"redesigned" poems
Sweet was the ancient tale once told,
Of star-born realms and skies above,
When primal hearts, though proud and bold,
Still held the thread of love.
From rose-hued lands where dreamers grew,
No scorn arose, nor warlike word.
‘Twixt cultures old, the wise and true
A gentle peace was heard.
The sea lay calm, the waves moved slow,
While birds sang high on salted air.
The stars, the moon, and myths below
Drew hearts with gentle care.
When Orpheus, with lyre in hand,
Could charm the trees and still the shore,
He sang not just of death’s dim land,
But love that dared for more.
And songs poured out, both wide and bright,
Unbound by ticking clocks or schemes.
A joy unspoiled by neon light
Still stirs in silent dreams.
No noise, no screen, no hollow glow,
Just fireside tales and open skies
A world less fast, yet rich to know,
Where wonder met the eyes.
But now, a broken engine hums,
Where whispers clash and meanings blur.
Though minds are fed, the heart succumbs
In dreamy shadows stir.
This modern sprawl, in steel-clad guise,
Sees freedom drown and ruins swell.
While gilded dame with cunning eyes,
Buys silence, sells the shell.
Sweet childhood homes that most recall,
Still mourn the loss of treasured views.
While elders chase the siren’s call,
The Futures drown in hues.
O bitter jest, this march of mind,
That trades the soul for hastened days.
Where hearts and minds are redesigned
By profit’s clever maze.
Progress cloaked where truths are wrung
May blind the heart and charm the tongue;
But in the hush, old songs are sung
Still bold, still clear, still young.
Naturae consors esto
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 10:02 PM UTC
When I met you, I was a draft.
An artwork to never be complete.
My eyes of charcoal
My veins of graphite
No color flowed through me for I was
Lifeless.
You opened up to me
You redesigned my thoughts.
Your paintbrush stroked a bright blush onto my cheeks
You turned me into
Bright pastels
With glorious indigos
Overwhelming scarlets
And mysterious lavenders.
You kissed me in a backdrop of
Forest greens.
You created scenery for
Every emotion,
Dressed me with rainbows,
And completed my blank spaces.
You turned me into a masterpiece.
But before you could sign your
Glorious painting
You realized
You could do better pieces
And pastel was over rated anyways.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
Wishing to be a White Pine in Washington States,
where my happiness was redesigned with love, nature and humanity,
where food is a culinary ******
and people good representation of human beings.
I would like to enhance nature,
provide oxygen ,housing to the kingdom of fauna,
and fragrance to the essence of earth.
Deforesting me is a common job
Exploited me is wood trafficking
Causing divesting consequences:
species extinctions, global climate change
damage of soil, and hazard of agriculture
Loosing me will impact other species,
Collapse of the entire ecosystem,
Understanding
keeping me alive is keeping you alive
killing me is killing you
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
not especially social,
just a couple of friends,
so our interaction qualifies,
special, very,
with sincerity I say,
fancy seeing you here
come and gone,
come back again,
restarting an engine,
that been redesigned
to be as simple as
you and me,
reader, writer
quit, here, brevity here,
but say out loud that word,
fancy
one mo' time
part fantasy,
special, very,
a poem read,
a fan friendship established
here, where words and eyes
intersect, a very fancy place...
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:52 AM UTC
I gause now it is clearly visible
Money makes the world go round…
Majority would sell their soul for the love of money
The money that would only last for their generation
Being creative is not a sin…
Copy and paste can cause damages that would take several decades to fix
Engineering was the for the reason
Though poor engineering design can cause some damages that can be redesigned and modified
You let it go and you will suffer
You intervene you are wrong you will be assassinated
You spread the word and get ignored…
Colonisation still exist Indirectly…
Now it’s even worse
Colonised by private individuals because he can afforded
They land were they can jus like a cat
They get to be protected
People get to be question and uncertainty answer are the…
Capital city road are in a mess
Foreign country benefits
The community suffer
Fuel price goes up at the same rate as traffic congestion
Closing all the freedom of travelling to work
Depression gets agrivated
Financial strain becomes a norm
Fools are enjoying the fruits
The greedy are on holiday
The investors are making more deals
The official know the bribery language better
The nation is falling down
The grow rate is stand still
More and more labour strikes takes place
The economy gets dragged on mud
Consciousness people are disappointed
Anger is boiling
Crime is going to increase
Drug use is a norm
Opportunist are flying like scavengers
Poor government is a shame
It also affect those who are not political
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
liquid crystal display
glimmering salacious self-imagery at you,
your lips parted and breath
staccatoing along, flitting just
behind the beat, like your aunt's
first dance at the wedding reception (before
she's had enough to drink) or
her last (when she's had
too much)
she was in the passenger seat
on our drive homeward, leaning in
to the driver's seat conspiratorially,
oblivious to your beauty splayed out
exhausted in the backseat.
"she's my
baby niece, and you better not
**** with her
heart, you hear me missy?"
and I assured her I wouldn't as you
laughed and laughed, bell peals
in the backseat and church bells
echoing in my ear, past and possible
future, sodium vapor lights
slipping away along the highway as
your aunt slid back into the passenger seat.
"so"
"so"
"she's quite a
character," I say, bemused, and your
eyes crinkled at the corners like
newspaper redesigned during crumpling as
kindling for the fire, blue and blue and blue
in the backseat.
"that's true"
"just like you"
"just like me" you agree,
crossing your legs, legs that go on
for dynasties in thigh highs and
your dress riding up too high for my eyes
to focus on the taillights ahead of us when
paradise is in the rearview:
love is
cold lobster bisque
in a big bowl in bed in the morning,
two spoons and a carton of orange juice
arrayed on the covers atop our
entangled legs.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
And I built shrines in my eyes to you
to mourn what I never had but still held onto.
Dove into an ocean of profound blue
only to come out still nothing anew.
I look out at fig trees
ponder like the Greek’s great Socrates
question my disease,
the words I can’t release.
My life spinning all around him
orbitals of light grown dim.
Through space you cannot swim
from the sins you have been condemned.
If I am mad as they say
how do I still walk the driveway?
Worship on the Lord’s day;
get down on my knees and pray?
Faithful I am, still, to the life I have lived
however disguised.
Loving, as I will when all has died.
Everything you’ve seen is advertised,
a movie set in frames
the tape up in flames.
How tired she is of playing your games,
mouths running to blame.
Me? I am just fine.
Owing it all to bottles on bottles of sparkling wine,
to you and your redesigned
view of the dividing line.
If you wake a girl from her dreams
the gentle chug of a mind’s machine
will it break down, by all means?
It’s better to let her softly scream.
Than distract from the will of inspiration,
of art and death's flirtation.
Continue the persisting narration
speak her mind, give it standing ovations!
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 3:01 PM UTC
Our childhood's prime game;
Creating a paper plane.
Making it fly high,
But it never reached the sky.
We would continue to raise the bar,
But still we wouldn't get very far.
We would trust a redesign,
But never anything different from our own design.
We would work soley for ourselves;
To keep the success to ourselves.
We would spend all day redesigning a paper plane,
But never on redesigning our life's shame.
We live for a paper plane
And its thrill - day by day.
We would accept our life's flaws,
But never our paper plane's flaws.
We would live for irrelevant people and objects,
But never for our own salvation.
We would live with a self-opinionated attitude,
But why do we now live with our opinion based on that of the world?
We live like a paper plane;
Flying high, just to be redesigned.
The world never helps us stay sane
As we're always seen as a failed design.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
How do you rest
after the days
that spins your mind
Into unrest;
Is there a place
that nights are kind
Is my distress
can't be erased
and redesigned
Into a zest
that I dare taste
the hope to find
From a hopeless
pile of 'today's
I can't unwind
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
I am your disease,
every time I come around you vanish me
in every cry whimper or sneeze
I am the ****** in side your head
you are to scared to embrace
I am the horns of the devil
and the smile upon the angels face
I am the dream you cant control
I am the drug that makes you go
we've turned into the monster
that we fought not to be
deep in a darkened whole
black eyes no longer see
burning bridges
perceptive imperfection
a left hand turn
in the right direction
I am your release
everything you want you take from me
echoing your disease
all you are and all you will ever be
elapse relapse reprise your demise
I am the horns of the devil redesigned
objects perplex reflect there subjects
I'm the smile upon the angels face
you are the moral in my dark soul
the purpose to be found
a voice tells you to let go
it's more beautiful 6 feet underground
laying in bed dreams of voluntary aggression
upon waking disappointing depression
or are we being naive now, thought dissection
deflect suspect rejects, infection perfection
who will even see the things we create
think it's great to annihilate the whole human race
debilitating thoughts not knowing how to feel
like naive dogs lost without there master
treasure pain, because without pain
there is no pleasure hit the main vain
insanly refrain from the mundain strain
bane lame thoughts plains of blood stains
I'm asking not knowing what is real
conditions of contradiction & elusive entities
entanglement of putrid bodies
in a mind stricken by poverty
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
The graveyard
had been redesigned
The walkways had
been realigned
The biggest change
At least to me
Was the signs now out
For all to see
Five short words
that we all read
Not keep off the grass
Don't tread on the dead
Genius,
You'd have to say
Don't walk where we
The dead all lay
This sign,
It said it best
Don't tread on the dead
Let them all rest
Keep on the path
Respects may be paid
Just stay off the grass
One request made
The simplest sign
The words stay in your head
Not...keep off the grass
Just...Don't tread on the dead
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
Some like their poetry with ten percent less
Compressed
Into small, easy to swallow portions
Contortioned
Into short, sweet sugar-coated contents
Condensed
Into watered down soups for those emotionally constipated
Concentrated
Into thoughtless juice for the self-conflicted
Constricted
To the mind of the starving poet, cosmetically redesigned
Continuously Confined
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
Monotony surrounds us
We're stuck within a vault
There will be no more success
After this assault
Such a troubled state of mind
That takes us to this place
Our thoughts have been redesigned
For no one to replace
Reformation takes its toll
With no regard for identity
As one by one, we lose control
Of what used to be serenity
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 6:08 PM UTC
My sides have been stuck,
struck with pointed thorns;
unborn tragedies seething for
release.
Each one, I picked and prodded,
and left in soiled animosity;
bitter knots wreathed in poisonous
posterity.
Each foreign touch seems to have
left my gall cascaded
but Yours, debated -
a rhythmic ring of probing
pessimisity.
I breathe.
You squeeze,
touch my outer fringe, the withering;
I freeze.
You bequeath a fresh'ing thorn.
I writhe,
Moments collide -
fourth dimensional paradigms -
commonly unseen,
birthing blooms by vestal wounds;
you cut the stem,
you redesigned the strife,
in obsequios streams.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
I vaguely remember our car rides together
I wished they'd last forever
We drove around singing Queen
Imagine what could have been?
I'm nearly eighteen,
I'm beginning to forget
I vaguely remember us at Disney
I cling on to the memory fragments
Reenactments of my mind
I wish our lives where redesigned
I've been told you rocked me to sleep
Where are you now when I'm trying to fall asleep?
I vaguely remember your bad jokes
When I awake you're still not here
I imagine our little conversations today
We could play or sway or you could help me with an essay
Possibilities which will never be
Because you did not stay
It dawned upon me, I have spent most of my life away from you
That makes me feel so blue
I wish we could start anew
For I so desperately miss you
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
One of a kind???
To be undermined
As this earth is redesigned
by so called masterminds
The future predefined
becoming unaligned
and a lot less kind
The direction does not have to be underlined
The evils has all combined
To define the fate
of Mankind
The divine it seems
confined
Mankind has lost it's faith
Now it's only about cyberspace
So much time with this we waist
Is it upper case or lower case
is it in the database ???
It will be the down fall of the human race
You wait!!
Can't you see how it dominates
It will detonate
Mankind
As we overpopulate
We need to reevaluate
the direction of
Mankind
!!
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
*when I turned eighteen
sadness filled my cups,
for carefree was now gone,
laying side by side
with all my companion figurines,
off to rest in a boy's toy chest
in a backyard cemetery hid,
certainty assured
all that I was, so far,
all that I will be,
uncalming coming forevermore,
unwilling borne upon
the newly time redesigned,
heavy load shoulders of adult responsibility
when I turned thirty,
sadder now by the means and meaning of accumulation,
having thrice now measured the length of a stick of life,
denominated as a decade,
wiser now that the children underfoot,
certainty assured,
would have to pay
bills of lading for cargoes,
not of their own choosing,
indeed, selected unwisely,
by men like me, and men before,
all too old or too gone,
to be prosecuted now for the
short sightedness of reckless timidity
when I turned fifty,
the shoulders slightly stooped and gently curved,
my gait and pace slowed by weight,
pockets laden with undesired memories,
unfinished arguments,
dreams that morphed and morted into
failed schemes that with the
certainty assured,
the tallied ache of known losses
will always weigh greater
than the
unknown of opportune
now with seventy,
so near, onrushing to the sounds
of old men and their noisy excuses
of babbling, ironical,
eerie similar to the parental smiling hushing
of a newborn's squeaking,
a youthful brook,
happily to an open sea arushing,
hurrying in the fullness of innocence to
it's demise
the line of sight to the horizon,
far shorter now than ere before,
with greater certainty assured,
that near my god than thee,
my sadness daren't hope to dissipate, nor lift
as once it did,
an early morn mist rising off the river,
freshly sun burnished, then miracle banished,
sacrificing itself as a hopeful oracle of a new born day
recurring haunted words
like rest, best and tried,
the only legacy remaining to gift,
but one thing yet measures a comforts,
a red cross blanket round the shoulders thrown that with
certainty assured,
the marvy joy of life all in,
be our given right to err and learn wisdom at our own pace
so here I freely confess
with wry, sly smile that we
proved ourselves to be
victims of our unintended tendencies,
successful in being*
all too human
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 7:35 PM UTC
I live in the shadows of the broken hearted.
Scars etched where my shoulder blades once lied.
Stuck deep with bloodied feathers,
that won't let me fly.
I carry a bow long and lean,
carved in it's opal flesh,
hearts mocking me.
With it lie my cursed arrows,
like a bad omen never to leave.
Not born in to life, but thrown
from Heaven was I,
to the grime of
a cracked planet, too far gone to survive.
To bestow love on the corrupt and broken,
the lost and hurt.
The kind of person I once was,
before I was murdered by God.
God is not as gentle and kind as you believe.
Flawed, human, and cruel.
Fragile and meaningless our life is to he,
demolished, and ended with ease.
God thought I would be missed the least.
That's why he chose me.
So now is my duty
to pierce the lonely, the loveless with my
****** arrows.
Give them the love, God never let me have.
I used to not watch the light that spread through their eyes
Electricity spark every nerve in their body
As my arrow ripped and tore
Redesigned their soul.
The pain was too much to bare.
I couldn't imagine seeing happiness so blunt,
so out of reach.
You see, I couldn't shoot myself with my own arrows.
There's no one I could fall for.
I've already hit the ground hard enough.
There's no where left for me to leave.
A sad reality I suffer, but the job must be done.
I must help the lonely ones.
Maybe next time I'll watch and see,
if the love in my arrows is really as strong
as I believe it to be.
I could see with my own eyes, the things I'll never have
and embrace the heartbreak and pain,
as luxary.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
my darling maudlin
foolish, peculiar. under-fed.
gushing, pressing your tongue against my teeth
urging please
to speak//to speak.
hosting riots
in my veins. extending out
rushing through my limbs
and then dissolving. quickly while i wasn't looking.
unspecific. waited too long. decision. decision. indecision.
no...
i always miss you
exploding under my skin. that over relished and insecure
notion
of being neglected. untouched. urgency and passion. flicking flickering. thrashing back into my throat splashing in the backs of my eyes. sneaking out the corners. searing like bile. whispering my name and asking me
who are you (again and)
who are you
who are you
i was...
(something)
lost and found and lost again. renamed and redesigned and turned
inside out again and again.
and again and
but i try to remember before i forget.
my darling maudlin. foolish
peculiar.
with damp hair. pale skin. under-fed
my
(( maudlin.))
unraveling like a poorly made
rag doll. oh ****
not again.
i twist her up. twitch.
guess i... guess i
been caught up in that thing again.
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC
frankly
I'm beginning to think that
everything is overrated
and I'm just sinking down underneath
the feet that have trod this path
a million times before
I was ever born.
I know we all walk the same way,
basically, and we all speak the same way-
diaphragm to lung to pharynx to tongue and teeth and lips
to ears
we are easily redesigned and programmed
to mimic those set before us
tweaking the most minute circumstance
and making it our own.
I know this, I know.
but what I want is nothing
something new and unbreakable
but what I want is overrated
and has been thought of.
we all have the same chances
the same mistakes
the same footprints,
essentially speaking.
we're all just bags of pulsing
muscles, bones,
blood and guts
moving forward, or backwards
(if you just squint your eyes and lean in
a little closer).
in a world where anyone can make it,
no one really does-
I know.
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
Looking through glasses is like seeing life through a tv.
You never see what's directly infront of you,
Only what's displayed through the glass.
Our natural vission should not be redesigned,
because this is how we are have been made to view our lives.
if all you have ever seen of this world was through glass,
Then have you really seen the true life you've lived?
Remove the specticales, and look around you.
This is what you're ment to see.
Everything else should not matter,
Cause it's something you should never of seen.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
I believe we are all innately energy. Energy can never be destroyed, but is subject to constant restructuring it's design while ever leaning towards entropy. How we can inadvertently give a part of ourselves that is then influenced and redesigned even further by the power of someone else's conscious mind, and then eventually spread so far and thin that it's as if we were never there beyond the grave as time passes. Beyond recognition. Take for example the lives we engage ourselves in. Have you ever sat down and said your name, given yourself an assessment of who you are today? Who you feel you are becoming through your actions and desires? Do you remember who you were years ago, or who you thought you might have been but had no possible way of ascertaining? We can't see the future (very far), but our imaginations allow us to dive in to possible futures based on our own self-cognitive intuition, desire, and furthermore by experiences of déjà vu. there are theories suggesting that our minds are so powerful that we send out electromagnetic impulses unconsciously which very well affect the world around us. I've had profound epiphanies like this a few times in my life, and it makes me think about my avoidance to be engaged in the present. And memory is biased towards our desire as well. We can repress our thoughts, blur years of experience, or forget them entirely. With all this said, I would like to end with a George R. R. Martin quote which concludes my belief that we are all inherently and innately forms of all types of energy, because for most, this is true.
"Men live their entire lives trapped in an eternal present, between the mists of memory and the sea of shadow that is all we know of the days to come."
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
I wish…
for bygone days
when folks put families first
Not jobs
Not climbing a corporate ladder
Not competing with the Jones
for bigger homes, better cars, smarter kids.
I wish…
for sublime satisfaction
thru the experience of God’s creation
Not from computers & video games
Nor TV & movies
smart phones or social media.
I wish…
that people did not suffer
When their jobs become obsolete
outsourced, redesigned, or restructured.
When they are pressed into conflicts
in their cities, states, or countries
For the sake of another’s perceived privilege
or personal gain.
But the Genie is out of the bottle…
Set free by wasted wishes
Carelessly contrived
Without lasting purpose or value
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
An unpredictable mind
Forever guessing
The matrix
Redesigned
Where insanity
Is A blessing
The shadow
In the darkness
A green
In the blue
The soft
In the harshness
A mystery
Without clue
The hope
In the hopeless
An individual
As a team
The road
Forever roadless
My reality
As a dream
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC