Wake up the same,
You cant shake you,
You told me that while we layed in the sun,
Pointing out constellations,
I said,
It’s morning,
Why talk?
All I heard was a sigh,
But through the onomatopoeias,
I heard things like,
You cant see the stars but the sun still shines,
Whatever that means,
the rest of the day didn’t matter,
and you traveled again,
where’d you go now?
Maybe your letter will help,
Or maybe the call you sent is the way you,
Tried to send a pick-me-up,
Or maybe it’s just ********
Either way,
Yea,
Either way,
We’ll answer.
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 10:27 PM UTC
And when the end of days arrives
And we are queued and cattling
Oh we can praise the Lord for death
For then ends all the prattling
The soreness stiffly settles in
So sit and stew and ponder thus
If there were anything to sin
Why would we wait here for this bus?
The scale is so at odds with us
Morphing, shrinking, chasm-crack,
The only way is on the bus
The driver, bless him, takes us back
My thesis is almost complete
I stayed up late to edit it
So would you read it in your seat?
It may be crap but could it fit?
Within the mediocrity
The realm in which we write
So early in the hour of tea
Or later in the nerves of night?
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
Have you ever lived in a tall building? Dawn strikes suddenly and irradiates these glass-walled, high-rise rooms. Lisa showed me how quickly the thick windows - if you press your face against them - go from cold to warm in the morning's stark glare.
On the streets below, beneath the horizon, darkness remains
as if there were, briefly, two worlds separate but side by side -
one, a night place and the other bleached in fierce sunbeams.
The rooms have no curtains, just motorized shades that go up and down as needed - but in reality, they’re always up. Central Park is the only thing across the street and we’re so high up (50th floor) no one can see in. It’s odd, dressing in uncurtained, glass lined rooms or bathing in curtain-less bathrooms - there’s a titillating freedom to it.
I find myself imagining that we’re angels floating in the clouds,
looking down upon man and his creations - but then I’m reminded,
by vertigo or by digging a charger out of my luggage, that I’m just
a mortal, sporting a temporary visa to this high-rise heaven.
.
.
*ps
In proofing this before posting it, I had to smirk at how,
of all the qualities of high-rise life, I wrote about the
curtain-less feature and I wonder if that paints me either
a perv or a ***** I even debated deleting it, but shrug*
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 6:30 AM UTC
Man, placed in a box of rules.
Tolerated as long as he behaves
and doesn't wander outside.
His growth limited by its walls
with no room to add anything that might be new.
Is the world afraid
to have a new dessert,
one that may tickle the tastes
of those who see themselves as inmates?
Bound within this box,
their faith and beliefs are squashed.
The box dwellers are deprived
of their choice and preference of their own
likes, dislikes and that which makes them who they are.
Their individualism stolen.
Their personal freedom denied.
Their voices silenced by a sound proofing
created by the approval or disapproval of the elder.
There is no freedom within the box
when forced to live by another mans creed.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 7:51 AM UTC
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Hangouts
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IRRESPECTIVE OF ECHO
SAMUEL DAVID <[email protected]>
Tue, Oct 20, 2020, 2:47 AM
to drmikemurdock
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Al;tering in the sonship to eternity column…’
Triumphing in the echo of surmantable.
Your conquering absurd,
Samuel Churchill Omale
Wrist Of Eternity Rejoining
www.hellopoetry.com/SPEAR_LEGACY
+2348131914240
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 5:43 AM UTC
Dark times
Coming around again.
Wet face
The only way to sleep again.
My heart has traveled in
Dark waters
Coming up for air,
Nothing but rain again.
Afraid of the silence
Lonliness back again.
This never ending road.
Aching soles again
Taking shots
Shooting pains through me
Bullet proofing
Vest wearing days again
On my knees ,
calling out
Time to repent again
Throwing rocks and
Ruptured housing
Glass in pieces again
Soaked up the gin
Im so so lost again
Trying to get out of it
Too late
Sinning again.
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 1:11 AM UTC
we knew capitalism had turned ugly
after the first lemonade stand drive by
children denounced their parents
when their eyes were opened
to supply side economics
and demand side criminal enterprise
plunging on in a premeditated stupor
they floated between the tables
a jackpot here a jackhammer there
a cartesian Bingo bonanza elsewhere
going on but the scantiest of gossip
it's a fill in the blank world
where a suitcase full of dead mockingbirds
found on the late bus idling at the terminal
against the smell of ***** nightmares
constituted a reunion of the ever faithful
filling the night with interrogation
we had some exceptional men in our unit
dropped into trouble spots too hot to touch
setting up sensors and detectors and bait
scholars statesmen jurists bishops
and a bent maggoty reeking poet
a sleight of hand magnum opus abuser
surrounded by the burning bodies
of everyone he ever knew
yet all is not a ham bone up the ***
I had just cleaned up my syntax and grammar
with maple syrup and golden dairy butter
so I'll put off proofing this mess for another day
too old to dig up reliable proof anyhow
my brain's already in a specimen jar
it lived a mythical fairy tale life
worth a transfer to the end of the line
to the ancient carnival of phantoms
so I sent in my manicurist security guard
from the tropical hammock islands
their scissors going snip snip snip
rattling the bones of the dead
if this is just a make believe universe
I'd hate to see the real one
but I'm pretty sure space is continuous
and spewing rhyme out of the hearts of stars
but what the hell do I know
it all sounds so fresh and dewy
assuring me that people of greater densities
the beautific the anointed the the sanctified
**** up real stupid just like we do
forgive me but my thoughts have all been stolen
the end point is eluding me as a point
as an area we'll eventually get there
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Jul 14, 2023
Jul 14, 2023 at 6:01 PM UTC
Rental down payments-
Moving van-
Rental debt:
N-
L-
Debt to parents: 25,000
Mac-external hardrive
iPad -accessory
iphone-
Oloclip-Lense
Selfie light -phone case
Selfie stick
Heavy duty case
Mattress/ Boxspring/ Frame
Cat stuff
Dresser
Lights (Plants/ Photography)
Sound proofing
Microphones
Headset-beats
Garageband
Mic ****
Photography camera
Lenses
Vlog camera
Sewing machine
Patterns
Cactus
Backdrops/green screen
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:44 AM UTC
How great, how great is my God
How great is the wonder and beauty
The awesome glory that my God
Is power to shine in glorious majesty
Reigning purity, justified through mercy
My God, My God greater than any power
Showing the way we should follow and live
Resplended in the way that God reigns
Proofing that He is the only God for me
How great, how great is my God to me
By: Leona Chaput
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 1:44 AM UTC