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"rasas" poems
No one listens to anything but Their own ******* pulse Dum dum dum Can you hear me singing over The sounds of your skull? Dum dum Do you see my mouth flutter like an insect that shares and dances or Do you only see your own stupid Eyelashes? And their own ******* rumba? The only thing you truly own is Yourself You don't need to claim ownership of yourself and be this Attentive to yourself the one thing that's yours— Look harder in front of you don't Dumb dumb dumb yourself Down Like a mindless lacklustre thing! Paint with the Colours of other people Stop waiting for your Turn to talk Wipe the spit from your Chin
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Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
jenna-michelle
“tabula rasas”
No one listens to anything but Their own ******* pulse Dum dum dum Can you hear me singing over The sounds of your skull? Dum dum Do you see my mouth flutter like an insect that shares and dances or Do you only see your own stupid Eyelashes? And their own ******* rumba? The only thing you truly own is Yourself You don't need to claim ownership of yourself and be this Attentive to yourself the one thing that's yours— Look harder in front of you don't Dumb dumb dumb yourself Down Like a mindless lacklustre thing! Paint with the Colours of other people Stop waiting for your Turn to talk Wipe the spit from your Chin
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I Am Showing the Picture of a Poem From the infinite ocean flowing in nature, With the spoon of my senses, I scoop it out— It has no color, no scent, No religion, no language, Made manifest by senses and emotions from the unexpressed, Soaked in science, philosophy, psychology, and sociology, Adorned by art and literature— That poem which has birthed countless poets, And will keep giving birth to more, Yet no poet ever gave it birth. I am showing the picture of a poem, It becomes what the poet’s consciousness shapes it to be, It flows as the current of emotions drives it— It holds no single essence, Yet from it flow all nine rasas. It has no form—solid, liquid, or vapor— Yet it can mold the subtle being Into the shape of a human or even enlightenment, A picture adorned on the stage By the seven notes and rhythms. I am showing the picture of a poem, Which cannot be bound by the glue of caste, Nor veiled by the garb of religion, Which cannot be tied by the ropes of borders and lines, Which the fire of ego and attachment cannot scorch, Which time cannot confine, Which cannot be erased by the will to destroy. O poem, flowing endlessly in nature, I seek to give you my colors, With the spoonful my consciousness can hold, I try to serve you from your infinite sea. I and my vision will one day vanish, But you will remain, for you are the seer— Though unexpressed yourself, you can become manifest, With no birth, no death, For you are a poem, Ever-flowing in nature, You are a poem.
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Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 2:28 AM UTC
sajan-koirala
picture of poem
I Am Showing the Picture of a Poem From the infinite ocean flowing in nature, With the spoon of my senses, I scoop it out— It has no color, no scent, No religion, no language, Made manifest by senses and emotions from the unexpressed, Soaked in science, philosophy, psychology, and sociology, Adorned by art and literature— That poem which has birthed countless poets, And will keep giving birth to more, Yet no poet ever gave it birth. I am showing the picture of a poem, It becomes what the poet’s consciousness shapes it to be, It flows as the current of emotions drives it— It holds no single essence, Yet from it flow all nine rasas. It has no form—solid, liquid, or vapor— Yet it can mold the subtle being Into the shape of a human or even enlightenment, A picture adorned on the stage By the seven notes and rhythms. I am showing the picture of a poem, Which cannot be bound by the glue of caste, Nor veiled by the garb of religion, Which cannot be tied by the ropes of borders and lines, Which the fire of ego and attachment cannot scorch, Which time cannot confine, Which cannot be erased by the will to destroy. O poem, flowing endlessly in nature, I seek to give you my colors, With the spoonful my consciousness can hold, I try to serve you from your infinite sea. I and my vision will one day vanish, But you will remain, for you are the seer— Though unexpressed yourself, you can become manifest, With no birth, no death, For you are a poem, Ever-flowing in nature, You are a poem.
Continue reading...
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