"recipient" poems
It seemed the space between us became torn and
Profoundly distanced....................
Jamming bony knuckles and spread eagled fingers,
Lying their mapped out journey.....direction on point patrol....
Adorned by silver decoration, delighting in their skinned habitat
Shafted, deceit punching the recipient of the poison digits
Prodding and pushing their intent....dare you contradict
The intended carved out dose of punishment, Risk and
Safety......not yours and never would be; stooped
Down under the assailing bony palmed attachements
That delivered penetrating power, cupped around
Your arm til it became discoloured, pressure points
Backed you into a corner, up against the grain of the
Brick wall, cold and damp, the odour reaching
And scolding your nostrils with its stale internal vows
Refuse, stretching and protruding its foul remnents
An earlier life, when you were not under threat fades
Your very existance in jeopardy, your eyes pleaded for
Normality, willing someone to hear your silence, grip you
Tightly, not with malice, but with bravery and valour
Right now you need that shining knight, that white
Horse galloping down the blind alleyway, yet you
Know that won't happen for you're already sinking
To the floor, the blow comes sharp and stings, warmth
Exudes and trickles a path downwards, leaving your
Body, finding the cold concrete beneath you, travelling
Outwards................
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
Shabash
Shābāsh (Hindi: शाबाश, Urdu: شاباش, Punjabi: ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼, Bengali: শাবাশ, Telugu: శబాష్) is a term used in the Indian subcontinent to signal commendation for an achievement, similar in meaning to
bravo and kudos.
……………………………………………
a poem writ sometimes, oft,
snaps back,
I was surprising recipient
of a commendation in language
I knew not
the poem spoke well
of broken boundaries,
between in this instance,
Jew and Muslim,
capturing a momentary parting
of the seaways and
walls of misbelief
and mischief,
normally employed
to keep our divisions,
parted perpetually
I’ve decided to begin to
use shabash now,
my ‘go to’ word
from now on,
a small quiet way
to say
well done
it starts with one word,
a stretching hand across
the face fence,
imagining John Lennon’s
imagine-world,
who lay dying when I was
a young father of thirty,
me residing less than a
mile away from each other
little could I imagine then that
poetry would pick me at all,
especially to write of words
in dialects I don’t speak,
but imaging their pastel colorations
flying by in gentle breezes,
eager to be grabbed,
plucked from the air,
tongued and loved
so!
when I say to you,
in the softest spoke,
shabash!
to all of us,
for choosing this path,
using your words in
every dialect,
to spread the imagination
of good will
8-4-2019
10:10 am
S.I.
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC
I waste myself for you, oh page.
I battle sleep and demons and
Face what I would otherwise
Curtail, for the simple act of
Filling you up.
I trap everything that I am
Within you, page. A web for my
Foggy thoughts, dew caught like
Tears, crystallising the opaque
Within my life.
You are the recipient in my mind,
Oh page. Brain chatter forced into
Structure, a soldier. Almost a child.
You **** me like an alpha, my borrowed
Pleas at your feet.
And so I tread you like infant snow.
Each print a scar, each word a brittle
**** stem. Your silence a truth beyond
My own and whatever I say
Will pollute it.
So I walk round in circles. Tiptoes
Like sparrows, piecrust shapes in
The snow. I walk in circles to not
Carve a path. To hide my meaning.
Don’t follow me home.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
I rush for love against time
And bleed blood by design
My heart floods for my crimes
When my mud attracts flies
I felt a rush
Through the brush
Of your skin so lush
I turned to mush
My heart began to gush
When I felt your rush
It became too much
And I exploded prematurely
Though it's normal you assured me
Could it be that you had cured me?
We rushed through our adrenaline courtship
While I rushed through your adorable hips
I was ****** in by your surge
Until your love was purged
You grew bored of my rush hour
So you exerted your push power
And I became a fastidious learner
That you were an insidious burner
After I became the sole recipient
Of your attitude that's flippant
The pain is a rush
This pain when you flush
Disdain when you crush
Me to pieces
Between your creases
When you keep talking feces
It's something that never eases
When your rush turns to breezes
You're a rush in my heart
Like the rush when I ****
It's a relief that you're gone
But something seriously stinks
It's a relief you were wrong
Yet I continue to sink
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
*Those who quilt
have their secrets..
emerging patterns
laced together..
an initiating flash
then flow of thread
filling the symmetry
with surprise..!
pained reluctance
those corrections..
finally uplifting joy..
Those who quilt
then ask this question:
does the recipient
of this labored gift
resonate with even
one-tenth appreciation..?
is she really
Quilt worthy...?*
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, best alone again:>
their tongues spoke in languages of dim black
not for the people, not for the universe, just for the humane lack
their mercuries slipped into a coma of grace
is it too much of an ask to grant a questioning face?
their secrets molded, intertwined, & folded
for the eyes to formulate the truth from the lie sorted
their breathes sent beat to their hearts to syncopate that keeper
then feels out of their laces or not just them alone in the Ether
their dreams although vanished weren't a matter of none
for the hurt to be a double impressionist's helixed one
their souls craved for a carve of that humble form
so do they submit to rain & dance under the thundering storm?
cliché or not
somethings are left unsaid without a period dot
blunt or rude
better feel shame from faults than when ****
what does it mean, to be delicate's recipient ?
to be an exception to the head of a never lenient?
what does these ancient walls say?
if the colors of the face couldn't cover up before that end day?
a crime to deny them sensations
to get to know someone in six conversations
-------ravenfeels
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 4:29 PM UTC
service failure the ***** will offer
there's something medically askew with it
the usual role is proving so unfit
a second chance in a transplant's proffer
another dies to bring life back again
wellness being redeemed by precious gift
the recipient receives a big lift
living's joy restored out of the rain
someone's kind donation affording breath
so that the period of existence stays
a healthy liver performing its job
for not to have this giving there'd be death
the bestowment allows those future days
gratitude felt within a person's cob
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
Limitless affection,
My affection is limitless.
Like a clock without a long arm
my love is minuteless
but a message
with no recipient is meaningless,
Still I Love....
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
The attendees are told, in a manner befitting a high mass
You have been finally set free,
(Although, in truth, free is a very large and entirely vague word),
And the message is sent forth from all comers in all corners:
Vendor and visionary alike,
German socialists who left university to ride boats for Greenpeace,
First lieutenants doing their level best
To appear at ease in civilian polos and khakis,
But no matter the vessel,
The message is still the same.
The tyranny of cables and storage space is dead,
It is all but shouted from the lecterns,
(Although it is noted, in small print and sotto voce
That there are certain requirements
In terms of hardware and licensing)
And it is stated by Those Who Know
In tones which neither brook nor invite contradiction,
That they have surmounted, all Hadrian-like,
The alpine divide separating mere data and magic.
Two or three blocks down the street from the convention center,
In a narrow storefront housing an exhibition of ether-only comics
Which have broken the nettling constraints
Of editors and syndication,
There sits, under a somewhat opaque
And slightly scratched piece of plexiglass,
A yellowing comic strip of uncertain vintage,
In which a frowzy cat,
Free of the constraints of panels, gender, and standard grammar,
Is the recipient of a mouse-tossed brick
Whose flight, unfettered by physics, probablility, indeed time itself
Ends striking its mark right between the x’s of the eyes
The projectile itself an inexplicable alchemy
Of confusion, mirth, frustration
And the impossibility of an undeniably pure love.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
What are the truly indispensable things of Life?
Those meaningful, forever things,
Those enriching, soul sustaining,
can’t live without, nonmaterial things?
Those can’t reach out and touch them things?
The one’s that keep one breath following another?
Those things that foster the founding of religions,
Those that cause poets and writers to put pen to paper?
Of which most songs and music celebrate?
Those things that have forever inspired questions,
Without clear answers.
Those all so elusive concepts that only we humans pursue,
As essential to us as sunshine, air, water and food.
Those things that all humans spend
a life time in search of?
And far too many never find.
Those things that cannot be bought,
with worldly riches at any price?
These “things” I refer to center on matters
of the heart, and one's own brain,
These are the powerful, abiding gifts of self love,
And the bestowing of true love unto others,
And being the recipient of their love in return.
For without these indispensable precious things,
Though we possess everything else there is,
We remain a mere, empty vessel for want of filling.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
You have my breath taken.
You have my whole world shaken.
Your love gradually healed my pain.
I yearn to be a recipient of sweet kisses in the rain.
Let’s dwell in the mist of bliss.
I’ll wait for my winter hug and summer kiss.
These are my intimate thoughts.
Interludes of profound emotions.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
the house across the street
has been empty
for years
because the landlord can’t afford
to tear it down
or build a new one
and it won’t pass inspection
one lamp stays on
all day
all night
to deter the copper thieves
or any other broken soul
seeking shelter
from the streets
a child runs across the splintered floor
his feet black as tar
stinking of mildew and *****
a mother sinks into her soiled chair
but she tries
a trust-fund recipient rides his jet-ski
his oiled body
tanned and toned
a father, gleaming, takes a photo
and he flaunts
everyone has their own place in the world
in a trailer park
in a tent
in a split-level home
in a shelter
in a palace
but never on the pavement
beaten down
like a poorly-trained dog
blamed for the errors
of its master
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 11:38 AM UTC
On the day
I was baptized,
I sat in the back pew
of my church,
weeping.
It took a long time
for me to arrive
on the bank
of the
River Jordan
that Day of
All Saints.
Flanked by my
two young sons
also getting
dipped
that day,
moved
me to
solemn
tears;
humbled
that I
would wade
into the living
waters
with my sons
as brothers
in the
Living
Christ.
My fount
of tears
rolled
cause
I finally
arrived
as one of
Gods
own.
Today
I saw
Maya Angelou
weep.
She received
The Presidential
Medal of Freedom.
She sat while the
President placed
it around her neck.
She did not rise to
receive it.
I think she was
sitting in a wheelchair.
She looked tired
but she was not feeble.
She was humble
yet remained unbowed.
Her eyes were closed
as they read a citation
about her; yet I know
her vision remains
keen.
She did not look up.
She quietly wept.
The President kissed
her cheek after
he clasped the award
around her neck.
Maya Angelou
never
looked up.
She just
wept.
Maya,
fellow award
recipient
John Lewis
and
their
son
Barack
Obama
have
arrived;
sitting at
America's
table
of freedom,
as
Maya Angelou
gently
weeps.
2/15/11
Oakland
jbm
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 6:15 PM UTC
One story may change the world someday. One that will revolutionize the steady constants of how everyday aspects judges itself too harshly. Never finding the solve of anti pressure release syndromes. Plot is plot. Ideas are always outspoken. Even if one or the other hasn’t agreed. Won’t change the facts given to the recipient who may have already judged the opposing two. Without running through what they have already been about. Futuristic plot devices aren’t important. As it may not even exist. Storytelling being a futuristic realization to knowing something before it happens. Feelings clawing thought processes. Thought processes trying to equalize the incoming rush of emotions that rise and fall. Feelings being a different breed centered in the middle of the steady constant. Revolutionizing what you already know. Blind to see it through. Thought processes aren’t too judging. Except when you start to trust feelings too much. A jealous implication arises. Knowing what you already know before it happens. Is no different then how one already figured it out. Feelings handle it with care. Thought processes stuck in the mud. A puppy without any directional skills. A master never telling its true flaws if it couldn’t understand itself to begin with. Jealousy is rising even more. A fixed implication is becoming more dominant. Revolutionizing the main flaw more and more. Nothing is without equal if you never give it a chance. Feeling the way through all the clutter. Clutter not being your fault. You were molded by the pressure of what storytelling has made you into. Plot devices center these focuses without thinking outside itself. Your only to blame, when subjects apart of your judging becomes too sterile for you to notice anymore. Drying out the process of trusting something with care. Becoming one who is blind to never looking outside itself again! Becoming the stick in the mud. How does one avoid? Easy! Storytelling being a futuristic realization! PS… Don’t claim what you already know!
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 11:18 PM UTC
Comeback
Perhaps I should be grateful
That I never was recipient
Of great applause,
Years of adorers,
Broadway’s honey,
Years of being stunning,
Grateful that
I never had to kowtow, bow out,
Miss the kudos and the fame,
Never knowing what life was
With and without them, since I never got them.
Never got to play Las Vegas,
Glad there never came a time
Of longing for a non-existent encore,
Cheering I no longer hear.
Hair going grey,
Kilos heading the wrong way,
You are asked to make a comeback,
Or you’ve asked to make a comeback;
Life feels boring,
No alluring pleasure takes the place
Of listener filled with earful grace.
You sweat and strain, extra kilos off again,
Get back routines,
Move as you did in your teens,
Flexibility, the voice retaining every nuance.
Frank and Cher came back again - and then again.
We followed each rendition, each gradation, limitation;
Cheered until the cheers turned into hesitation.
I am grateful that I never
Had the clamouring for autographs and tresses,
Shredded dresses, theirs and mine.
Never had the glamour and the clamour of masses,
Fervent need to make a comeback,
Coming back to audiences smelling wine:
Hard to define.
And still I play and sing and grow.
Comeback 5.28.2008/revised3.19.2021
Birth, Death & In Between; Time; Vaguely About Music; Arlene Nover Corwin
Mar 19, 2021
Mar 19, 2021 at 5:07 PM UTC
and this
I suppose,
is the life I'm living;
bundled up,
walking through the snow
with a hundred and two fever.
handling money
all day,
more and more and more money:
never enough.
taking money from those with too much,
giving it in turn to those with disgustingly too much.
alienated, dehumanized,
I work for those who think of me as a number. 60 hours a week,
I sweat and sweat,
selling a product I could never afford.
alienated and dehumanized;
I toil.
there is no pride.
my eyes: they no longer sparkle.
there is no pride,
there is no relationship with my product.
there is no pride in barely affording rent.
there is no pride in not being able to visit the health clinic.
there is no pride in being exploited.
go ahead, vamanos comradita,
speak out against, you know the worst they can do.
add a black mark next to your name,
call you:
radical,
dissident,
extremist,
in a word: othering
you are othered because you wish to eat the fruits of your toil.
you are othered because you're a human, you're not a number,
you're not a spot to be filled when scheduling, you're more than the recipient of corporate pay checks.
toil, toil comraditas,
there will one day be pride
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
I got a letter from the government
A week back, Tuesday morning
It came in a grey envelope
It was stamped with a red warning
The envelope was tattered
And the words were inked in red
To be opened by recipient
That was all it said
I checked the name typed on there
It was mine, so I could see
John Augustus Reed
Beale Street, Unit 43
I opened it and sat right down
I had been drafted so it said
I had to report on Thursday
I heard a ringing in my head
I didn't understand it all
To me it made no sense
This plain grey mottled envelope
Sent from my government
I followed the instructions
And showed up promptly at the place
Something was asunder
I could tell from the man's face
I showed him my draft letter
Explained, I didn't understand
He looked at it and laughed a bit
This wasn't what I'd planned
He said son, is this you
Are you John Augustus Reed
I told him I'm John Junior
He said that's all the news I need
This letter is a glitch, boy
It wasn't meant for you
It was sent out to your father
Back in nineteen seventy two
Somehow it was mangled
Got lost along the way
Until somebody found it
And you got it on that day
I'm glad you chose to come here
Showed up exactly when it said
But, I think you now can go on home
I think it's best, instead
It's amazing how one letter
And you can take this to the bank
Can fill a man with honor
For that I must give thanks.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
For once I would like to be longed for. I have spent countless hours of my life yearning for love from people who did not know how to accept mine. I have been told time and time again that not everybody will understand the way I love. Not everyone holds their hearts in the same regard as I do so they do not know how to return my love back to me. Over time I started confessing my love in front of mirrors, my reflection both the sender and the recipient of my love letters.
For once I would like to be the girl you dream about. I want to be on the receiving end of smiles from bubbly girls. I long to be the one to make brooding boys laugh. I am the only one writing poems about strangers I see in the streets. I make playlists for my best friend to tell her I love her but never send them. My love has been rejected too many times to take chances. I have accepted that maybe I’m only meant to dish out love like donations. My heart is spare change in empty coffee cups on busy city sidewalks.
For once I would like to be loved. Not just liked. Not just a fling or a fleeting thought or another notch on another persons bedpost. I want someone to think of me in the same way I think of them. I want someone to look at me and see a spark. A possibility. A future that’s worth working for. I would like to be on the receiving end of goodnight texts sent long after I’ve already fallen asleep, so when morning comes I can know I’m on someone’s mind even when I’m not present. Maybe someday I’ll be the girl you hear about in love songs but for now I’ll keep writing love letters I never send. Spilled ink will never hurt as deeply as watching someone you love not love you back.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 10:03 AM UTC
My poetry is an acquired taste,
So come, dear one,
Place your tongue in my mouth.
Pace yourself, there is so much,
Spoke and unwritten,
That fruitions only when spit-shared.
Flick your tongue-tip to mine,
Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes,
The iambic meter of my tamarind prose,
The buds, flowering, poems forming,
Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva.
My poetry, so very complicated,
Hints of currants and ash,
Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes,
Cursed verses that commence with I,
Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued,
Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble.
Yours, for the taking,
Yours, for the tasting.
You place your fingers on my waist,
My body of work to contemplate,
My ditties, you spit out,
You want courses, not appetizers,
You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings.
Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named,
Trace the curvature of my ***
With tip and tipsy stroked caresses,
You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's.
Hissing all the day your satisfaction,
Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress,
Recipient-thief of my literary largesse.
I am dressed all in white,
Stripped bare to my native coloring,
Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick,
Imbibing milky thoughts from fountain-heads *****
Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor.
With every line, every word-painting accessioned,
You make my soft parts hard,
My hard parts soft, but my liquidity,
My tears, they, that, you drink straight,
Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing,
You tongue curled, upside down arching,
The storage point of your seduced gatherings.
To drain me full, your incisors cut,
Straight lines, entry points for your *******
Taking, draining, leaving nothing,
Not even one aleph or bet escaping.
When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity,
Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and *****
Your acquired the best, breaking my nape,
Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape,
Blanched and pained, a blank tape,
I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
A Finn-Dorset clone,
Now not the alone.
Born on 5 July in 1996,
She died on Valentine's Day in 2003.
The celebrity sheep she died at the age of six,
Produced not from the common ovine ***
Somatic Cell Nuclear Transfer created her, read on.
Named after Dolly Parton,
'Coz of her admired *****
Somatic cells were taken from a sheep's udders,
Extracted not without the sheep's jitters.
This sheep was the donor.
However, these cells were enucleated,
And the enucleated nucleus was handled.
Injected it was into a Finn-Dorset's embryo,
Oh yes, the embryo was without a nucleus.
This sheep was the recipient.
Without a folly, born was Dolly,
Resemble she did the donor.
Not only in its visible phenotype
But also in its invisible genotype.
Differ she did but only in her mitochondrial DNA.
Her birth did open a new portal,
Now pet lovers get their pets cloned.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 11:16 AM UTC
I know your name,
But do you know mine.
Everlasting features,
You will have,
Theres beauty in your sings.
You glisten in the dawn of lights.
Catastrophic Atmospheres,
Can only determine real beauty if you unwind.
I watch you from a distance,
At least when I ever I get a chance.
You know my name though,
You just don't know,
My heart for you is on demand.
So do you really know my name.
Secrets tell lies,
By the time it reaches it first recipient,
It already said its first cry.
Nothing underneath or between it,
No blank slates,
But no hieroglyphic signs,
To show you my heart.
My heart races against time,
To take a look upon your face,
Your beauty is only shown,
In the deepest part of memories grace.
I could only see you in my dreams I spew,
Counting down the moment,
When I wake only not to see you.
Do you know my name?
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
My creative writing teacher from last semester just emailed me.
I am the 2013 recipient of the James Haba Award for Excellence in Poetry.
And 6 of my poems are going to be published in the Mid Rivers Review!
I am so excited!! Thank you all so much for your support and your constructive criticism.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
#
There is a responsibility, borne
within an online conveyance
of the heart
when it comes to publicly posted poetry..
For within the conveyance of words
released into the Universe..
*(words once residing within
the inner linings of heart and soul.. words..
now made seen and known to all)*
is the deeply embedded DNA
of the author,
wherein lies the accountability;
when those words, bearing
genetic imprint
enter into the heart of another.
I write specifically
over things touched within me
But try to convey it
in a sense.. Universally
so that it might be taken in
by any and all
.. That the benefits of Love's beautiful ways
may find access into the parts of the heart
that need it most..
sometimes, sneaken in and finding root
before the receiver is even aware..
bringing, inside the recipient's skin
healing
But also the potentiality
of becoming hurt.
I am sorry.
You
(and most everyone else in the world)
rarely, if ever.. talk to me.
But I watch you just the same
solely by what you write.
My existence causes pain.
That.. I know.
I love you more
than you will ever know.
I would stop writing, but I don't know how
There's not a 12-step group
for these things
I dream of one day being killed
for who it is that I am.
I dream.. and then I smile.
But I do not smile at all,
the times I see that you are hurt.
I have real arms,
*..within this poetic world
that is so very intangible--*
When you cry,
they could not truly show you
it's okay
They cannot show anyone
that it's okay
Everyone's afraid of me
like I'm some kind of perpetrator
So I will die alone.. judged
for things I have not done
So I am sorry, my Beautiful--
It really is all my fault
for ever truly wanting to see.
All I ever wanted to do
was become able to see
and overcome the hurt
that long ago so horribly hurt me
You've become hurt
by my ability to see.
I'm sorry.
#
Feb 12, 2023
Feb 12, 2023 at 11:28 AM UTC
#sweet lord, girl..
I like the way your brain moves its thoughts into its own deeper
realms with each thing said. You have that rare gift of being able to
be your own internal/external Muse.. even while midstream within
the process of writing it all out.
Alone.. maybe more than you may think you want to be, you are
never lonely. A very rare thing indeed in the modern world, kid.
Very unique, and very very special.
(It is very much the truth..)
I would always hope for the gifted ones such as yourself, that you
would always and ever-increasingly be able to see your own
worthiness in yourself in being chosen to be a bearer of such a
wonderful gift. Kierkegaard was a chosen recipient such as you
(your rare mind's unfolding thought processes are in ways, much
like his), and through his own beautiful self-love, became.. through
his stewardship of the gift, the father of Existentialism. He felt the
Living Word within him, causing his wonderous mind to feel also,
through thought.. which in turn, churned deeply his
forever-goldmining heart, which in turn, mused his mind into deeper processings of the deeply-felt word's expressions--
ever-cycling.. ever churning within him, until every cell within his
electrified body became fully lit..
And out onto paper it all went.. as what was so beautifully
self-Mused within him was brought out from an internally-lit
darkness and into the full light of day. The deeply-searching, in you
is in relationship with the gifted Magical in you,
(which is also so very much you [the gifts are irrevocable]),
bringing out words and concepts/thought processes pretty much
previously unknown here in this world. Make your own self-Love..
self forgiveness.. self-acceptance, and self understanding.. all your Art..
And it will be your art that most blesses this world down here.
You've already got the goods, kid.. watch them become greatly
clarified in you as your own self-Love becomes your own finest art.
The gift, you already have-- clear as clear can be. Shame and
condemnation are powerful enough down here to make even the
most purest of pure, become obscure.
Mm.
Yeah, kid..
*"In the end..
The Love you take (in)
Is equal to
The Love, you make"*
Make your own self love, your goal-- surround yourself with
loving truthtellers who will love you for who you truly are.. rather
than what they want you to be (or think you should be) for them.
Clearly you are worth every single bit of it all.
~Paul
*(preston
M Vogel
F Unting Somethingoranother)*
#
Jan 28, 2022
Jan 28, 2022 at 9:38 PM UTC
I am soft and mandible:
fresh clay, the inside of an oyster, the belly of an armadillo.
vulnerable. tender. the anti-sharp.
everything is blurred. dulled. hidden
behind a gossamer haze and ambient noise.
a photo out of focus. one eye closed and ten feet back.
dizzy. so dizzy. disoriented.
there is no logic here. no rules. no laws.
and that’s what makes it horrible and incomprehensible.
the transplant recipient still dies. the man in perfect health
suddenly has cancer.
the proned patient flipped back to supine for intubation
codes and dies immediately.
nonsense. it’s all nonsense.
it's easier to take a breath and
compartmentalize.
Aug 15, 2021
Aug 15, 2021 at 8:37 PM UTC