"purblind" poems
I am fighting.
It is a clash between disdain and isolation.
Why love doesn't find me, instead of broken hearts.
I am demented.
What is love?
I always think it is a pure endearment,
But in the end i didn't deserve it.
I prayed to God,
Why love doesn't nominate my name,
And why love is so purblind.
I am wasting my time.
The emptiness haunts me again and again
I get lonely when i looking to the future.
I get lonely when i am in a crowd.
I always seem so happy,
With not care in the world.
They only know my veil.
Hey! ****** creature,
Why you separates me from my wisdom.
I was tried,
I was lost,
No one listened,
No one understood.
How can i disappear to make people understand?
Ah!
Who will sing a song,
Like a lullaby.
Here comes the call,
Now i hide this pain too,
And making sure no one sees my hurt.
I am trying to envelope the scar's and,
Buried deep in my heart.
Hoping one day i can smile.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
If but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: “Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
that thy love’s loss is my hate’s profiting!”
Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.
But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
—Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . .
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.
2.2k
Everything I'm feeling inside
is about to capsize.
I can't wait for these thoughts to subside
or will they collide
with the terrible force of my mind?
I say, God help me before I am confined
and so naively purblind.
I'm trying to find my way
and this may sound totally cliche
but **** I'm so terribly lost
I feel like my plans have crisscrossed.
But I'm actually star-crossed
with my own thought
of how I've turned into such a crackpot.
I'm so gone,
I'm squandered.
Am I being absurd?
My visions are blurred
and like a blind man I'm clobbered
by all the words that I have misheard.
But watch me
as I achieve
all that I can be.
I'm not a fool
I just need to refuel.
Take a moment
to just breathe...
..........
And I'll be back in full force
straight back on this wild concourse.
I'm not here to enforce
or endorse, I don't care
what's wrong with your discourse.
You're on your own, I'm on mine.
And I'm finding out why
this life is not so divine.
But do not deny,
stop with your outcries
I'm just saying my goodbyes.
But I will be back
and with a smack
you'll never know what hit you
cause I'm gonna be so brand new.
Watch me achieve all I've dreamed
all that you have blasphemed.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time.
Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory.
Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to
live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through
areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils.
His hope: intermittent.
To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though
he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of
something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on
changing.
He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant.
He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and
lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food.
He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the
interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven.
Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world.
He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one
who can talk, the only one to have doubts.
Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a
dozen men.
Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject—
eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed
to system.)
"Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois
seulette."
He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows
how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative
past.
Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry.
He has a special attitude towards terror.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Song of the Soldiers
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away
Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away!
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye
Who watch us stepping by,
With doubt and dolorous sigh?
Can much pondering so hoodwink you?
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye?
Nay. We see well what we are doing,
Though some may not see—
Dalliers as they be—
England’s need are we;
Her distress would leave us rueing:
Nay. We well see what we are doing,
Though some may not see!
In our heart of hearts believing
Victory crowns the just,
And that braggarts must
Surely bite the dust,
Press we to the field ungrieving,
In our heart of hearts believing
Victory crowns the just.
Hence the faith and fire within us
Men who march away
Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us;
Hence the faith and fire within us
Men who march away.
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.
Some hold it true that Erin's creamy skin
Is clearly fairest in both grain and hue;
And I have seen such porcelain skin as hin-
ted quite convincingly that this was true.
Some hold it true the Aztec's nut-brown hide
(Made with Quetzal's chocolate from long ago)
Is fairest, and understandably deride
The purblind eyes of those who do not know.
And others, still, prefer a different cast,—
A different color, texture, shade, and tone.
And most enjoy a rude debate on taste.
I argue not, but leave them all alone:
I'd rather go and dream a blissful dream
Of chocolate skin wet-kist with Irish cream.
*
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
Two love sick birds high above
unconscious of the cold,
male cooing his words of love
female like a marigold.
Perched on a branch which overhung
the stillness of a river,
they played for me a sad song
which brought to mind a lover.
They nestled there, side by side
as loving birds are peaceful.
I watched with awesome pride
those birds with love so full.
Then startled by a noise they rose
and flew off through the forest.
I sit here now and just suppose
that they, like all the rest, find something to protest.
This peace which was injected
through my troubled heart today,
rested in its fervent bed
while waiting for a display.
Our leaders though so unkind,
usher in twelve months of hate.
And ev-er-y-one seems so purblind
except that male and his mate.
Now the silence of their absence
and love lessons we can learn,
unaware of our own presence,
and lust desires which we yearn.
Those two white birds were so alone
in their union and their bond,
they wanted people all to see
the rising of the sun, the coming of the dawn...
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 7:47 AM UTC
In one dreadful winter night
I awoke and found the Truth
The self in me died
And the duality melt
To synchronize
To become
The I.
Now I am the Absolute
The really Real
Earlier...
I was a 'being'
A myopic over-bent
A creature of false crisis
Of Hamletian dilemmas
Of Ramusian dualism
Caught up in the concentric circles
I was one....
Spirited into myriad forms
Of love and lust,
Of desire and appetite.
A pilgrim sojourning into the endless night
Purblind by the dazing mirages.
I lost my way
In the eternity of illusion
Materiality held me
Time bound me
At the dead-end of my experience
In the flash-back of my awareness
I delved into the I
And found myself in the Edenic Garden
Rejoicing in the celestial music.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
your always on my mind
there is never a time where i find
some absence of you
oh how i wish to unbind
these thoughts to you that are so kind
the happiness id have
if our hands intertwined
you mastermind
do you have me spellbind
i want moments together to be on rewind
around you i act so purblind
to the bad, I'm blind
as long as your on my mind.
i never want you off my mind
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
Help me shatter this day. Our bodies make
transitions unbearable. All of us here hiding secrets. By design,
we are silent. It takes me days to fully sing.
We think walls are our doing, bridges our undeniable shame.
There are things following me: the bird soaring, another one flat on
the roof, and the other atrill on umbilicus of powerlines.
This day is composition – let this day atonal. From where I sit,
daily pursuits key in difficulties – eyes closed deep but not aslumber,
are purblind: gauge me in this order: feel the world scabrous like Braille. In a world of continuing
breakage, what is there to hold together.
If not, a debris pattern. A held rigor in suffering – there is that
crisp, sweet taste in the air again like some air winding out of ***
Look at me through dappled windows as reflection of an oncoming storm.
Help me splinter this day. Placate my tremor of, and fasten me dearly
set beyond the grooves of this day. I teach myself a coruscating example – to reach for
and break. To stop you climbing, plodding your way to a conclusion,
waylaid you in your place and summoned your fiddling of chance – the duration is
lined by obeisance towards an endorsed situation issued, not accrued.
We are somewhat conveying this burden to equal our weight. Must we
be afloat, what hoists our rebellion? What must we be
to endure, to witness these wondrous beatings ballast our gravities,
no warning of, and against reliance. Is our being here what we determine.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
These words, straight from my tumultuous soul. Another one with a hagridden, asphyxiating heart. 1---*-2 purblind eyes as injudicious as always. Even though airy for a change turned bovine, storming, screaming, it wants me blind. Gelid weather left behind, duplicating my touch from brisk to biting, killing the lie within your skin that was never on display.
Now...
Meaningless memories smothering the limbic system. Willthis be all that remain? Lets hang it up.
Now...
There's just another withering fire, burning the secrets. Will this be all that remain? Lets stab it deep.
Now...
Like a pernicious disease, dreams of the promised, made me blind. Will this be all that remain? Lets tear them out.
Now...
Like a metastatic infection, the pretense makes my skin numb. Will this be all that remain? Lets cut it open.
Now I'm calling 26280 and still you put me straight through to voice mail. I've had enough. I beg of you, please loosen the grip so I can renovate my fragmented life.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC
The stars shine heaven
Against the night;
With snow gleaming bright:
The buildings silhouette in shades of raven.
People rush in clouds,
*All befriended;
-songs raising splendid-*
An angel moon alights the route.
And she, so pleased to see the joy,
Shines in innocence sublime,
Her deaf, purblind light
-with smile so coy-.
Even the moon, in love, is blind.
Our light drowns the stars,
*And night triumphs.
The snow stained; a virus.*
The buildings all are deep, black scars,
And everyone's a crowd
-alone; apart-;
Depraved heart;
The moon: the only light to see through the shroud.
Rich man grow fat; poor man be shunned;
The fattened purse; the empty glove.
And all losing love
-and demons run-
Lit by the foolish moon above.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC