"propositions" poems
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
/ innocent until prōven guilty,
contra guilty until
prōven innocent...
ah!
so the minority report?
guilty, while innocent,
based upon a premonition?
hindsight with a zodiac
type of interpretation...
innocent until prōven guilty
has no superiority
in practice over the continental
guilty until prōven innocent...
no... because the principle invokes
presuppositions,
of suppositions...
treating the two as propositions -
or rather... "verbs" inacted...
innocent until prōven guilty -
then no understanding of freedom,
at least guilty until prōven innocent
allows understanding
restraint, however unfair,
with 18 years lost...
and then the tears of relief!
Tomasz Komenda...
an "espionage" case of staging
empathy...
en masse...
an innocent man walks away
from falsely imposed justice measures...
a redemption...
a count de monte cristo
allowance...
but in reverse?
the evil man walks free...
succumbing to old age,
and dementia, a pontius pilate pardon...
there is no redemption aspect
of the saxon course of applying jurisprudence...
the... innocent, until prōven guilty,
contra: guilty until prōven innocent
schizophrenia?
the latter overshadows
the former...
because we're not babies...
at least with the latter:
there's a redemption exegesis -
but with the former?
bitter-sweet tears within
the confines, of an example akin
to jimmy savile...
guilty until prōven innocent
has much more authentic emotional
content, with a redemption narrative...
innocent until prōven guilty
has? not much,
just a grave,
and the stunted emotional expression,
what ought to be flowers
within the heart,
instead: fungus, growing in the dark...
and thus... translating
to other hearts:
let's allow this chemo-phobia
chemo-philia experiment
be left intact in its the momentum...
honestly... the study of law -
is probably the ********* game
in the allowance of games of
adulthood... one tier above gambling.
p.s.
because you know there's proof:
and that the past-participle
thrown into a future, does require
an omega rather than an omicron...
not an oh, but an ooh...
hence? reign from above,
on the omicron, with a macron (ō).
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
A Zippo lighter with a smoker's cough,
propositions the ladybug
clinging to a flannel pocket,
You can always trust a tealight
to warm the neglected beetles,
that cling to your chest.
this Ritual of the staring contest.
attention behind the curtain:
When You blink at the Rorschach shadows
tell me, they are not mailboxes.
The spirits linger; we stumble into entanglement
birch trees weaving
baskets from our branches
I'm known to cave on integrity, for the taste of freckles,
flickering tealights in the hearthstone, with a smokers cough.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 3:08 AM UTC
In long lasting fortitude is the fight of the astute.
A lot of effort is made towards the war of the moral.
And a race towards life is the route.
Preparing the endless fit of strength of all.
There is he who is choosing his fate.
Working hard despite all opposers’ bait.
There is he who is choosing life.
Working hard despite all opposers’ strife.
Lost in the dirt, seeking out of the ruse.
Forced towards the light, brighter and rife.
No letting up despite the refuse.
Clean is the proud, and happy, the player of the flute.
A rite of passage for all is the praise of the immortal.
War is the only dispute
Death is not fatal.
The renegade does not enter the gate.
He is stuck outside the city, and left without state.
The renegade does not know his wife.
He is stuck at heart and can’t even play a fife.
In the dirt he is and is with a lot of abuse.
He cannot escape the knife.
Cut, cutting up despite the accuse.
Reality is but the face of cute.
Subjected to falsified doctrine and the immoral.
It is callous and as rotten fruit.
Moxie exists with everyone no matter how small.
Can the one who is happy learn to hate?
Only he or she can solve this debate.
Finally the long absent sky above the Alewife.
Can’t say that I have seen such teeming wildlife...
Swimming in a sea of its Muse.
The lowly continue their sighs
But I do proudly diffuse.
.This plight of mine is hard to toot.
Exemplified by my emphasis on the astral.
With which I dress in an armoured suit.
So my enemies do not mute my oral.
and the skies do tell in high rate,
How esteemed they are on time and ne’er late.
But giving ever virtuous despite
All those dead or dying, without prospect of afterlife.
It is their way to choose:
The dark abyss of guise,
(or) The gentle river of blue
For now I do keep silent, But still I commute,
With those of higher propositions and goal,
So I do instill thyself a deeper root.
In the waterbed truly formal.
Those who truth ‘I do navigate’
and those of lies ‘I do alienate’
At a loss O’ man or mesmerize,
Work harder on thoughts than just plagiarize.
The foes of old are still and sleuth
I show them love and they in lies are baptized
Tradition is there with purpose, don’t misuse.
I see to it the wise stay wise,
For better they will strategize.
And the unwise, wisdom they will pursue.
Giving them their much needed paradise.
And the lost I will use.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
Singular
definition:
extraordinary; remarkable; exceptional: a singular success.
unusual or strange; odd; different: singular behavior.
being the only one of its kind; distinctive; unique: a singular example.
separate; individual.
Logic: a proposition containing no quantifiers, as “Socrates was mortal.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Singular Proposition:
you think you are special, exceptional,
you think you are unusual, odd,
proud of it.
extraordinary, exceptional, unique.
maybe so.
Here then is my Singular Proposition:
On the day that you unconditionally
accept responsibility
for the care and feeding,
for,
yes, the very
survival
of just
one single
other
on that day,
you may call yourself,
singular,
in every sense of the word.
Propositions:
I am a singular.
I am mortal.
Affirmed.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 9:27 AM UTC
Conjunction:
a small class of words distinguished in many languages by their function as connectors between words, phrases, clauses, sentences
- the act of conjoining; combination; the state of being conjoined; union; association:
- a compound proposition that is true if and only if all of its component propositions are true.
- the coincidence of two or more heavenly bodies at the same celestial longitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am in a relationship.
a colorless word
a word of no clarity
a good one? a bad one?
a professional deal,
or one that makes you squeal
with pleasure or despair
without context or content,
a description of a status,
not a state,
but a quid pro quo
I prefer
I am in a conjunction
*well recall the day
our orbits
more than crossed,
but synchronized,
when two bodies
began to travel
upon the same longitude
one direction
in conjunction
t'was the day we coordinated
on our mobile phone,
co-configured our future,
our calendars*
*nowadays,
I answer her questions
while she is commencing to think,
when her foolishness prevails,
she questions, "did you remember to..."
my answer, a question returned,
connected, constant and conjunctive,*
"and what's my name?"
an answer conveying constancy
*relationship
oft the farthest place from logical,
but you know that,
say I am in a conjunction
and the logicians will celebrate
the end of your lonely celibacy,
well they understand the truth
inherent in and of and about
your compounded proposition*
*what unimaginative creatures we be,
dispensing with beauty for factuality,
but facts are easily misread,
your fact and my fact, relationship,
the exact same fact, conveys neither
an agreement as to what that means
are we unionized, associated, or conjoined
what is the quality of
our related ships?*
so
Dear Mr. Zuckerberg,
amend my status please,
post me
as being in a state of:
a) conductivity b) connectivity c) concoctive
no, none of those
capture
what we have
captured,
so let create a new state,
a new world,
using a very old world word
post us as follows,
"Nat is in a conjunction"
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
i guess there are
some people
who just don’t realize
how preposterous they sound when
using social media.
yeah, maybe you’re one. no one
is safe from suspicion:
-the comedians (their own biggest fan types)
the witty commentators
jumping in from the far corner.
(you wonder how
someone who learnt every word they know
from about six Archie comics is allowed to
use social networking)
-oh and the girls
who post new selfies
every day. (in fact there’s one,
i swear, posts so often
so regular
i barely need a watch.
“here’s the three-fifteen cleavage shot.”
—she’s long since been hidden!)
and wait here’s that
fella who speaks out about injustices;
firecrackers taped in a doberman’s mouth,
which is awful, sick, repulsive—and bravo
for making the universe aware, i applaud thee,
but it’s the rambling included about what you’d do
if you ever caught them
(curbstomping, mutilating, beatings)
that gives
me goosebumps.
i don’t wanna see this kid’s mug in
the paper next week/point & say
“christ i knew it!”
..so maybe keep the ****** fantasy off the web, eh?
& then of course the weirdness
too weird to
properly recall
example:
an acquaintance's call for attention “i need a hug :(“
and the random girl
probably th’sister of a friend
(which is bizarre in its own right,
adding a friend's younger sibling..
but i
won’t bother delving
there tonight)
who replies:
*“hey you should come here instead
and see the skunk that just came
by my window
if you wanna?”*
—what is this absurdity?
and hey here’s an answer
to your original call:
internet hugs don’t work.
computers don’t hug in binary, man.
0110101110101101111001010010101011011010110101110101010101
>—O—<
—i’ll never understand it.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 1:42 AM UTC
Ignorance and divinity are both vomiting over my mind, while i stand below them wondering if I should even bother to duck.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
There are so many things to do, directions to take, propositions to be made – each one waiting on these silly little green permission slips. Even the simplest of happily ever afters comes with quite a hefty price.
I just want to get ***** making stuff, making art, making food, making love. Sleep and repeat.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
The Kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man,
seeking goodly pearls; who, when he had found one,
sold all that he had and bought it.—Matthew 13.45
I know the ways of Learning; both the head
And pipes that feed the press, and make it run;
What reason hath from nature borrowed,
Or of itself, like a good huswife, spun
In laws and policy; what the stars conspire,
What willing nature speaks, what forced by fire;
Both th’ old discoveries, and the new-found seas,
The stock and surplus, cause and history:
All these stand open, or I have the keys:
Yet I love thee.
I know the ways of Honour, what maintains
The quick returns of courtesy and wit:
In vies of favours whether party gains,
When glory swells the heart, and moldeth it
To all expressions both of hand and eye,
Which on the world a true-love-knot may tie,
And bear the bundle, wheresoe’er it goes:
How many drams of spirit there must be
To sell my life unto my friends or foes:
Yet I love thee.
I know the ways of Pleasure, the sweet strains,
The lullings and the relishes of it;
The propositions of hot blood and brains;
What mirth and music mean; what love and wit
Have done these twenty hundred years, and more:
I know the projects of unbridled store:
My stuff is flesh, not brass; my senses live,
And grumble oft, that they have more in me
Than he that curbs them, being but one to five:
Yet I love thee.
I know all these, and have them in my hand:
Therefore not sealed, but with open eyes
I fly to thee, and fully understand
Both the main sale, and the commodities;
And at what rate and price I have thy love;
With all the circumstances that may move:
Yet through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,
But thy silk twist let down from heav’n to me,
Did both conduct and teach me, how by it
To climb to thee.
2.1k
Dissected brilliance
Admissible propositions
Sculpted resilience
Destructing predispositions
Initiates our purpose immensely
Criticism gives it's crucial effect
For the better, accordingly
It's for us to detect
Why? we ask throughout
Our incompetent delusion
Through our endless bout
Here, take your conclusion
"Why" is a sensational question
Dissects mind's interest
Releases its compression
Yet we remain among the belligerent
This answer prolongs
Through your eyes only
In our hearts it belongs
Don't persevere your phony
Bring back your trophy
-Joseph B Schneider
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
Perhaps the most positively uninteresting tragedy
Is the story of flawed, impeded love.
For whenever I venture, strive, endeavor—
To exit my haven of solitary isolation
I’m devoid of any bravery.
Though I wish I could say
“People scare me! I don’t want to be judged
For things I cannot control,
For transgressions and loves
Methods, impairment, systems and failures
Despicable lies and harrowing truths
Cringeworthy trances and malicious propositions—
That’s the reason I tragically fear you!"
But such would be blatant lies.
For I am not a reticent sheep,
Not afraid of human, futile words
It’s not any judgement or hate I despise
It’s just that I can’t ever compromise
I’m so terrified of judging
Even in my mind
The people of the world
Precious brethren of my kind—
I don’t wish to hurt a weakling
Or a disgraceful abomination
Thus, I’ll isolate from anyone
For fear of impeding my love
Of all alive, of everyone.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
My insatiable taste for affection makes it hard to find perfection in a single person.
You could blatantly express the fact that you'd give me your last just for a moment to see me smile,
but I'd probably consider that too vulnerable for a first date.
I enjoy to watch a relationship progress,
but I usually take flight if the speed isn't exactly my pace.
I complain constantly of my lonesome,
but my heart isn't available.
That's the biggest mistake.
I get physical loneliness misconstrued with emotional loneliness.
I laugh and shrug off the idea that so many want a place in my heart,
but I never really come to terms with the fact that I hold a part of people's hearts that I never pay a second thought to most days.
And I make all these excuses as to why I'm physically single,
but my heart rests with you, waiting.
Denial may hide it, but I know no other chapter may begin
-- no matter what perks and propositions are promised --
without ending the current I have with you, whatever is left of it at least.
You caught me off guard and promised me nothing,
but have been everything at just my pace.
More than a love interest, my confidant, my friend. my insatiable love.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
And I have loved you more than I anyone I have loved before
( How would I know, as there has been no one else )
Perhaps more than I will love anyone, ever
( And I know for sure )
I set up my defences on the outside, but maybe I needed to protect myself from myself
( But what would you have me do )
When you see lightning for the first time, a wonder out of nowhere
The way it streaks across the skies, like you often streaked across my mind
When every subsequent clash of atoms and eons will never equal the first time
Seeing magik marble across your eyelids, a smile adorns your face
And you know you will never be the same again
( So what of this pain, will it ever subside )
Perhaps a memory can transform into a throbbing hurt
One that comes and goes, like the ebb and the flow of the rushing tide
Or triggered by a smell, a perfume, the sound of laughter
that could’ve been yours, or the way someone holds onto their fork
I never thought it would be you, but now you are a throbbing pain
Unmedicated, unattended but a mass of self perpetuating burning questions
Like neurons (mis)firing and kneejerk reactions
Churning out what if’s and propositions and assumptions and empty dreams
You birthed a thousand little cares that linger at the back of my throat
Causing me to gag every so often
But the mast has been set and this rotting ship will continue to sail
Rickety as she is, she searches for replacement parts
All the while creating myths and legends and convulated stories
This tunnel is long but maybe there is a glimmer of hope at the end of it
I can hold out for a breath of fresh air, something must remain
( But what of those questions that still remain )
Maybe I should have tried a little harder
Fought a little more, shouted a little louder
But you can’t stop the path of a tornado
I stood in front of it and was swept off my feet
And it pulled wool over my eyes, but I still saw the light
Filtered as it was through unravelling strands of thread
Pull, pull, pull
Until it all comes undone.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Lost in trials and tribulations; testing one’s patience as malignant lesions formulate morphological alterations ceaselessly swarming throughout this mortal embodiment
Erratic mitotic divisions serving as propositions carrying calamitous conditions - prescriptions from physicians functioning as baleful contradictions augmenting one’s overall condition
Salubrious air would substantially repair in lieu of a multimillion-dollar pharmaceutical snare chemically altering the brain chemistry unsympathetically.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
**I bought a 'Polo' tee-shirt
striped burgandy and blue,
but you said it was suggestive
of somebody that you knew.
Then I called to have my hair cut
much shorter, just for you,
but you mentioned that my haircut
was a double deja-vu.
All this plus my spectacles
(next time it's contact lens's),
was about someone resembling me
who said 'now les be friends.
Such friendly propositions
with girl on girl in mind,
for it takes all kinds, to make a world
when you're that way inclined.
The moral of my story
and I knew it all along,
is even when I seek advice
I can't do right for wrong.**
... ... ...
'trademark'
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 8, 2011 at 5:30 AM UTC
The grace of God was painted
on the canvass of your soft skin,
but you don't see it.
I try to touch it,
but you secret it away
like a scar,
or deformity.
I pray for strength,
but the devil propositions
where God charges admission...
no one knocks a free ride.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
written while talking to a dear friend, Irene, who i met on my travels to Paris, and who i'm spotted with, in a photograph, by the Moulin Rouge, hunched in homage to Quasimodo, with Paul the wild haired australian.
i'm always depressed before composition
and the first whiskey to
stop me throwing up anything i might
ingest,
but then the seemingly graceless magpie
with its extended tail flies into eyesight,
then the blackbird, the crow, the seagull (huh?!
30 miles inland and a ****** seagull?)...
and then i open my eyes a second time,
take off the eyes that see lust gluttony colours
and shapes, and put on my x-ray spectacles
of looking at a white page and typing for a while...
and then a song crops up and it bothers me,
mortiis' parasite god from the album *the smell
of rain*, if there is such a thing as a parasite god,
we'll be constantly thinking about it,
it will be an ontological implant of ours to
then debate whether we're atheists, theists,
gnostics or agnostics... it would be a burden, indeed
an oversized tapeworm to put it mildly -
but then the other description floating about,
the entitlement of a title, akin to prince, knight,
sir, baron or baroness or even a marquis...
the lord of hosts... and with vain attempt at sounding
in blossom of a magnolia tree attentive of courtesy,
a host is someone who contains a parasite,
why would i want to contain a parasite of thought in
me, that would necessarily sway me from denoting
myself an atheist, theist, etc.?
atheists do indeed uphold the principle stated in this
song i mentioned mortiis' parasite god;
i among the jews a parasite of the host of
ancient egypt;
i mean, they always say they're atheists or whatever,
they want that little sticker at a speed dating gathering
*hello, my name is, queue (oh sorry,
Hugh)*, but when it comes to
defining what sort of thinking defines you as such and
such, it's vaguely satisfying to hear a presupposition label,
followed by a string of even more unsatisfying propositions,
and since i'm not a fisherman in that department,
i think i'll just stick to what i know, or at least what i think i know.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Beauty you said was a quality I possessed
Intelligence I insisted was mine to own
Subtlety is not a virtue I contest to borrowing
Vengeance I will never openly deny
Memory sharper than a tack
Verbal sparring worse than a shark’s attack
Considerable damage caused by honed wit
Disturbing visions created by vivid imagination
Wrapped in a neat and stunning package
Just a sample of all the composing things
That create the person, that I prefer to be
Yet something of a steel frame runs beneath these qualities
Like honor, pride, unwavering courage
Love, compassion, and absolute empathy
Denial of what I once believed myself to be
Gave way to self created confidence
But as every flower has it’s core
So does the depths of my soul
Buried deep within, rarely coming out to play
My passions, desires, and fanciful whims
Unspoken dreams, and unexplored propositions
But perhaps the most mesmerizing thing
Is when my laughter rings out
Instead of being buried within
Jan 20, 2010
Jan 20, 2010 at 7:41 AM UTC
Propositions about
the afterlife are futile.
Do you believe in God,
heaven, clouds, harps and cherubs?
And then you die and discover
that you must lead many more lives
searching for perfection.
Do you believe in the Bardo,
in reincarnation, in the sweet
possibilities of getting it right?
And then you die and find yourself
on a fluffy cloud surrounded by
annoying cherubs whose harps are incessant.
Or will you become a mute patch of earth,
that is wet and dry and favored by worms.
I have closed the eyes of the dead
and all I can tell you is they were dead.
What happens after is futile surmise.
You believe or you don't.
But believing is not knowing.
And when you know, you will not say.
~mce
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
Our lives are set-up in beautiful hypothetical.
Propositions swirl around like conveyor-belt sushi- delights to choose at semi-random.
Light and fluffy brightly colored choices.
Candied aftermaths of promise.
We stare at the world like through a pane of glass that houses every good thing.
Select a sweet impermanence.
Finger a whim.
Cast yourself onto a game of chance.
Play your favorite song on the jukebox of 'nowness'.
Skip all of the imperfections in a sidewalk.
Dandy through your daydreams.
To want is to behold.
To wish is to brush the tips of splendor.
All of it free for now.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
For what possesses man to sabotage himself?
Always wanting the unobtainable
Sacrificing worthy causes in the process
Love, passion, lust?
Priorities and prerogatives left unchecked
When man's mind desires run away
How could we focus?
With such amazing beauty
Man cares not of consequence
Or of outcome
Man proposes and propositions
In hopes of obtaining
Desires
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 10:58 AM UTC