"releases" poems
There are five widely known senses.
Sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste.
We've got some minor ones as well, such as balance, temperature and many more.
However, people fail to realise that there's also the sixth major sense. Thoughts themselves.
If we look closely, all these five senses have the same base. Specified cells in eye react to energy of light, cells of ear recieve energy in form of air's vibrations, skin cells pick up energy of mechanical changes, and so tasting and hearing depend on translation of certain substances' chemical energy.
These cells in different organs differ in their structure and the way they appear, however, if we stop looking at them in such small scale, we can see that ALL of the cells or organs responsible for any sense translate the energy.
So, a light enters the eye, certain wavelenght of certain energy stimulates the eye's rod or cone cells with a certain intensity. Then the energy of light is translated to energy of electrical impulse, which goes straight to the brain, creating the sensation of sight.
If it comes to smell, a certain particle enters the nose, binds to a smell receptor cell, and the chemical energy of this particle is, again, translated to energy of electrical impulse, which goes straight to the brain, creating the sensation of smell.
Now, let's move to the crucial part. The sense of thoughts.
During the creation of thought, pathways in our brain that collect memories(and many more known or unknown pathways) connect. First, there's this spark of electricity, that moves all along the neuron and releases a dose of neurotransmitters(amount of different NTs is equiavlent to strength of this spark, basically resulting in "creating" various thoughts).
Then, chemical energy of NEUROTRANSMITTER is translated to energy of electrical impulse, which happens in the brain, creating the sensation of thought.
Therefore the 'sense of thoughts' reacts to and is stimulated by neurotransmitters themselves, with receptors on neurons' membrane being receptors of the stimulus. So, kind of like smell, the stimulus is chemical, compared to sight, where it's electromagnetic wave; anyways the result in all of these is electric impulse in neurons (hence the idea of "thoughts" as a sense, due to the same basic layout; transfer of energy).
The 'smell particle' connects to receptor and is translated to a certain amount of neurotransmitters/certain strenght of neuronal impulse. SO, again, we can see that when the first outer layer of this communication is cut off, we're left only with the neurotransmitters and impulses themselves. Anyway, the transduction of energy remains.
If it comes to "sense of thoughts" the receptor lies within us, whereas in sight or smell or touch it's external. However, does it matter if it's on the surface of skin or under it if it all comes down to neurons of our brain?
When you lie in a dark, silent room, without any external stimuli, you still retain your thoughts, colorful, vivid or complex. All the magic of the brain - still happens. So, how isn't it a separate, full-fledged sense?
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
“I would never be like those girls, they’re crazy.”
Thats what I told myself when I saw every girl fan girling over some boyband.
I always wonder why they have to cry even though their idols just tweeted a picture or releases a new song; music video.
I always wonder why they have to waste their time to vote.
It annoys me when they try their best to get their idols attention by spamming them.
Fangirls get to my nerves, but I stayed quiet.
I hated it.
I hated them because they’re dedicating their life to someone who doesn’t even know they exist.
I mean I like some bands, but I never ever did those stuff.
"I would never ever.”
I told myself.
But one day, I woke up…
"Hi, we’re 5 Seconds Of Summer."
Then everything started to change.
—
*And then and there
I knew… Im such an hypocrite.*
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
First touch
First kiss, bliss
I lick my lips
The tension releases
This feeling I feel
A sickness
This desire builds
All this touching
Still can't get my fill
Craving that look
Of passion in your eyes
Your disguise,
The satisfaction
Of friction, sweat
Dripping between crevaces
Following the path
The moisture leaves a trail
To the bottom of the ocean
Explosion
Keep going
To the flame inside
It burns, for you
Steady and hard
I feel this hunger
Quench my thirst
A slow and soft kiss,
First
Then it's just enough
The volcano erupts
Fall down, bliss
It all started
With one sweet kiss
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
By my dear angel Sandalphon as he has been lead in my hand, leaving a clear trail of a cursive writing on a transient sheet of paper,
A crimson sight, so black that one would be caught in trance, reflected by unnatural light of a lamp flickering in the dark of the night, as his feather releases a sweet scent of fresh yet unused ink,
Together with Zadkiel's blooming and happy memories I then am capable to write such down, in an attempt to create poetry, focused,
The sound of scratchy, itchy, rasping echos through this room I inhabit, but already left spititually, engaged in the world of fantasy,
Word by word, the paper is penetrated by this pen, pleasantly, thoughtfully, gently sliding over it to not damage it by accident,
There is no need for haste, heartache nor rush, not is there the need to be concerned about this angels work, duty and his mission to accompany me throughout each and every writing which unfurls,
Alike a story from my mind, from my emotions, deepest wishes, cast on the physical realm with his help,
And once his strengh weakens, fades, loses might and goes out alike an dying ember he will be dunked in fresh ongoing determination, so that he can repeat his duties with exuberance, joy
Casting a smile on my face once literature has been created,
As then I lay my dark knight, my servant for the night to rest,
Until another poem has to be written and his duty awakens him,
After all, in this dreamlike tale it is well to remember;
You don't have to die in a dream
~ Umi
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
I’ve written words since I found out that those graphite sticks
could form them and wrote my name
on the top of a kleenex box
when I was four.
I’ve written words since I learned that each one
held a meaning I could hear in my head.
I’ve written words since I realized that writing
releases them from my mind,
so that I can hear myself think.
I’ve written words because numbers run away from me,
just out of grasp, teasing me with
their teamwork and rigid cooperation
and parenthetical expressions.
I’ve written words never read by anyone,
words which embarrass with their frankness
words which I’ve burned thinking they would die.
I’ve written words which I longed to share
because they fit together better than numbers
and made my skin crawl with their
deliciousness.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
Hate
Visions of graves and flames
A feeling of such heat
Rage that builds and builds
Eyes blurred with deceit
Love
A feeling we all know
A most beautiful beginning
But we all dread its end
When your mind is spinning
Pain
Its deep inside your heart
Your soul broken to pieces
An unwanted memory
As the last tear releases
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
She strides down the street,
Holds that cancer stick up to her mouth,
Takes a deep breath in,
Filling her lungs with lethal smoke,
Gradually rotting away her
Interior.
Her heart beats out of her chest.
[A heart divided between two hearts.]
He’s waiting at the street corner
Between the alley of lust and the
Path of ignorance.
She sees his silhouette in the
Distance, a dark apparition.
Her heart leaps out of her chest,
Towards him,
Reaching for him,
Propelling her to him.
She had absolutely no control over the matter.
The other man she loves is home
Alone, waiting for her too.
Moments ago, he
Held her in his arms,
Kissed her goodbye,
Told her to hurry back soon.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too” - the words
Suddenly conveyed
No meaning to her.
She told him she was
Running an errand, when,
In reality,
She was running away
From him.
[*A heart divided between two hearts
Can never really be a heart.*]
His love suffocates her.
His love drowns her
In its constancy,
In its predictability.
With him, she feels like a
Bird with its wings ripped off.
Held captive, in a wire cage.
[*A heart divided between two hearts
Can never beat the way it should.*]
How can a woman with two men
Who love her
Feel so
Staggeringly
Alone?
Who will love her until their
Disintegrating hearts turn into
Simply dust.
[*A heart divided between two hearts
Can never really keep from rupturing,
Infecting the body with its own poisons.*]
So she lets her underground lover
Envelop her in his arms
And kiss her until both of their lips
Are numb,
Until they both want more.
Until they cannot restrain themselves.
His love releases her out of her
Cage, allows her to fly once again.
The passion of these moments
Will never be forgotten.
His love brings the roses back to
Her lifeless cheeks, brings life
Back to the void inside her.
And, his love allows her
To fly back home, once again,
Straight into the arms of the
Man who is her keeper.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 3:05 AM UTC
Moon is not beautiful
She doth not shine golden
She drops weakened, white light
on creatures craving sleep
She sits there and stares
At a frightened little world
with her cold, chilling glow
and a hostility deep
It's ingrained in her soul
to make the nimbus look fearsome
ghastly and pale
like a place to hide demons
She debases belief
We forget our star-wish
and thick, we go fishing
at nighttime
And then, Moon releases
a loneliness, cold
and we can't elude
we're stuck in the hole of
This brooding solitude mood
and its tole.
There's no escaping anytime soon
As we start to fear
the burning sun
And I suppose, this is my loathing of Moon.
Moon is contagious.
She offers the aid of her presence, unfailing
When we're washed down like willows, weakened
and wailing
And we can sail under her
Just as the dime
It's a lie that the night's
only clock-start for crime
When she's out from the hiding place
to be bright as Moon can
There's not a direction
No footpath
No overworked plan
And when I remember:
Beauty needs not a rival
I suppose I'll be loving Moon, soon again.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
*as winter acquiesces to the blazing sun
a soothing breeze softly grazes tips of aspen
gently shedding past liaisons
a perfect panacea
allowing wild freedom for summer’s dawn
healing from the ominous night
a flower gingerly releases its grasp
leaning into golden rays of summertime
keenly aware of newfound vulnerability
it yawns into the light
a rousing essence induces
a silhouette of life once thought lost
prodding river’s rigid ice blue crystals
to melt and flow with buoyant wonder
kaleidoscopic-like waves
having weathered near annihilation
a sculptured consciousness remains
painting summer clouds with soft-hued wisdom
all awakens from the dream
and should the cold return once more
the sun will shine again
©2016janetaylor
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
I wonder if the color green releases calm and renewal energies because it is the earth's carpet, magnetizing us down to earth.
I wonder if the color red wraps around passion and chaos because the blood in our veins rush evermore when we see something we love, and it rushes to our brain when our world turmoils.
I wonder if the color blue spreads hope for the sky as a crutch for those who have nowhere else to look but up to their god or to the formation of clouds that one cannot make sense of their cotton candy essence.
I wonder what color we are. What color does the earth reflect on us? Are we chameleons, morphing into different shades by the hour or are we permanent markers, bleeding deep? Maybe we are gray and receive color by what we surround ourselves with. That's how science works, right? A reflection of light in our retinas.
I am purple. There is a cloud of mystery and romanticism that shields me like a cloak, but my emotions run like rich velvet. Maybe one day I'll find a yellow who bursts rays of warmth. I think I would like to be with a yellow one day, the golden hour of colors.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 9:19 AM UTC
Sweetheart silent killer manifests all inside my mind,
The moon’s a magnifying glass as it rises in the sky.
At 2 a.m. it giggles, a thick knife in its teeth,
And drops it down into my head as I lie underneath.
The glass I keep so carefully to remain ***** in the day,
Shatters and releases a burning, breathing self-assay.
A kaleidoscope catoptric, all frets out in the free,
A band of thought-filled thieves invade to steal my sleep from me.
Tossing and turning beneath the stars, I’ll wait til I burn out,
At night my brain is flooding and in daylight there’s a drought.
Lullaby myself with tears, wake up way too late,
Stuck as an insomniac, suicide’s sweet bait.
I wish I was an autumn leaf, I’d float into the sky,
And every fall I’d have the opportunity to die.
I don’t want to die, I just want to dream,
Instead of replaying my sick realities that make me want to scream.
But this will still all stay the same as my brain and blood run white,
I’ll feed myself with Satan’s sugar, the depressed primrose of the night.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
So the sunshine came again?
I stand here alone over the ages
Days spent with no one but myself
I tell you the sunshine never ends
But when the darkness comes...
I'm afraid to close my eyes
Did you know?
Did you know the sun is gonna die?
This could be the last day
The last golden light
Finally the darkness releases the light
Streaming beams coming alive
Look into the sun as a new day rise
Flood your eyes with heat and bright
One more day for us to still be
Alive
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
Dear ancestors hear my voice
On this Samhain eve I have a
Message for you
Be sure I have found my love
A love that releases me
The version of me you may not know
The one that I have became
It is true that this love has grown
Grown into a perfect and lasting covenant
Love that is rare and true
She is the embodiment of me in a
Special and all seeing person
She has given me sight to see the world in its glory
The Vision of which I have never known
She has given me heart to carry on when all seems lost
Courage to face each day
The tenacity to make the most of my life and of hers
The soul that we share is complete in the extreme
It is extreme as it is perfect and as one
She gives me more than this more than I could ever
Ever ever say.
I found her just six years ago
She came to me in a rush of circumstance
Something unexpected and yet hoped for
I can say much of this but all I need to say
Is that I love her so dearly it hurts
It hurts because life itself is so fragile.
I hold this love in my hand and cherish it
Cherish this day as we walk together into our
Seventh year through the mist and veil
Of Samhain, oh Samhain,
This is our time
Max Hale
Dedicted to my Jan on the anniversary of our meeting six years ago.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
Gone are the days when teachers
Came to school on cycles
Now every teacher owns a motor cycle
No teacher wants to ride a cycle
I am one of the few teachers
Who now and then use cycles
Riding a cycle is considered mean
Even my daughters regard it as mere fun
The cycle runs on human power
The motor cycle on electrical power
If it runs out of petrol
Somebody comes to console
If it develops a technical problem
It keeps mum like a tar drum
Human power is more reliable
Electrical power is always unpredictable
Bicycle is very easy to ride
It is a poor man’s pride
Riding a cycle is good for our health
It even saves some of our wealth
It saves environmental pollution
And releases our mental tension
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 6:13 AM UTC
stress like the rest I’m trying to get something off my chest. its a weight so great my body begins to shatter all i want to do is yell but this weight is hell it pushes all the air from my lungs till they are bare. do you even care? are you even there? stress is the pain in my chest it feels like cardiac arrest i feel like i should be wearing a bullet proof vest because I’m wearing a red target on my chest. just something to aim at. stress is a mess with no clear way to clear a path without being cluttered by fear. it will bring tears, it will make you think of the ones you hold dear, stress is that weight on your chest making you feel oppressed. its something i deal with normally dont worry i dont repress. i paint it on this page with each move i make a digital valve releases letting you read this.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
(in heavy breath)
my eyes take her in
her body lying prone.
her smile, smothered in her pillow.
back arched,
she releases a moan.
(moaning, quite sharply)
my hands stroke with her cadence
staggered gasp
and with a click
i lock my screen
as her moans send me to space.
my own fluids are now
the fluid for stimulus,
for an eye rolling **** numbing high.
but in thirty seconds
i crash.
i am tasting myself now
with desire
with disgust
like raw eggs mixed with salt
like water laced with crushed paracetamol
exactly *** mixed with spit.
i sink into the dark musty scent
of stale air, *** and sweat.
and i awake
and once again
my eyes do hunger
and so does my ****
Eshu, end your tricks now
it’s not funny anymore.
my gaze ***** everyone it meets.
it strips them bare
of their skin
of their flesh
it turns them into meat.
it grinds a person into produce.
these eyes are battered and harmful.
may they now rest, please?
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
Tumbling, tumbling
She f
a
l
l
s
Down,
down,
down.
It seems she's always gazing up from her place in the ground.
She is Alice in a cycle of bad.
Splintered Alice, no Carroll in sight.
All mad, no mathematics.
Wake up little Alice!
!
!
!
!
P
Wake U
Stop eating those Underland treats.
Don't drink any more of the tum tum tree juice...
It only releases the predator in you.
Dear girl,
Don't you see?
All the wonder you need
Lies deep down within.
Curiouser and curiouser
That you don't know the magic and POWER
You had from conception.
So Alice, if you would please
Stop chasing white rabbits,
Stepping through mirrors
Searching for a world of your own.
Create your world in the here and now.
!
p
u
S a e things
h k
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 3:54 AM UTC
Red flags in the beginning are easy to turn into little sticky notes, notes for later that sometimes lose their adhesive and fall to the ground much like my current tolerance for ****** dudes
The first known use for red flags was by the military to indicate they’re ready for battle, unfortunately I’ve seen enough red flags to start the next world war
I should’ve known
When I came back from Arizona and he said “you must’ve cheated on me because your ****** feels different”
Not because he’s insecure
or
because he doesn’t know trust
or
because he’s trying to assert control
I should’ve known
When he asked if I “had a problem getting wet because it seemed like that was a thing”
Not because he doesn’t know foreplay
(side note: **** doesn’t teach you foreplay)
or
because he doesn’t actually turn me on
or
because fun fact!- women can be turned on and not be wet
I should’ve known
When he said “if you shaved, then I’d go down on you 24/7”
Not because he was scared that choking on my ***** hair reminded him he’s with a real woman that grows hair
and humans inside her
and ideas
and opinions
and strength
and my body is not yours to give me ultimatums of
I should’ve known
When I asked if figuring out my pleasure was a burden and he answered “actually, yes it is”
Not because he’s too lazy to actually want to pleasure anyone but himself
or
because his only ****** education ended with a .com
or
because no one has ever expected more of him
I should’ve known when he said
“What I want out of a ****** partner is someone that wants me inside of them as soon as possible”
Not “inside my soul”
or
“inside my thoughts”
or
“inside my memories”
or
“inside an intimacy he will never know”
I should’ve known when he said
“Let me show you how Rachel did it”
Not “this is how I like it”
or
“can we try this?”
or
“opening your ******* mind to how another human being moves around you”
I should’ve known when
He spit on my ****** the universal sign for disrespect
Like I deserve the same fate as tobacco swollen cheeks
Like my ****** is your spittoon,
am I the end of a tobacco session or a fancy wine tasting?
these things matter
Now I find it symbolic men are taught to spit while women are taught to swallow
Swallow our reactions
Swallow our feelings
Swallow our voices
Swallow his releases
Swallow his spit
Swallow us whole
When you see a red flag do not ignore that it means battle
This battle is not a healthy one, this battle will leave you bruised
Uproot this flag and take it with you to remind yourself
You can lose every battle and still win the war
11/28/2016 Amanda Powell
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 8:59 PM UTC
Conformity kills your self-expression
It only leads to deep depression
Conformity grows and never ends
True things that exist are labeled as trends
Inside the system, the machine presses on
Conformity kills as I recite this poem
Conformity kills all the human opinions
Everyone wants to be too much alike
Conformity releases millions of minions
All of us suffer as we lose the fight
Can't we just stop and try to be different
Ending this crap is so far out of sight
Conformity kills
Drains
Steals
All the clothes from off our back
CONFORMITY KILLS KILLS KILLS KILLS
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 2:44 PM UTC
Hey there, baby!
I got what you need.
You came into my store -
I got what you need.
You bought a stick of gum -
Do you want a soda with that?
You searched for a pair of shoes -
Don't you think these shoes are nice?
You liked a post about Darwin -
Darwin books: Half-off!
You listened to the Rolling Stones -
Try some Jeff Beck - I'm a Genius, I should know
you better than yourself.
You thought about ****** -
I can sell you seventeen ways to get away with it.
You thought about suicide -
Better buy one last pleasure before you go - you won't be needing
that money anyway,
Have you made your final arrangements?
You thought about *** -
I know you did
You typed "re"(demption)
Did you mean "Redbox"?
Here are the new releases.
I got what you need.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:51 AM UTC
Gently, she goes
as soft as a fawn
opens the window
and waits for the dawn
fireflies glow
wind caresses her face
as she sheds all the shadows
not leaving a trace
She dons velvet darkness
wrapped in its cloak
releases all poisons,
sylphlike,
in smoke
She is preparing for battle
in her own, quiet way
She only wants wholeness
as she breaks through the gray
For soon she will weave
prismatic wonders of spells
her own inner aurora
lighting heaven from hell
For suffered she has
and it's time to forgive
unlock self-made prisons
and let herself live
and now as sunrise approaches
stars still in sight
she turns the skeleton key
and glides
into
flight
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
News announced today "cop kills a man in his own home".
Mistakes his apartment for hers, mistakes him for a burglar or
an easy target!
My Granny says "I bet she is white and he was black"? She used was since Botham is dead. Granny says "cops killing black body has been normalized since forever".
Three days later the news releases her name and photo.
My Granny was right. She is a white woman with Klansman's robes for eyes looking to **** a black man.
Amber tell me did you sit in your car for 15 hours carving Botham's name on the bullet that killed him before going to his apartment?
Did you want his apartment to reflect the same color as
the red mat in front of his door?
Oh, you didn't notice that,
or did you just decide to take a shot in the dark,
while Botham was in his home resting effortlessly?
It was too dark for you to see that was not your apartment, but lit enough to see him to shoot him in his chest.
Amber, I bet your heart is cut from the same
cloth as your mother's "All Lives Matter" Tee Shirt.
Botham's Mother says his heart was made by angels.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
The sea is all flow with no ebb
As the moon hangs full in the sky
He pulls her to him on a breeze
Salty, heavenly, mesmerizing
She comes as he softly beckons
The magnet draws her in close
She inches toward his cool gaze
With the warm water he yearns to drink
For he is parched
And she is giving
Flowing in gentle waves
He calls and she slinks to him in shadows
Locked in the gaze of desire
A gaze broken only by the pleasure
of the deluge of their union
And in that union there is tranquility
His peace releases her
She ebbs, quietly lapping the shore
She turns to see him smile upon her
As she sparkles in the warmth of his glow
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
We use video games
To make video gains
Until the screen goes black
And reality attacks
We lose all our progress
In the deletion process
As we level up we devolve
Around the TV we revolve
The more experience we gain
The more moments we lose
Our memories forever stained
When this is what we choose
Our life inside a hard drive
Our life becomes a hard lie
We revel in being unwise
Rage quitting life
We enjoy strife
And avoid pesky light
When we live in the dark
With consumerist plights
We are all marks
Video games balance in a zone
Between game and art
The frustration starts
When art is confused for games
And games mistook for art
People take things to heart
And spitefully spew viper venom
If this is where games send them
Then why do we play?
We have no other way
To feel accomplishment
In a society that worships competition
Video games become the second edition
Of a life filled with loss
On our pixelated cross
We are murdered millions of times
Reminiscent of the millions of lies
That make us losers in the real world
Video games become our shiny pearl
The computer displays defeat
When our lives aren't complete
Because we need someone to beat
Not realizing our lives are conquered
By frivolous topics we've pondered
Our meaningless life squandered
And hope comes in the form of new releases
While inside our faulty headset is in pieces
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 3:13 AM UTC
It's summertime. The saxophone jazz
sounds are pirouettetting the waves
to find their own balance. It's a mauve
inner dance in almost everything around.
More exactly, the melodious movable
sounds become soundable movement
needing a reverberation time to dissipate
the energy. The movement releases its own
purity to become simple fecundity. The pulsed
sound waves are also old memories lost in the
natural green. The saxophone looks much
more like a Tahitian prince dancing his love
on the sand. The singing mauve sea waves
have a sadness taste at sunset. The last one
is a watery mermaid and he embraces her
while searching the high. The sounds need
touch and life. They need to dematerialize
and to disappear into the universe. The
saxophone remains a solitaire keeping
safe his evanescent hermetic equilibrium.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC