"proportion" poems
Summer heat summer sweet
With a wealthy nature, rich pheromones erupt
Birds n tha bees escape the trees
Please don't plant your seeds
But throw the leaves
Up n up
To get down and drop
Where the dirt pops
Ken keseys ashes
Edible umbrellas turn rainy days on their head spinning pupils wide void of discontentment
Fairies fly off clouds and stars fall at day
Impossible, feelings are blown in and out of proportion to fit a screen thats too small
Tough love
Tough life
Slick surface don't let me fall off the boat as it rocks
Swisher wraps over the curves
Got me feelin lucky like a charm
Cheef all day got me smellin dank as a Rastafarian Only stoppin to sip my Captain Morgans moonshine
Till we hit the caribbean
Then Jack's got me headin for tides end
Early
Flush the bile outta your system
And spiral out of controls iron hand
**** responsibility, Apathy rules all.
Paper crane ******* get all superficial but yellow bones make my brain go fuzzy in smokey ***
In n out, fast n slow
Nicotine dominates
My senses are lost at Molly
That ***** finger ****** my life
Made me *** every time
This unhealthy relation in action doesn't phase me yet, I'm too young to think that far
I mean
What do you expect?
A Teens crowded perceptions can be judged like a bums intentions.
Peace my brotha
Dandy danny says theres a way out
-side with the rap culture
Shots of rebellion pour through the cracks we each fill
The glass
Is too cracked to be see-through
West coast vibes kick back lax attitude I carry on my shoulders
Forever green is my state
Wash that **** off your lawn crack *** haters I'll spray paint your ***
Equality's the goal
**** race
**** sexuality
I see soul
Open up
Show me your beat
I'll count bars as we spit elicited slurs drizzled to drops leaving the cops to stop us
Quit
Obeyin the brand
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
i had a thought.
i ran out of my room,
down the hallway,
and into the bathroom.
i wriggled out of my worn down, tie dye shirt.
hopping up and down as i pull off my
high-waisted jeans, pulling my pant leg with my foot as i
trample the dark denim to the ground.
i stand there naked, in front of the
harsh, full length mirror.
combing my fingers through my natural, wavy hair.
i contort my face in disgust, cocking
my head slightly to the side.
i close my eyes, and take one deep breath in.
when i open my eyes,
the reflection staring back at me is a thin, natural
beauty.
Her smooth ivory skin glows in the
silvery reflective glass.
Her stomach is flat and toned.
Her ******* lay on Her chest in perfect
proportion to the rest of her petite frame.
i run my fingers down the sides of my body.
my palms trailing along, dipping and
rising with the mounds beneath my skin.
i close my eyes and open them again,
this time taking my reflection for
what it really is.
i am fat.
my skin is pink and spotted with freckles the
colour of blood.
my stomach hangs low, covering the part
a man should see when i'm naked.
my ******* are big.
but not in the way you'd like them to be.
they lay there, sort of lop-sided.
hanging just above my ribs. Another place for
fat to take over.
the cuts on my thighs are hardly noticable
next to
all
that
fat
i can see tears in the eyes of the reflection staring back at me,
but i am numb.
i thought correctly. i am
fat. i am ugly.
Nobody in their right mind would want to
love me.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC
Every atom is lenient towards the human being
streaming up from the deep root they spur
laying down the perfect descending of the stars.
They can take on the stellar in their deep club
that shows up opening the windows up in the sky
and down on to the earth cast their eyes!
The slim fit sharp atom knows all the shortcuts
constantly vibrating not a single star can catch nor will it ever
thin out – it has the extraordinary stroke of luck.
But the eyes are on the humans not over the amber.
Dreaming to be physically absorbed within the human being
to be in the human’s divine proportion ever transcendental
a far cry from the sun and the moon but with it both gel together!
Once they came so close almost touched the dream
they rose to the occasion, squaring the circle,
laser scanning through, as above so below, so humble.
Submitted them without waxing lyrical took the brush off
the colour bowl of the day then blindfolding the moon
in the night reached out to the paragon of the phi mania,
flawlessly made to measure, numerically perfect Fathima!
Presented themselves before her as pure blank
whereon she can jot like her chalkboard
or do as she please like she could show up
taking it as her shadow in silhouette, she exactly did that.
Touched down on the earth, in the veil
and revealed her as above so below.
The ocean moved stirred the water but none saw the sunshine
behind the full moon in bloom that steals the starry night.
Day in day out Fathima did all in a veil she lived and gone.
Keeping the atom on its toe ever honing tracing the footprint
in its own shadow as once a human being without a mark
crept in it lived in pi magic and leaped out!
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 10:53 PM UTC
Having observed others and containing the self consciousness of a noticer (do other people look at me the way I look at them?) she would dress in old borrowed clothing that smelled like other peoples’ laundry and leather because secretly she wanted to wear the other people try them on and she had this wrinkle between each brow that made her look just sort of worried no matter how she tried to press and smooth that wrinkle down with her thumb and in very private moments she’d stare at her features in the mirror with a sort of curiosity because she’d been told by leering men that she was beautiful but sometimes she saw only features: Nose eyes mouth all in pretty good proportion sure but she supposed the thing that held her curiosity was not her face itself but rather the disconnect between the face and the universe of thought behind it and all this she’d marveled at a very young age as ma would see her staring at herself in front of the bathroom mirror or in store windows and tell her not to be so vain kid to hurry along
And so she feared writing about her own vulnerable beauty for fear that she might be both of those things—vulnerable and beautiful. Instead she would take an hour long train ride, fake-dozing so as not to be ticketed, walk anonymous between busy persons until she reached a place that satisfied her Washington Square park, perhaps, or some small playground on the lower east side, or down by water or the hip corner shops in Brooklyn. And there, in strangers, she would find her vulnerable beauty, and there with the aid of a pen they became her and she became them.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:11 PM UTC
sometimes i feel too much
sometimes i feel too little
i wish i could stay in that happy place
that lies right in the middle
when i feel too much
it's a torrent of emotion
a downpour of epic proportion
and i pray for it to end
yet when it does i don't feel enough
i'm numb, frozen, depressed.
I then pray for this to end
and i'd do anything to feel again
so i'm stuck in this happy limbo
never feeling quite right
like goldilocks in the three bear's house
i can't sleep at night
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
It will be different with different people and it will be different at different times. If love really grows, this is the way: first you fall in love with the woman because her body is beautiful. That is the first available beauty - her face, her eyes, her proportion, her elegance, her dancing, pulsating energy. Her body is beautiful. That is the first approach. You fall in love.
Then after a few days you start going deeper into the woman. You start loving her heart. Now a far more beautiful revelation is coming to you. The body becomes secondary; the heart becomes primary. A new vision has arisen, a new peak. If you go on loving the woman, sooner or later you will find there are peaks beyond peaks, depths beyond depths. Then you start loving the soul of the woman. Then it is not only her heart - now that has become secondary. Now it is the very person, the very presence, the very radiance, the aliveness, that unknown phenomenon of her being - that she is. The body is very far away, the heart has also gone away - now the being is.
And then one day this particular woman's being becomes far away. Now you start loving womanhood in her, the femininity, the feminineness, that receptivity. Now she is not a particular woman at all, she simply reflects womanhood, a particular form of womanhood. Now it is no longer individual, it is becoming more and more universal. And one day that womanhood has also disappeared - you love the humanity in her. Now she is not just a representative of woman, she is also a representative of man as much. The sky is becoming bigger and bigger. Then one day it is not humanity, but existence. That she exists, that's all that you want - that she exists. You are coming very close to God.
Then the last point comes - all formulations and all forms disappear and there is God. You have found God through your woman, through your man. Each love is an echo of God's love.
Osho
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
Breathe in and blow everything out of proportion
A manic artist versus the abstract composition
In my head this all looked as perfect as imagination
The challenge was blending the line between fantasy and reality
To get the inner critic to agree
Worlds colliding this one into the next
Dreams manifested to the forefront
of a visionary gone inside himself
Throwing myself against the walls of my mind
In an attempt to think outside the box.
Even in our own heads they've got us on lockdown
With the chemical constraints constricting creativity
These straightjackets of sorts
Straightening out the free-thinkers
A fourth wall broken
Pretentions are high
On the artist's plane
Subjectively selling ourselves out to a shallow medium
The mainstream
The water we should be walking on
We're drown out in.
Drawn into the background of the bigger picture.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
Dear, let me startle you by slinking my hand into
your smart, ethical decisions while I touch
quite gently
ripping to shreds
your photon ends.
Dear, let me caress your supple virtues and vows
until they blow out of proportion
merging your interests with mine
like the longing of eyes
uncanny in its distortion.
Dear, let me rip off your clothes as I grip your tight notions
ideas slipping carefully into place
like a sterile, unflinching blank slate
inching towards computed devotion.
Dear, let me carry out some foreplay
as long as you bend, not break,
delightfully stroking the edge of your plate.
Dear, let me come so close to your face
so close that it becomes blurry.
Where are my glasses in all this flurry?
Of feelings resembling photo reels on fire
shooting flames out the window
beyond everything you’ve ever known;
beyond anything you desire.
Dear, let me kiss you to submission,
your brain waves in motion
as I twist and slip into them
hormones ablaze
lighting up for days
your synapses recapturing
in a binocular haze.
Dear, let me flop on top of you
like a floppy disk, uploading your lips
into my hardrive.
Do I make you hard as fire?
Slowing burning
my hot fingers curling
up your robust spine
cracking it into
chiropractor sublime.
Massaging your tired broad shoulders
like large sofa ends.
Is this keyboard only
made for pretend?
Dear, let me mind **** you
take you and light you
brighten your screen
uphold and unseen
neurons fighting as I whisper ***** words
directly into the folds of your tulip ears
too large to hear, and
Dear, let me engage my rage
into a productive haze
bolting out words, unheard of for days.
Dear, let us become undone together
like the battery of a computer
rebooting after a hectic hardware phase.
Dear, let us breathe and walk through this maze.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Beauty pageant queen
Had a sad, sad life
All her mother wanted
Was to live vicariously
Through a beautiful daughter
All her daughter wanted
Was a mother who loved her for who she was
And didn't care that she was lesbian
But her mother beat her until she submitted
Her will and her life
With words and insults
Thrown as spears into the heart of the innocent child
The beauty pageant queen walked the steps confidently
Ready to reap the greatest reward she had never known:
Freedom
And as her mother read the note
And as her feet swung inches from her mother's grieving head
And as the coroner's men came and took her away
And as the nation was thrown into an uproar over a woman they never knew
And as the people in the streets pointed fingers and called the queen a *****
And as her father heard the news in his second house with his new wife
And as the homeless man she was kind to on the corner took his grubby hat off in mourning
And as the press went wild and blew everything out of proportion and dehumanized her pain
The queen didn't care because she was free from the world
Because she was away from the pain
Because she was exposed for what she was
Because she was dead
And she didn't much care about anything
Not anymore
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
Distance brings proportion. From here
the populated tiers
as much as players seem part of the show:
a constructed stage beast, three folds of Dante's rose,
or a Chinese military hat
cunningly chased with bodies.
"Falling from his chariot, a drunk man is unhurt
because his soul is intact. Not knowing his fall,
he is unastonished, he is invulnerable."
So, too, the "pure man"-"pure"
in the sense of undisturbed water.
"It is not necessary to seek out
a wasteland, swamp, or thicket."
The opposing pitcher's pertinent hesitations,
the sky, this meadow, Mantle's thick baked neck,
the old men who in the changing rosters see
a personal mutability,
green slats, wet stone are all to me
as when an emperor commands
a performance with a gesture of his eyes.
"No king on his throne has the joy of the dead,"
the skull told Chuang-tzu.
The thought of death is peppermint to you
when games begin with patriotic song
and a democratic sun beats broadly down.
The Inner Journey seems unjudgeably long
when small boys purchase cups of ice
and, distant as a paradise,
experts, passionate and deft,
hold motionless while Berra flies to left.
4.6k
Girl, you're already
A walking genocide.
Armed with your
favorite prescription
and all the reasons
why
you wanna escape
the inside
With a bomb strapped
and wire tapped
to your heart beat
to the only constant
of grace
that you stepped out of
in the stutters you gait
Steady your impulses girl
you don't need another slip-up
some emotional trigger
Blowing you
out of proportion
out of your body
The one you were
never comfortable with
From what you saw
should be beauty
the red herring
of reality distortion
the magazines
the billboards
the Goddess abortion
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
Once I had a dream that there was drought,
I never believed because I had a doubt;
If that soon happens, I might die about,
For I am just a vulnerable flower waiting to sprout.
The next night, I had dreams that reign;
At first, I thought it was a mild and a light rain,
Too bad, it became a storm and it gave me pain;
Oh no! I am just a vulnerable flower and it might grant me bane.
The third night, I had a dream so true,
That once a gigantic wind came through;
Clue is to be ready but unfortunately, it blew,
Halt! I am just a vulnerable flower and it made me blue.
By the morning, I realized and already knew,
That it was just a flashback of yesterday’s dew;
Standing still in the sandy earth as crew,
Made me realize, I am just a vulnerable flower and it made me new.
Weeds beside me might steal the rain from me,
But, still, it’s not enough for them to be happy;
For too much rain rotten our freshness’ quality,
But I am just a vulnerable flower keeping my identity.
When the sun smiles is for me a glimpse of happiness,
That even a vulnerable flower must be given sunshine’s bless;
Thus fertilize with happiness to avoid multiple mess,
For I am just a vulnerable flower who needs caress.
What I want is just a particular time,
Where rain and sunshine meets in the rhythm of the chime;
The rainbow is what I am waiting for a time of prime,
For I am just a vulnerable flower who dreams sometime.
If love could be just rain and happiness be sunshine,
I’ll give you excess of it and give me assurance that you’re mine;
Enough rain and proportion of sunshine must be given to my vine,
For I am just a vulnerable flower as balanced as wine.
If my contentment be a rainbow, then let it be you,
For you have given me rain and a sun’s smile too;
More than that, the remains of love is dew, is what I hold into,
For I am just a vulnerable flower, contented to have you.
If I could be just a flower, then it would be better,
I might color your day and make it even sweeter;
Brighten your face and make your heart even lighter,
For I am not just a vulnerable flower, but I am a flower and a lover.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 4:00 AM UTC
Anxiety is not a feeling
As some of you may believe
You wouldn't be alone
Because plenty of people place it in the same category as
Sad, angry, elated
But one of these things is not like the others.
You see, anxiety is everything and nothing
All at the same time.
Anxiety is when no matter how spacious the room is
It seems to be getting smaller
Until you can see every intricate detail on every wall
Each corner touches your skin
And flattens your chest
As it rises and falls
Your breath is getting short until it stops
And then you become as functional as a corpse
After all, isn't that what you are?
Anxiety is
When your love stands over top of you
Watching your diaphragm as it rapidly pulsates
Wishing he could hold your hands as they sweat profusely
Wanting to breathe life into your convulsing body
But instead, he cannot even grasp the concept
Of why you are not alright.
Anxiety is
Accepting that your reality is not truly real at all
And deciding to realize that people wish they could fix you
But understanding that they don't know what to do
And you don't either.
Anxiety is
Learning from all the
You're blowing things out of proportion's
And
You put to much pressure on yourself's
When you begin to have these panic attacks
In which you feel like death in imminent
Over trivial things.
Anxiety is
Being with people who love you
And still getting bursts of loneliness
That ignite and explode inside your pores and underneath your skin
The blood flowing silently through your veins reminds you
That you are all alone.
Anxiety is
Relating each and every thing you do
To how you are not adequate
And how you must take charge of everything.
It influences the things that tell you
"Make yourself throw up"
And
"Skip that meal today."
Most times, you shoe it away with every particle of strength that you have
Other times, you are not so lucky.
Anxiety is hard to personify
But it is.
And as I muster up the courage in my soul
And the hope in my being
I realize that those things need not be stored
Because I use them every day as I fight this battle.
We are all waging wars
Mine just happens to be against
This thing that is so intricately woven into the chemistry of who I am.
It is a part of me
But it is not all of me
And my voice is louder than this sickness.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
"Justice runs down like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream"
Martin Luther King, Jr.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brothers and sisters
Arm in arm
In grace
With faith
And agape love
Marched towards hate
And the steel of repression
No door to heaven is easily opened
Sometimes the only choice is to die
Not quickly
But slowly and painfully
The arc of justice bends under the weight of human sacrifice
They thought
"This is it for me"
Yes this was it
But it was time
Time for the signs to come down
The signs that said
"You here"
"You there"
"Not for you"
"Sit in the back"
Separate but equal
A lie of monstrous proportion
There is no equality
When all is not shared
There is no equality
When a night stick crushes inalienable rights
There is no equality
When a child is called a ______
There is no equality
When the love of Jesus
Is not enough for some people
When the love of Jesus
Is not enough for some hearts
When the love of Jesus
Is not enough for grace on earth
Let me take a moment
To cry
To feel the shame
Let us take a moment
And understand why some among us remember Selma
A memory of pride and pain
A memory of the willingness to die
For what is right
To give up their life
To give up their complaints
To give up their selfishness
To give up what we take for granted
So that they might die
For someone else
Because it was time
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
Clever minds that stretch
The many elements which live as our backdrop
Too often everyday is spoiled
By unnecessary people, gathering ammunition
For climbing invisible platforms of command
These are cast aside by simple smiles and welcomes
And it was.
Even if the task was invisible to me at first
My soul felt at home amongst these new work mates
My responsible position was underwritten
Given gravitas and a freedom to which I wasn't quite used
The time was charged with familiar but different
It was fraught but strangely healthier in paradox
The honest fight was taken with gestures of family proportion
Success had waned but the unity of 'knowing' was the strength
That continued to support that Company
In spite of the turmoil my personal facets were given air
To run and to adjust, to temper and to manage
Poor communication was completely disastrous
The confusion of three currencies
And the balance of understanding left us guessing
Never mind agreement or translation
Through all this, looking back my heart is lifted
Not by the freedom or the ability to achieve ...mostly,
It is the strength from our leader,
That calm, silver haired man
When many were distraught you kept us going
And fed us with hope and built our confidence,
Not always with the obvious
But gave us the ability to win through by believing ,
Believing in us and building back our motivation and teasing out
The raw infrastructure of our true capabilities
Never before has anyone, apart from my Mother
Believed in me as you did. To tackle the toughest of tasks
Anything that the industry, the public or our customers
Could throw at us, we dealt with it.
Sadly you could do nothing at the final demise but take the role
Of a father giving news of an aged relative sadly moved by
A force greater than yourself
I know had you the influence, the power and the funding............
You were always more than a boss Chris
Your transparent enthusiasm raised our spirits
And in times of worry I hope we lifted yours too.
I think of you often, thank you for being a friend
After we were no longer professionally connected.
I see your generous smile and your warm handshake
I can hear your laugh now
It's always a treat to catch up over a beer.
I now find you in my phone, in my photographs
But mostly in my heart for being a great bloke
You taught me so much.
Speak soon, with love, Max
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
Dear, let me startle you by slinking my hand into
your smart, ethical decisions while I touch
quite gently
ripping to shreds
your photon ends.
Dear, let me caress your supple virtues and vows
until they blow out of proportion
merging your interests with mine
like the longing of eyes
uncanny in its distortion.
Dear, let me rip off your clothes as I grip your tight notions
ideas slipping carefully into place
like a sterile, unflinching blank slate
inching towards computed devotion.
Dear, let me carry out some foreplay
as long as you bend, not break,
delightfully stroking the edge of your plate.
Dear, let me come so close to your face
so close that it becomes blurry.
Where are my glasses in all this flurry?
Of feelings resembling photo reels on fire
shooting flames out the window
beyond everything you’ve ever known;
beyond anything you desire.
Dear, let me kiss you to submission,
your brain waves in motion
as I twist and slip into them
hormones ablaze
lighting up for days
your synapses recapturing
in a binocular haze.
Dear, let me flop on top of you
like a floppy disk, uploading your lips
into my hardrive.
Do I make you hard as fire?
Slowing burning
my hot fingers curling
up your robust spine
cracking it into
chiropractor sublime.
Massaging your tired broad shoulders
like large sofa ends.
Is this keyboard only
made for pretend?
Dear, let me mind **** you
take you and light you
brighten your screen
uphold and unseen
neurons fighting as I whisper ***** words
directly into the folds of your tulip ears
too large to hear, and
Dear, let me engage my rage
into a productive haze
bolting out words, unheard of for days.
Dear, let us become undone together
like the battery of a computer
rebooting after a hectic hardware phase.
Dear, let us breathe and walk through this maze.
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
Don’t let the last name fool you of Greene
As you continue to read, you will understand what made him structured lean
Mr. Greene was a man who won International Federation of Bodybuilders of MR. WORLD title twice
There were times when Mr. Greene called Joe Weider and asked for advice
It was intensity with the weights
Then taking in food protein and drinking protein shakes
Mr. Greene is a personal friend of mine
He used to tell me stories of bodybuilding ways
Also stay away from drugs and go astray
Yet he was every bodybuilder’s friend
But on the Bodybuilding stage, it was about the win
Mr. Greene’s muscles were his voice on stage
In the audience, it was the posing that did amaze
It left the audience and Judge’s in a daze
It was his proportion being the fine line
Then it was the repetitions that contributed being combined
Under the spotlight, Mr. Greene was the terminator
But it was his posing being the illustrator
Franklyn Greene was focused down to the finish
This is what makes him distinguished
A Bodybuilding champion who was meant to be
The world witnessed and was able to see
Mr. Greene made Bodybuilding everything that it should be
He is now retired from competition, but continues to train
Bodybuilding in his heart still remains
His motto, “Train with focus and eye on detail”
Franklyn Greene who did achieve and many bodybuilding awards he did receive. Accomplishments with many wins, and with a past being a milestone, but the name of Franklyn Greene who is still known.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
EAST BOSTON, 1996
ON THE BUS
Franz Wright
It's one thing when you're twenty-one,
and I was way past twenty-one.
With unshaven face half concealed in the collar
of some deceased porcine philanthropist's
black cashmere rag of a coat,
I knew that I looked like a suicide
returning an overdue book to the library.
Almost everyone else did as well,
but I found no particular solace in this;
at best, the fact awakened some diverting speculations
on the comparative benefits
of waiting in front of a ditch to be shot
alone or in company
of others, and then whether one would prefer
these last hypothetical others
to be friends, family, enemies, total
or relative strangers. Would you hold hands?
Or would you rather like a good **** sapiens
monster employ them
to cover your genitals?
What percentage would lose bowel control?
And given time restrictions -
and assuming some still had the ability to move -
would ostracism result? Anyway,
I knew the rules on this bus.
No eye contact: the eyes of the terrified
terrify. Look
like you know where you're going,
possess ample change to get there,
and don't move your lips when you talk
to yourself: the destroyed
and sick, the poor, the hungry
and the disturbed estrange.
The badly dressed estrange, even,
and that is uncalled for. The degree
of one's power to estrange will increase
in direct proportion to the depth
of need for others. Do not cry.
This can only bring about, on the one hand,
an instant condition of banishment
from the sole available companionship, or
on the other, a near
fatal beating (one more disappointment).
Just follow the simple instruction
if you ever come here.
It's easy to remember - any idiot can do it.
Don't cry,
the world has abandoned us.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
I regret ever feeling at all
Maybe I should just stop--
Stop trying
Stop feeling
Just... stop.
I regret ever feeling at all
Maybe I should just end it
Would anyone care?
Would anyone notice?
Maybe I should just stop.
I regret ever feeling at all
Harden my walls, forget my heart
Decide that nothing, no one, is worth my pall
I wish I didn't have to become numb to be okay,
Just to make the pain go away.
I regret ever feeling at all
I want to be strong
But, I should've known all along:
I feel too deeply to be healthy,
Especially when people are involved.
I regret ever feeling at all
Maybe I want to die
Maybe just a line at my wrist
(The X-Acto knife in my drawer would do the trick)
But no, perhaps not (I am not a fan of pain)
Bleeding out takes far too long
I don't think I could take it, anyway.
I regret ever feeling at all
The voices in my head say I'm worthless
No wonder everyone's gone
I can't attract anyone, I'm too broken
The deadness in my eyes belies a dormant predator
Watch out, I'm a hidden monster
I may catch you in my claws before a single word has been spoken
Beware the darkness of a shattered heart,
It will be far too sharp.
I regret ever feeling at all
Maybe this is for the best
Maybe I'll finally learn my lesson
And never have to trust again
I'm blowing this out of proportion
This is so much worse in my head
But you said I should spend time with myself, love,
No matter how many times I wish myself dead.
I regret ever feeling at all
I am so far out of my depth
I don't know what to do, love
I wish you could see this mess from my shoes.
This constant nagging ache, I wish it'd go away.
I regret ever feeling at all
I want to hate you,
To lose the pang in my stomach when you wear bruises on your neck
Your trophies are the cause of my heartbreak
Why can't you just stay away?
I regret ever feeling at all
I wish my friends could stand being around me
But maybe they sense the monster within
Who hungers jealously for that which she cannot have
Who lusts for the flesh of one who does not love her
Who, deep down, wants to hurt everyone who wrongs her.
I regret ever feeling at all
This darkness is so suffocating
Why did I have to, for you of all people, fall?
When you cannot feel the same
When all I get from you is pain
I love you, I hate you, I feel all of the above.
I regret ever feeling at all
This horrible, deadening cold
It seeps through my limbs
All I want is a hand to hold,
Someone to chase the demons away,
Someone who can love me as much as I love you,
Someone who wants to save me from myself,
As much as I do you.
I regret ever feeling at all
Maybe if I disappeared, you'd wonder what you did wrong
Maybe you'd actually call
Would you feel any of my regret?
Would you feel the hurt you cause?
I don't know that, love,
I just know I regret ever feeling at all.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 10:05 PM UTC
Wood, twisting iron, wresting
Incumbent wind of an idiom.
Nomenclature learned in
Direct proportion to the
Clicking of clavichords, the
Harmonics of harpsichords, the
Iconoclastic rather than
Memes which disavow the
Etherial. For a breath of air is
Spirit. Striking the bells of the SOUL.
SøułSurvivør
(C) 4/19/2017
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 3:08 AM UTC
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
3.1k
I'm sure you're all disappointed.
I am the prince charming
you grew up hearing about.
But I'm not perfect,
I'm not royal,
I'm not handsome.
I'm noble,
yes.
But nobility gets you nowhere.
I'm sure someone blew things out of proportion.
I am flawed.
I am poor.
I am ugly.
The closest I get to a royal decree,
is raising my pen or pencil in hand,
like a scepter,
in triumph of an accomplishment,
either in word or in art.
I am ugly.
I am poor.
I am flawed.
I am the prince charming
you grew up hearing about.
And I'm sure you're all disappointed.
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 3:17 PM UTC
A calamity of views abused
When the alcohol is strong
The choices go wrong
Everyones offend through Misinterpreted temptation
Using my over analyzing brain to calm the degraded
Crying over a mundane sane
Looking for persuasion
Through persecution
Picking out your weaknesses
Bleakness, is a majestic trait
Not intentionally
Burdening their agony
My name is animosity
I depict a character that sympathizes
Your alibies
Using my vulnerability
Contaminated humility
Finding
The hiding
No problem suggesting
My dark secrets of the night
Applying my skits that fit right
Paranoid to be viewed in a mortifying light
I would be lying denying my animalistic ride
I have scrutinized
Remorsing
I see earth born
Godly you stand
In the morning
Behold deformities
You fit the norm
I bow to your Godly proportion
In vein this I pray
Amen
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
Panic's jewel...
Or, is that pride?
Poor relenting, to you...
The question of irony on your side?
Places and things, together
With a real appetite for life's regency
So, sophisticated, the liberty of kind to bother
An open air, of a wish that found deception's history...?
My undone mercy, my marveling hope
Is with a ghost of a chance, the truth
In a guarded fist, to promise a shared cope?
If any pout of lore, is a wish that sought your youth...
I will follow...
Despairing consciences, with a blinking stare at honor
That defies home for one thing only, that is to harrow...
The dread in a tear, found for a salt that told a story:
Once upon a time, and the tenderness of couth
To wake upon a simple bed, the taste of harmony in league
With itself, the role of unity and vice, come the riches of who
Is a part defined, and who is a smarter focus divine, of each?
Which will the tows of remorse...
Work as we said, they have the skill's of duress to laud
And heraldry of a looming proportion, to understand the worse
The life of another lords prophet, the can and the callous odd...
Here is such, the lies or levity we fate
With a rekindled fire, for what is a stranger look, of desperation
Sincerity or since charity is a fool for itself, the world of sate
Is a kindness only a lover could afford, the very gift of intimation?
Tomorrow?
And the ides of heathen politeness, are here
To simply move forward and borrow
The truth in an order and repute, that has oneself to bless, with another's fear...?
Jun 25, 2022
Jun 25, 2022 at 1:25 AM UTC