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Rob M Jun 2013
We are hopeful; we are loud
We are nonperishable,
Cyclic, changing-
Remolded constantly in a crucible of
re-understanding; unrelenting
Unvanquished, not even by death.
We are caring and wishing
dreaming, fulfilling
We are breath, in and out-
One, two, three:
Leap without looking
We are above all, hopeful
in the face of adversity
To be human is to hope.
To be human is to dream.
To be human is to be,
never to become, but just to be
Like wind ever moving,
seen and unseen-we pass
through one life to the next
leaving impressions behind.
We are purposed in that our purpose is
a thing to be found, to be sought
and even if it remains lost,
it becomes apparent at the end.
But even the end is a beginning.
There is no such thing as a wasted life;
no such thing as wrong
no such thing as right.
There just is, and whatever is,
is up to us to find.
We may never know where the big bang came from
or what was before.
But if we're lucky, we may one day know ourselves.
lionness Oct 2018
when you took my
childhood away,
i swallowed my voice,
suppressed every tear,
forced myself to adapt,
grew fond of the suffering-
how far into my mind
i would sink when
your fingertips were on
my skin.

you stripped me of all identity
split me into two halves of a person-
living and surviving.

you remolded me into
your perfect creation.

gave me a purpose
with a name.

when i was twelve
you left this earth
with no explanation.

took away your own heartbeat,
took away my only witness.

what was i to do
with the monster
you created,
other than live
the life
you created it
for?

and i will carry these secrets
to my grave,
and give them back to you
in the afterlife.
Dre Guthrie Jan 2015
Boy
The heart trembles for things it cannot reach.
The bird leaves its nest open for attacks from above.
His chest hurts so bad.
Why did he have them?

Looking in the mirror, he notices it, the curse.
Curses made heavy weights on his chest, weighing him down.
His hair no longer drew his hair down to earth.
Thin hair, sharp eyes, curved shapes.

Oceans span between head and heart, aching.
Aching, it ached mom stop please no more don't look.
His remolded edges have scratches, the ceramic chipped.
Boy meets hopelessness, boy meets veracity.
Biz Aug 2018
I find most of my comfort in the dark.

I remember turning off the lights and lying on my carpet. It was stripped of color and made with bamboo. I’d take a throw pillow, covered in bright green and blue paisley, from my bed and sink it into the earth. My left cheek pushed down on the cushion until it could not go lower. My eyes closed and my knees bent to my chest. And I was back. Back in my most comfortable and trusted space.

My doorknob was round. I knew every inch— my hand got to know it every day. It aided me in shutting out the light, keeping me confined in a space that had proved to be so safe.

Today, when I seek my old space and companion I reach out for my doorknob. Instead of my round ****, it’s now a broken handle. Instead of the carpet, it’s a woven mat made out of banana leaves. I find ways to mirror my past because in darkness, there was evident light and with light, there was abundant darkness.

It has been 7 years since I met my old space and companion and I still reach for my doorknob almost every day without fail. It's with whom I think I can find my lost inspiration, and it's with whom I can cry without seeing my tears fall down my face. Nothing in the dark counts. Not the hours of TV I watch or the hours of sleep I fall victim to. I like spending time that doesn't count, and how sad does that feel to admit in written words.

Starting today, I'm forcing myself to count all my time. Companions, as great as they can be, can also sink you lower than you can imagine. Goodbyes are hard but are also promised in every stage in our life, and to use a goodbye to aid in your health is a beautiful way to practice.

So, dear darkness, thank you for all that you have given to me over the past 7 years. It was a comfort to know that you were always waiting for me, whether it was in the middle of the day or when the sun had already disappeared. You're a constant friend when many have not been. Your respect and loyalty does not fall short of my appreciation and consolation. Thank you.

With a loss comes a hole and with a hole comes a desire to fulfill. A companion itself cannot be replaced but its hole can be reformed, reworked and remolded. I've chosen to shape you into a healthy alternative, one that feeds on light and on counting time. Your new personality is beautiful and worthy, and here are its most essential parts:

(1).     Spend time near water. Water reminds us that we can indeed fly. Gravity exists but so does buoyancy, and there are times when our mind feels trapped in gravity, making buoyancy a critical healer to our bodies and our minds.

(2).    Take so many risks knowing that with risk comes inspiration, and with inspiration comes life. I've existed both in a safe and comfortable sphere and in a world of unfamiliarity and uncertainty. Learning in the former is difficult and confined. It has been done before and it has been exhausted. The latter is unique and fleeting. We have all the time to be safe and sheltered but less time to let ourselves fall into the opportunity of learning about ourselves when we are uncomfortable, the state that teaches us the absolute most.

(3).  Build endorphins every day, whether than means walking for 30 minutes or dancing for 2 hours. Do something. Get up and out. Allow yourself to create a healthy environment to cradle your brain.

(4).    Read words that feed your soul, like Emily Nagoski's Come As You Are, one of the most fulfilling and rewarding texts I have ever read. Give yourself permission to transform every day, in the smallest to largest way possible.

(5).    Turn your phone off. Studies have shown us again and again that social media can be unhealthy for our minds, so why do we engage every hour of the day?

(6).    Write something. There are stories I can only say in written word. Write them down because you and everyone else on the planet will never live today again or ever.

(7).    Allow yourself to be so vulnerable that you weep. No one is how they appear. Admitting this lets us exist near the earth, so close to nature and so connected to each other. This, you will almost never regret.

(8).    Let yourself connect with someone for the amount of time it is meant to fulfill. Nothing lasts forever and some people will occupy short times in your life and that is ok. It's more than ok. It's beautiful. Every relationship shapes our future, and our future should always learn from our past. Hold every person in the space they naturally occupy and thank them for the time they have passed with you. It is invaluable and you will never experience it again.

(9).    Exist with people who aren't like you, whether than means people who have different political opinions than you or people who grew up across the world from you. Exist. Because you are the smallest part of the story of the universe and not recognizing that will limit your world immensely.

(10).    Meditate. Practice mindfulness which will allow you to recognize how you feel about your feelings (one of the most important life lessons you can learn according to Emily Nagoski) and what feeds your soul and what doesn't.

(11).     Eat two different green things a day. You are what you eat, after all.

As long as I occupy one piece of this new personality a day, I believe the grief I feel for darkness will fade. And with its fading will come light. So much light that I can't believe I have been living without. And one day I hope you will choose to join me.
Terry O'Leary May 2016
Come join the unraveling circus
quite soon to be passing our way,
with the clowns in a clamor to twerk us -
line up as they lead us astray!

Arriving, the elephant trumpets
agendas of aberrant acts
while the donkeys drool, dunking their crumpets
and twirlers spin, twisting the facts.

The big top’s now open to breezes,
so pundits soar spreading their wings
to convince us to tread the trapezes,
for it's they who'll be pulling the strings.

The merry-go-round’s so amazing
(black horses bound, chasing the cart)
as the brass ring of change wanders wildly
till stealing straight back to the start.

The moldy old model of Ptolemy
(at the hub of this three ring domain)
mixes marvels of magic with alchemy
in the bowels of the mastodon’s brain.

Neglecting the gulls who’ll be eating
stale crumbs that have dropped from the plate,
the vain vulture of virtue’s oft tweeting  
of Circus Land once again great.

The tamer, adorned in fine trumpery
(pate garnished with fiery mane)
has endeavored to wall the ring's boundary,
keep millipede migrants in rein.

The dwarves and their antics are funny
while juggling to balance the books,
so the titans laugh, grappling the money
extracted by hook or by crooks.

The sideshows provide a composite
of fails of the frizzed billionaire,
some disclosing the bones in his closet
caught clutched in the arms of the bear.
    
From towers the trumpet is blowing
fake messages, fetid but full,
but as long as the cattle keep lowing,
he’ll hasten to serve them the bull.

The masses, persuaded to follow,
float foolishly into the fog
overwhelmed by the vapors they swallow,
choked up like the ruff-collared dog.

The snap of the whip as it whooshes
maintains the domains of the dupes
so the cats won’t escape to the bushes,
refusing to hop through the hoops.

With the promise to call out the cavalry,
the hearts of the crowds beat athrob
for in spite of their struggles and rivalry
the Don’s still controlling the mob.

Humbled Empress on *******’s hilarious,
parading her ***** and mules,
with her fabulous tales (mostly spurious)
wagging only the naive and fools.

Mounting ponies in circles, she rode 'em
through lobbies where influence crawls
with her claws clinging tight to the totem
while seals on the banks balanced *****.

Yes, the pack’s still pre-paid by the PAC men,
some wolfing their ways through the maze,
while fey fables are hawked by the packmen
who canvass our eyes with a glaze.

The pretender defender of females
is actu'ly one of the hawks;
secrets hidden in spills of her re-mails
means pillory, stuck in the stocks.

The swine in the central arenas
(immersed in the fat of the throne)
begin dancing like wee ballerinas
’fore pitching the proles a bare bone.

Jesters Cruzo and Bozo, while boozin'
(dealt cards which were ******* by the ****),
ruled “not winning the hand would be losin’
and need for an armed Minuteman.”

Well the ray gun's still loaded and toted
(the gall’ry forbidding all bans)
and the NRA gang’s become bloated
shooting **** in the face of the fans.

One day when the mad house has folded
and sawdust’s been wafted aside,
Human Race will be racing, remolded,
surmounting life’s hurdles in stride.
LA Hall May 2013
On a grey day
in the green sea,
under the moon,
the wind howling,
the waves walloping,
enveloped in slime as a newborn,
on the cold wooden floors
of a glossy blue jack boat,
with a thick, white canvas sail –
born alone –
whitecaps rolling and breaking
flurry blistering,
the small boat,
like a model,
rocking,
is blown in all directions...

Trapped lying back,
like a turtle,
knees and elbows wiggle,
suddenly the malleable hand clutches
a near dry piece of bread on the floor
and swats it into dry chewing
swallows –
thirsty...

A hard wave pushing
up and back
the little body flips,
moving on hands and knees toward
a jar of water
at the tip of the hollow bow while
crawling past,
the rough-hewn mast,
a wave hiccups and
the soft shoulder bumps –
like clay it’s remolded,
one up, one down

dragging along, limp
a tumble over...

A fast gust and
a whirling gyration
of a tip,
the too-weak weak, small hands
that tickle when trying
to twist the metal lid
off the jar,
leave the thirst caking
the roof of his mouth desert,
tongue parched.
waves sprinkling
a cool mist
on those tender cheeks.

A heaving swell
billows
the swaying jack
and wheels the balmy tot towards the flat-backed stern.
on his way rolling
he collides again with the mast,
and his workable spine
folds in two:
he is dead.

An awesome tempest
that will come in the morning
has sent scouts,
and with them whispering hums of expected carnage,
that rattle the polished blue clapboards.
The floor had been dry once,
under the moonlight –
on that orphic birth,
the whole floor,
everything but the damp shadow
of primordial ooze
underneath the fretful body, kicking and clawing to flip,
had all been dusty like a shop.

And in some moments,
when this poem wasn’t watching,
the unsubstantial body would run one of the tenuous fingers
from one of its embryonic, plushy hands

across the coarse plywood –
slimmer than a board an amateur martial artist
might brag about breaking,
And he would build, along the wood floor,
little trails of dust, his extremity mindlessly tracking
to create aisles that
ants might march through,
the little walls of the finger’s wake like tan snowbanks.

The gale came and passed, and in the sunny blue morning we found
that the boat had kicked the mangled infant’s body out
into the clear sea.
Cheeks no longer dry like sawdust,
eternally pruned, saturated:
sponge of a boy who spent a dead lifetime
floating through the great storm,
water lapping over his face
with the sort of
pothering, hasty turmoil
that would dilute a breathing man to madness
but had come and
with salt
cleaned his face and body,
with the sort of peace we’d like to find
on shores.
0o Mar 2016
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about your old nose,
The one you cut apart and remolded,
So you could feel beautiful.

There used to be that little bump along the bridge,
The tip wiggled slightly when you laughed,
Now it just sits there.

Today your daughter has your old wiggly nose,
And she looks just like you,
Used to.

I hope that she appreciates it more than you did,
And I hope it reminds her every day,
That she’s beautiful
Ahmad Cox Jan 2012
Marble and stone
Hard and rigid
Some people
Are like marble
And stone
They are so rigid
In themselves
And in their ideals
That they can
Not compromise
They would
Rather crash
Break
Destroy
Everything
And everyone
Around them
Just to keep
From having
To move from
Their own rigid
Ideals
The same ideals
That confine them
And restrict them
Keep them from
Moving forward
And being able
To understand
How life really is
But sometimes
It's good to be broken
So that you can be
Remolded
And to change you
Into the person
That you were
Always meant to be
Ethan Solouki Jul 2014
They all think it's me that's worried.
They don't know it's them I'm worried for...
They never will.
The clay has already set and hardened within the cast.
It has been fired and glazed,
How 'conventional' it was made.
The product can no longer be remolded, unless we break it
Shatter it on the floor, pick up the pieces
And try to...+pursue- to put them back together.
Held now together within a different set of rules,
Same shape different glue.
It's you, It's you.
Set in our ways
Sherry Lore Sep 2015
I always wanted to do spoken word poetry,
but paper is too forgiving.  
It's so easy to pour onto paper
what you think,
how you feel.  
To become what they want...
expect, hope, fantasize...
to hear.  

If there's a misspelled word:
bitterness, anger, frustration, blame...
there is always the spell check.

Or if there's a typo:
misunderstanding, miscommunication,
misappropriation... miss-everything...
there is the backspace key.  

And if all else fails,
and the words are too much:
too far, too long... so long...
there's always delete.  
And start again.

Paper is too forgiving,
I've imagined how it feels:
scribbled on, removed from, blotted out.  
And then discarded once I've been read,
or not.  

I mean, how much paper is recycled
that's never even been touched...
till it's tossed into shredder to be
reshaped, remolded, reconstituted...
to become something else.  

How many poems are written
that never even get read.  
At least words spoken out loud
have a chance if screamed...
or whispered...
loud enough,
to get heard.

Yes, paper is too forgiving
I started writing this as a journal entry and it turned into something else.
Softly spoken Apr 2010
Problems built up so high not even jesus could reach
Issues became frustration taking over my mind
Unhappiness filled my life to the "T"
Eyes got blurry So a better future i could not see
Hatred made my heart black
My soul knew pain love it lacked
Dreams faded fast hope was no more
See i locked closed and built bricks over my door
I became the number one fool
                                But suddenly you;
Swept me off my feet;made my soul complete
                                Suddenly you
wrapped your hands around my heart;put a lock on it so it could never come apart
                                  Suddenly you;
open y eyes so i could see;took a barrier off my lungs so i could breath
                                   Suddenly you
blew a breath of love in my soul;looked me in my eyes and began to make me whole
                                    Suddenly you
                             **** suddenly you
Gave me what no one can;remolded me into something i couldnt be back then
                                      Suddenly you
walked in my life;made everything right;took away pain and strife;and gave me better days and loving nights
                                       Suddenly ............... you
made  a brilliance out of a fool;took the fire of hate and put love on cool
                And I love you i really do; why? because
                                               SUDDENLY YOU
COPY WRITTEN
Craven Apr 2016
To grasp rather than take in
Defines the inevitable.
Loss will occur.
Being unavoidable.
Lacking precedent, devastation will follow.
Life will spring forth.
Born from wreckage anew.
Until the inevitable
We are born weak but remolded
By the inevitable
Not in likeness but a casting
Of former self
With subtle changes
Provided by the inevitable
Stronger or weaker we are remade
Until the inevitable
Fighting the change brought about
We deny the hand dealt
Asking for another or the one
We had before
Until the inevitable
Lashing out against the form
We seek measures to prevent
To stop
To achieve understanding
Until the inevitable
We grasp the pattern
We see the end
Expecting the inevitable
Until
Brent Kincaid Jan 2018
Contentment has a different kind of sound
To everyone who has ever witnessed it.
It fills the heart and settles the mind
And baffles those who have dismissed it.
Those canting people that cackled at us
Scowling, “Give up, it’ll never work.”
We smiled and continued our courtship
Not thinkng them a bunch of jerks.

We carried on, celebrating our successes
And learning from our many mistakes
And in time we began to see quite well
This is just what love and life takes.
We made our plans and changed them
When things didn’t go the right way.
And step by step, and inch by inch
We became who we are today.

Now we have sounds we make to each other
Less words, more loving noises we utter,
Salutations cobbled together over the years
Some remolded nicknames we often mutter
Glad we have walls around, roof above, and
Sounds made upon our leaving or returning,
And all is well here in our home of love
A message that the home fire is still burning.

A visitor might ask us, and have before
What did he say, or maybe, what did you?
I could explain the habits of our years
But no need. I heard and of course, I knew.
We often use the telescope of contentment
And look backward to where the sounds began
To watch them change through time and space
And become what they became over the span.
Jeremy Bean Oct 2013
Is this the monster that you wanted?
Was this the demon that you sought?
Was the atrophy of my emotions
not your endeavor?
Is captivation of my soul
not enough?
Is the constant trample through my mind
not where you wanted to exist?
Melted by the flame of passion
and remolded like clay
into this hideous contortion
You have the rest
take the final piece
as I become indifferent
to all these feelings.
and the truth about
behavioural management
though never implied
is that the behaviourist
is equally affected
bad for bad and good for good
for we are all plastercene
everything leaves its mark
and we are all flexible
and easily remolded
for bad or for good
Choka
Like a bat bends it down
Ever and anon, my lone life,
By the reason of unbroken
Sorrow that doth with my soul strive,

Panting i hence for water like a hart,
Like a desert so am longing for rain.
What's been broken can't be remolded,
My fragile heart like a vase, again.
Ny-Asha Aug 2015
They call me Insane.
A profane past inflicted brutal wounds that are so deep and hollow,
It causes one to lose hope in the occurrence of a Tomorrow.
With cold hands, my core had been ripped open so wide
That it could never be “stitched up”-
Pieces of flesh and spirit that never will be placed back together;
There existed no ‘Band-Aid’ that could cover up;
No method of rehabilitation to make up what I had lost-
What was taken away from me, by force, had ran its course,
Now I am done -
Damaged and shunned,
Maybe this time Evil has won.
But I remember the days of that profane past;
Memories of your voice, and the shadow that you cast.
My eyes were open, and we felt my heart beat,
In that time, I was still alive. So I know.
I know that I will never be the same;
I am deformed, remolded, dismantled by pain,
And yet they call me Insane,
Because I pointed in your direction when they asked,
“Who is to blame?”
http://lifeinthelines.weebly.com/pieces-of-the-story/we-felt-my-heart-beat
Wanderer May 2014
The base of my spiritual perception
Is like putty
Constantly being remolded
As I evolve
I'm glad for you, your stability
Happy that your interpretation
Demands the servitude of your heart
I cannot help that mine runs free
Flowing through gorges
Cascading down rainbow mist falls
Tearing apart against the jagged edges
Of my preconceived notions
Only to reassimilate new ideas of
*Immortality
Kathryn Jan 2014
There are thousands of tiny pieces to me
I’m not whole at all
I’ve been broken and remolded so many times
I don’t recognize myself anymore
Every time I make a cut
Every time you rose you’re hard
Bits were broken tears were shed
A fragile being in the hands of a storm
Excepted the hand of fate
Take the razor clean and sharp
Make the changes needed
Maybe piece by pieces one day I'll carve
The person I want to be
sometimes.....I just want out....
Sierra Apr 2019
The things I thought were so important,
are no longer relevant.
You remolded my idea of a perfect man.
Patient and gentle,
Caring and kind.
I'm so happy,  you are all mine.
Marie-Niege Mar 2017
he cut the tongue from between my lips as I tried to gasp, veins pulsing from the noose of your grip tied tight around my throat, I travel with my ability to lack, I tie knots 'round my new lovers' finger and I light them up from the string of my bow, I holler and jump 'round them, chest separating from my shoulders as my feet dangle above the crimson earth, my knees hobble and bobble as my elbows ash from the haggard wind rapping against my sand-made skin, I blow away like dunes, shaped and reshaped by the Sahara, I scream violet threats as you press me further into cellophane walls, you say, "destruction is sin." and then you remolded me into your paper girl, locked me up in a room for years and wrote me ****** until my mind filled with **** and then you found my eyes and started darkening them, they've slowly started to mirror your night's sky, a reflection of your skin, my sin.
Gods1son Mar 2020
Bad behavior(s) doesn't imply a bad person
Don't judge the fruit without finding the root cause
Because every child is born innately good
Life experiences shape and mold people
Walk a mile in another person's shoes
Listen to what they've been through
An unhealthy home can leave a dent on a
person for life if not remolded
Most bad acts are aftertaste of bad upbringing
Instead of condemning, let's show empathy
People deserve a second chance multiple times
If it took years to be crooked, then,
with love and patience,
any human can be remolded.
Jay M Sep 2022
Blind eyes turned
Guilty, trapped in denial
Of what they have done
What have they done
To us all?

Words fall upon deaf ears
Ignorance is their bliss
Never would they confess
Or pay mind to their crimes

Wash their hands clean
Of our tears and pains
Blood unseen is
Blood undrawn

Swallowing pills
To cleanse our mouths
Of the bitter tastes
Of their spoon fed lies

Smell their smoke
From discarded guns
Inhale the fumes
Of their drowning misery

Force-fed the scraps of humanity
Broken and remolded
Burned in their kiln of pressures
To be formed into a strange
Misshapen figure
Manipulated and bruised
Dented and cracked
Not all coal becomes diamonds
Words can break bones
And all of it is real.

- Jay M
September 1st, 2022
Dan Hess Jul 2019
Beauteous insurgence
of emotions from the nether realm
beget to me a sense of solidarity.

As the veil shifts
and fissures form,
my thoughts are swarming
with indulgence,

for I know the time is nigh,
and ripe with wonder.

It is the beauty of the spirit
that sparks light in life,
and time is ridden
throughout our fragile minds
as we embark upon this journey
of baited transience.

I rise up from the ashes, now,
and choose to make of myself anew;
beginning where I thought my self had ended,
and emerging,
renamed as Allbecoming.

I see Us, and smile,
for understanding is a kinship
only found when thoughts
surrender to the stars,
and all is one.

I am nought,
and return to clay,
to be remolded.

I am love, untouched,
and you are the earth
that presses against my form,
thereto unfold me.

I am lattice,
growth, and strength,
and you are all that holds me.

You are the love amiss, and now,
when I am forced to reminisce,
I know the feigned nostalgia of old-life
is but a whisper in the breeze,
incomparable to the needs
you fulfill,
without me ever having seen them as such.

Your love is blinding,
but my eyes are opening wide,
dilated, and ready to receive
the light you cast;

it blends with shadows,
and amassed,
is my only guidance
through dark dismay.

You are renegade,
and I am nomad.
You are the one
through whom my soul
should coalesce,
and form a balance.

You are mother
and child.
You will never
be forgotten.
Sierra Jun 2019
The things I thought were so important,
are no longer relevant.
You remolded my idea of a perfect man.
Patient and gentle,
Caring and kind.
I'm so happy,  you are all mine.
the sun and Curicaueri watch a small phoenix falling to the ground
and they know she is dying and they know she will be strong
and they know she will burn

                                                     ...

the sun is bright and enough for me to see
the broken pieces on the floor their sharp edges glistening

...and slowly to the chirping of the birds, I begin to pick them up
I believe I can melt these pieces
and use them to make a beautiful stain glass window

in this lifetime I will make something of beauty
from all the wretched & unkind things
from everything that left me in pieces

the sun is bright and enough for me to see, I shine
even when scattered and left unwanted
when  no longer deemed useful
Bright enough for me to smile while picking up the shards
enough for me to see myself as worthy of being thrown into the fire
and being remolded

                                                  ...

­the sun and Curicaueri watch a small phoenix fall to the ground
and they know she is dying and they know she is strong
and they know she is burning
incinerating slowly with her flesh and fears all around her
as the flames rise they know she is closer to life than she has ever been before, so they wait for her patiently
                                                  ...
t­here from the distance  the sun and  Curicaueri watch over her
as does the wind, the brooks and the hidden moon

— The End —