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Repression is everywhere .  Repression is so common it is almost impossible to avoid .  Repression can be found in natural laws ; gravity is a repressive force .  I experience a desire for repression when I consider the possibility of extra-terrestrial life .  Propaganda is a form of repression when it eliminates unwanted truth ; militaristic logistics require repression of the extraneous.  Social hierarchy is only as good as it is expedient ; credibility is the key .  Psychological repression can be a functional personal tool .  Repression is a frictional force that can either eliminate unwanted forces or alter their courses .
Repression is most often thought of as a governmental tool .  There are many reasons a government might want to repress it’s subjects .  In a truly free government no one can practice repression on others of no consent unless they have infringed on their rights .  Fascist and socialist governments can force their people at will .  Their children are trained both  directly and subliminally in order that they may better fulfill their social positions .  In free countries laws repress repressors : people who might want to tamper with your rights .  Monopolies get repressed because they tamper with the people’s right to a free market competition
  system .  The individual reigns and the majority decides what is best for everyone .
The elimination of all unwanted repressions is the natural goal of all individuals yet repression is common the world over .  Social hierarchies necessitate repressions ; expedience in teamwork becomes more credible than individuality .  Many sociological forces create their own realms of repression ; the normalcy demanded by tyrannical governments and puritanical religions are obvious examples .  
Any retrospective examination of human history that is depthfully complete will probably bring to mind a vast quandary of opposing forces beyond social integration .    
           Personally  I find people to have a vast amount of basic similarities .  We become alienated from each other in the application of our abilities .  In fact each and every one of us live in a realm that is totally real only to ourselves .  I find this and similar states of social fragmentation to be one of the most pervasive observations one could make about the state of the human race .  
The tabula rasa state of man is an evolutional being ; a conscious realm that became out of dirt , water , sunlight , time ; an essence that has an innate quality , a cosmic continuum .  The historical development of world religions paints a vivid picture of man’s desire to relate to this tactile awareness .
There are many forces in the universe that we as humans need to repress .  Unwarranted or unwanted forces encounter natural resistance .  Humans learn to control their conscious state as they acquire maturity .  Natural repressions grow out of an understanding of the need for them .  But humans are not satiated with pragmatic self orientation .  They are easily misled by the perceived nature of their unconscious state .  The perfection orientation of Adolf ****** gives a stark example of an institutionalization of one of these warped images .
World religions also are often abortive of individual aspiration . Of course more often than not their impetus factors seem at least partially acceptable .
Practicality dictates that humans be self orientated in order to achieve their optimum state , but what is self orientation ?  Humans exist in both a conscious and unconscious state .  Individually we all perform many subconscious activities on an inadvertent level .  Although many of them are autonomic defenses we can exercise control and attempt psychic clarity .  
Actually repression is something that each and every individual must put down for themselves .  Although social expedience creates an environment that is conducive to itself , individuals have an innate need to repress certain of their psychic phenomena whether they are created by their environment or well from within .
jack of spades Feb 2015
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.
highlight of my career ****
Kelly O'Connor Jan 2014
Mild day in winter, week before Christmas
Turns out the tree in your front yard has been
A holly tree all along, finally showing true colors
As a taxi driver leaves the driveway and
A neighbor in a red shirt crosses the concrete
Sidewalk. The succulents to my side reach like alien
Synapses, your white car looks at me cross-
eyed, cinnabar brick damp with Peninsula fog.
The morning’s cup of coffee still lingers on my
Tongue, my body aches with last night’s indulgences
And repressions. Warmth is relative, hangovers
Are absolute. A pagan zodiac spins inside a
Haze of long-lost memories, a gauntlet of trees.
A gentler repercussion, a less insightful song,
For I am only human, stains on my sleeve,
Sleeping in when I should be producing anything.
I forget what I am, except a shivering flesh vessel.
I cannot remember what I was supposed
To be.
Samantha May 2013
The word slithers from your mouth
Arsenic tone reverberating
Jumping on my eardrums and misting the fleshy insides of my skull
Dearest one, though unbeknownst to such a good intentioned heart
You are killing me
You lather onto her shame like oil
In your eyes she shines; epitome of all that you are not
Elusive seductress, skin tasting of intrigue
Entombment of that which lives in the blackest parts of you
Your brown eyes flashing ivy, becoming venomous,
Teeth sinking slowly with each syllable
****
Dearest deer eyes, open up
She dwells in your recesses but in my repressions as well
She is the 6 year old child emanating innocence
Closing her eyes to the fact that some parts may only be visible in the presence of Mama and Dr. Mallon
Mistaking foul play for dreams
She is the 13 year old not yet skinned of her baby fat
Caressed like the infant she most certainly is not
Lips glued with guilt and naivety
My dear, dear friend, please
You are killing me
The 16 year old girl whimpering no
Pomegranate lips  pressed to the underside of Narcissus' hand
The other digging in between quivering thighs
***** you sigh
*They're pathetic really
Derive your own meaning while poets stay dreaming and fat cats stay scheming...

A dame grown broken down spills her heart out with the blood she can't lend. My best friend has to get by on food stamps with a 9 to 5 to pay for his insulin. Diabetes ain't no joke and don't ask why they haven't provided a cure. It's a testament to how money talks while he endures the sufferin' for others to get at that comb of honey. Did I forget to mention, all y'all listening, that we're barely over twenty? Meanwhile my lil sis lies bedridden comatose while the doctors with fancy degrees shake their heads at this personal disease they can't diagnose. Young in the deteriorating body she was given while much older in all her pride, accepting what fate has dealt her with and knowin' peace inside.  Boast 'bout how you got diamonds in yo teeth, and how the welfare you're making is more than I get paid overtime to feed my fam, ILY. Lather, rinse, repeat, take a moment to be grateful for your bed. I'll take this hate raw and remember there are fates far worse than death. Not to sound pretentious, like we've taken worse blows than others who are stressin'. After all, the message that we wish to confide:
Every breath is precious, it matters what you do with your time, down to the last second.
Emma Nov 2011
There's a light inside me that glows in anticipation,
there's the constant wait, the careful gait
the looking over shoulders for to take
away all thoughts of others
breaking bonds of making face
knocking shoulders, stifling
sounds for sights to take in solitude

my toes itch, my legs jump, i sit still.
in the light are overwhelming expressions
and the shadows of repressions
and stagnant silences to fill.

the room tilts my screen into someone else's eyes,
i wish, i wish
the thought of running and dancing into cries
i wish
the ground could pound against my feet and into my heart
i wish
for sleep - not mine, but the world's
do you understand?
(i'd give up the sun to run in the dark)

i can't live with you, i can't live without you,
i can't live with myself
movements are too constrained when you
expend so much energy towards
thought

i wish i could show you the things i've sought
i wish i could show you my world
i wish i could show you my woes
i wish i could share with you my happiest moments

Don't shut me down or I'll hate you like I hate the parts of myself I don't share.
and i won't even know it, either way
Homunculus Jul 2019
Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******?
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
"**** me harder, Álvarez!"
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
"Oh hell no *****, 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"

She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?

(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)

I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!
(Paraphrase of System of a Down song from 2001 tour) I'm on drugs! I'm on drugs! Iiiiiiii am on DRUGS!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm on drugs! I'm on drugs! Iiiiiiii am on DRUGS!!!!!!!!!!!! Doooooooooo yoouuuuuuuu like DRUGS? Iiiiiiiiiiiii ammmmm DRUGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" But so are you, really. You drank coffee today, didn't you? AHA! Caught you right in the act! Case closed. . . .
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
my cat loves watching cigarette smoke
in the night,
while i love watching clouds,
but what consecrated us
      within a similitude
was:
   being brought into this world,
finding humanity, fast asleep,
   if not in the least: lost to sleep,
as if they were beyond medical
attention, comparing dreams
   to automations of imagination,
imagination become rampant;
for why would dreams be a mystery,
is they are only un-inhibited
representations of imagination?
why do dreams deserve a respect
to be treated as something mysterious,
when they are nothing but robotic
forms of imagination?
   robotic? yes, in terms of being
lawless...
    beyond conscious control...
there is nothing mythical, nothing
freud-orthodox about them...
       they are rampant imaginings
that never tread the path toward
fruition... it's not that they are
repressions...
              they are natural inhibitors
of what day-dreams are...
                            the real inhibitors...
let's talk about enzymes...
there is no worth interpreting dreams,
unless you're poised to craft
a trade with your *******...
           dreams = inhibited imaginings,
infectious, when the mind
is at "rest", posit coordinate 0,
which sleep ought to be...
             a denial of all conscious
activity... dreams are, ergo,
comparable to *******,
   i.e. a self-****...
                             it is better to treat
dreams as an omni-nonsense
   than a labyrinth with a minotaur...
i hate dreams...
           for what's it worth
i also don't believe in the western
diatribe of
   a subject-object dichotomy,
let alone a dualism...
to me dreams are akin to any other
virus infection...
                  esp. when people note
having recurrent dreams...
             i came into this world
and found humanity fast asleep...
  toward not asking,
but nonetheless writing this,
i asked for one "virtue"
and one "virtue" alone...
                 please, bar my infectious
capacity to dream...
          since then,
all my dreams have become nonsense,
for how can i trap light
     and then create a cinema
from exposure to this light,
in my sleep?
                       i appreciate
that i can stare into a light-glorifying
orb, and then see a geometric form
x-rayed onto a blank slate of focus...
but the complexity of dreams...
the narratives...
              there really isn't an
interpretation of dreams,
        to be a disciple of freud...
                      unless you have a lot of
time to waste and be bound to be
looking up your own ****...
                  to me dreams are
            like a sun within a black-hole...
there's light coming from the ultimate
recess...
    dreams are like the rebirth of a star...
light from the most hidden
    darkness,
         that is bound to originate in sleep...
i simply find dreams exhausting,
and too juxtaposed, to find a worthy
narrative, and subsequent interpretation;
at loss, to begin with,
   if ever to begin with,
         should genesis = zenith,
  if not, given the expression
                and regressive attitude
                          it not be: genesis = nadir.
black shadows spread
congregated  silhouettes
torn from their sleep
anguish etched on their faces
where nightmares have been dumped
create an avenging rage
of systematic hysteria
beyond all human bonds
become blind
to the anticipated
repressions of reality
entities whose powers
are not fully grasped
grey noise a menacing presence
anthracitic, their blackest tasks
so horrible
creating night in the middle of the day
mischievous  and malicious
they are no more
than an eternity away
where a box has no mother
black shapes beg
in their furtive
ballet once again
pure with night
sees the scene
Sarah Sawyer Nov 2011
As the hour drew nearer for me to know
I kept having flashes of past deeds
Long moments of memories
of repressions resurfacing with resolve
to extradite any hopeful forgetting on my part.
It will be negative, my mind whispers.
It always has been...

we are on the bed
a tangle of limbs
exposed to the air
never covered
raw           confusion
deep regret
a wall of protection
holes butchering it filled
quick with sarcasm

My mind is stuck in mundane tasks
Pushing any thoughts of the past into boxes
Shut, ridiculed, made insignificant.
Days pass, I work my body until it can
only think "keep moving"
I count. I breathe in.
One.
Two.               Out.
                      One.
                      Two.
That's all I can allow
I stop among the trees
Further then I have ever run before.
The first few moments are pure reveal
at having pushed myself so far.

i am still artificial
not all there
laughing in awe at the awkwardness
the odd situation i don't recognize
knowing this is the definition of nothing
because i have nothing to give
except for a laugh to know part of me
is in this
he is kissing me, tired of the wait
the talk i was enjoying
i mask it with "my wants"
this ******* concept that has become
a crippling facade
it is just a physical dance
changing positions like steps
we dance the bed
i'm cold and i want it over
laughing escapes from my lips
i say i am still high, i'm not laughing at him
but i know it is a lie
i am laughing at myself
for being such a fool
for being this new me
a degree lower for being higher

The cold temperature of the class hardens
my ******* under my shirt.
I cross my arms wanting them to be
soft again.
This unwilling reaction to outside factors
angers me.
I don't have any control anymore.

this is what i have become
a spectacle so easily raised
wondering why
i am a prisoner to these things
i want them more then i want me

But that's not even true!
I crave me, what I could be.
There's no use in wanting what I used to be.
She's dead, piled under the rocks of years gone by.
A mental service for the lost
"Dear God..."

i plead that name
soft whispers in the night
trying to hold on to the childlike faith
but why is he silent
am i no longer worthy of his grace
when i breathed the holy vapor
did it not the right syllables make
"dear god..."

That name pushes me to come undone
**** God and his crucified son
and the contradictory messages
sent "from above"
Where is he now in this
great game of Hide and Seek
Where daily a child dies of unspeakable acts
A mother is forced to care with no help
And I am left drowning in my own blood
wondering if I still possess the ability
to even give a ****

i walk among the trees
my secrets falling like an acidic rain
eating the soil
but i keep the pain a secret
always hidden beneath
strength, sarcasm, and a smile
my mind watching the sunset
while my mouth speaks of the coming noon

A friend once told me she wished she could
be like me
Not caring about what I've done
But in all honesty
I wish I could be like the biblical god
A self righteous *******
who hides behind a flawless facade of love.
KD Dec 2013
The stars look down upon the layers of raindrops that lay across the pavement.
The moon is wide awake tonight, keeping me company as the stillness of a sleeping world takes over.
Pathetic dreams mixed with nostalgic misery poison the oxygen I breathe in, and the haunting thoughts that plague my mind at midnight keep me from seeing the back of my eyelids.
What becomes of the repressions that fade to the back of my memory?
Another senseless worry.
I lay awake with this troubled mind that knows no release but the words that only pour so easily through ink and not through my vocal chords.
They say beauty is pain, but I say that pain is beauty.
You see these paintings that form to my flesh, once created with crimson paint on a clean canvas.
I took shame in the presentation but failed to read into the plot.
The stories that art portray, are such a beautiful thing.
I'll read you my stories, written legibly on my skin, in hopes that your eyes are open to the morals.
I shift my eyes to the light and try to muster up a smile, but I can't shake the image of you from my head.
The rain has come down hard, and a storm is brewing.
But even with the thunder, it is still a sound to lull you to sleep.
To induce subtle dreams of everything that tomorrow can be.
The skies will clear as they do after every downpour, and darling I'll be your umbrella until the sun shines again.
Just keep breathing.
Let me lift the weight from your shoulders, please.
I would be honored to take the chains that ensnare you, binding you at your feet.
I want to see you run free.
My soul doesn't break easily any longer, and can withstand so much more than it used to when I had encased it in ice, leaving it vulnerable to snapping at the simplest tap.
But loneliness can still draw a tear from these tired eyes.
I buried my heart some time last December, when the world became a shadow.
And sometimes I miss it.
Because on my quietest night, even the moon is leaving me now.
And as I watch this painful night turn into a pink sky, another hopeful sunrise, I wonder what this new day will bring.

-k.d.
Antony Padilla Oct 2012
I'm not sure what's true here...
And what's simply a nightmare.
I suppose life is like that,
When things don't seem right
And we can't rightly fight back.
Trapped in our situation,
Forever running from an invisible enemy.
Energy pent up in me.
Distract with action when there's sum lacking
It's a fact that I'm backing up.
Repressions to regressions
And my stress is on the come up.
When's this rotten life of mine
Supposed to come to fruition?
Fates keep kickin me in the nuts
While I'm standin here ******
Caught me wit my pants down
Before I could find an answer
In the swirling ***** of the oracle
I'll never know
So I'll stop looking for the future
In an empty snow globe
But the present's just as confusing
Life's the longest game I'll ever play
And I'm losing

im losing
Mitch Nihilist Sep 2015
inhabited within a society
by a government who lies to me,
to us, on the grounds of money;
earning and spending more than saved
to enrapture the self and capture the enslaved,
working class citizens
who worry more about paying rent
than being mentally content,
Monday to Friday, nine to five
a chance to earn, yet not to thrive
the worry placed on the gratified at ease,
posing no harm, smoking their own trees,
years in the cage for a simple possession of
a couple bags, subject to unlawful repression
yet barred for being a simplified state,
there’s lesser charges for amplified ****,
a higher power twisting by the fist,
grabbing a free nation and twisting by the wrist
there needs to be a change
within a democratic range
that allows us to be the free country
we announce in our anthem
but the government keeps gnawing
and biting the hand feeds them,
we’ll be ruled, and controlled
until a social monarchist
binds together to bindingly subsist
we the people need to speak up
and repress this social **** up;
the need to always rush,
the need to brush
aside repressions until
obsessions of contraries
conflict with progression,
living each day dead
with no room to grow and
yet the only gift we ever bestow
is sleeping and drifting away
in the unconscious
only to awake again,
a conjure suicide with
your company pen.
Dante Rocío Jun 2020
I live in some way on the edge of the world of the senses. I prolong my life with books, minute thrillances in the honourable existing through consciousness, Poetry, and I live from feelings, reflections. I barely spend time with my peers, I go to the city only when it is necessary, I don't know how to use Snapchat, Tik Tok, I don't listen to pop music, and since I don't have Facebook, you may not even consider me real. I don't engage in news, top trends or political issues. To put it in a nut shell, I am quite secluded from the global civilization.

However, something grave has recently been ignited and only two days ago did I realize what kind of slander is really happening in the country I currently am. Repressions against those who love/act differently. For what we feel, who we are with, that one wears pink or rainbow, that they are not what tradition or the wont of others expect. I saw the proud "LGBT FREE ZONE" boards on the photos. Joyful cleaning of the streets after pride marches, as if the plague of Albert Camus had passed there. Seeing non-heterosexual people as ****, like pariahs in India. That a student of one of my teachers cannot even give a new person their email due to fear. And a large part of Poland is even fine with it. To put it short, in humanitarian terms, we went back to the Victorian era or the Spanish conquests in a sense.

I do not know anything about politics. Sometimes I do not even remember who is the Prime Minister of Poland. And for many who are reading it now and don't know me, I can be nobody. But I know that I am in a way a pilgrim here and a heraldry of freedom for the world, now or later. And I have to do, give something from myself, because although words sometimes fail to express so much, at times, like dreams, they are the only thing we have left. So I write, I do what I can. Because someone has to say something more specifically.

In 2015, Chris Pueyo, a Spanish student from Madrid, published his poetic novel "El Chico de las Estrellas" ("The Star Boy") where he wrote his autobiography through his eyes and those of the third person. Without shame, he described his loves, ups and downs, the harassment from the hands  of the world surrounding him, and all the tears and his own blades of guilt and glory he had experienced and born, mainly because of his homosexual orientation, also to support others like him. So far no one has translated it into any other language and it is stuck in Spain and the countries of the South America. But I will change that. I've decided to be the first to do it. Although I'm not after any studies nor am I more than 18 years old. But I do it wonderfully, I have determination and love for the language as a person. And I have a goal. At first I thought it was because of my admiration for Chris's work and my desire to simply show it, but now I know that's not the point.

I'm doing this for You. Because in this country we lack books that free love from definitions, frames, books that discourse about our bodies or passion with their due admiration, truth and purity. So know that from now on I dedicate my work to You. To those to whom are clipped wings, words and hopes, to those who hide and want to love madly and without boundaries. To the colourful girls from my class who are not afraid to be all the shades of the rainbow with piercing and who supported me in difficult moments. To the aforementioned student of my singing teacher. I'm almost halfway through the book, I'm still waiting for an answer from the next publishers. I won't rest till I publish it for You and other personalities, even if, like J.K. Rowling, I have to go to 12 of them, because maybe those people are afraid of publishing it.

Less than a year ago I didn't know anything about LGBTQ+, I still haven't experienced any romantic perturbations in my life or ever fallen in love with any human. But thanks to the work of writers like Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Becky Albertalli, Chris Pueyo, many fanfics, articles or my own questions, I have seen how beautifully infinite, complex and simple love is, that there is nothing in it against the nature. I study God in the world, the Bible or the Koran, and I’m telling tell you that even there, in the depth of the verses, there is no absurd condemnation! I have gone through the issues of  defamed *** or nakedness into taboo and I’m saying to you: it is not unclean, forbidden, it is simply a corporeal act of devotion, our naked body is pride, not shame! Gender equality is not only the equality of man and woman, but of every person with the rest of the society. I have never experienced any serious harassment, pressure in the matter of my objects of affection, I admit it, but I do know what it's like when society wants to nail you to your biological age, body, gender, name and other ephemeral content on your ID card. Literally existential ****, in blood-stained handcuffs.

The main part of my being is The Poet. To be more precise, a "non-writing” one - poems are only a necessary medium to save my Poetry from the time, and the real one are my gestures, the doe eyes that the sky is clad in, thoughts, breath and feelings. So my task here is not forming rhymes and things into empty beauty yet bearing myself again and again in intimacy and metaphors more literal than the prose, between the verses. It is not a job, yet, for me, the most honourable identity. The path to my Home in the tears, grass, the Sacrality of Life, Myself. For this is My Love, Lover. I’m not joking. This is why I know such love and devotion though I’ve never been with any human in an intimate relationship. This doesn’t have ***, borders. Ergo I’ve never gave myself any name of my orientation, I don’t know what it would be and I don’t need to name it. I’m also a revolutionist at heart, I adore the vocal expression of the rebellion, therefore this is why I’m here. And I hope that I will be given the honour of being seen as one of You. Because this is pride. In the pride month.

I’m giving to You support greater than the word “YES” does it. My stance. And, finally, my poems. I dedicate them to You too, written partially especially due to the events taking place right now. I’m giving to Your hands my confessions entitled “And Who Are You To Be?” and “Of Feminine Touch, Of Masculine Sight”.

Don’t you ever let any being constrict your incalescent beauty of wonder. Don’t you ever let anyone claim you to be only a part of scheme, your job or any other miscellany in the bin. Just like You, I am the greatest wonder the history could have ever seen. Each one of us, on our own.

And one more thing, in reference to “The Star Boy”:
In this dead world, where dreams come
barefoot and unkempt to Nowhere,
let’s dance, like Lady Madrid,
with anarchy in the hair.
This time I'm not writing in poems or any literary style. I'm giving a discourse I want to share with all the LGBTQ+ people and many others who might need it, even if it seems to be little to some. Yet I gave something from myself. This is my English version of it since the original one was in Polish due to all that macabre taking place in Poland right now the most. I invite all the eager to read it and keep it in their heart.
I am with You. Wish you all the greatness. Hope I did well.
Nonsense Poet Nov 2017
Repressive social control
System of oppression
Even with the eyes close
The Doors are still open

At the stroke of midnight
Discarding the sense of sight
Feelings kept deep inside
Taking a flight to my mind


Freedom and individualities
At the same realities
Specially designed
Closely intertwined


Intentions and interactions
Regression and repressions
My life in the palm of my hand
Showing things that I'll never understand
Utopia dystopia repressive midnight freedom
Armani Dec 2017
I woke up to a world that wasn't my usual reality. The colors were darker, the sounds were deafening, and everything that exists annoys me. As if all of a sudden just being alive drained me of all my energy. At times it stopped me from walking, but it really hit me when i went to the bathroom.

You ever look at your reflection and see yourself, but it wasn't you?
I saw my face. But behind my eyes was another person, another soul, another demon. One that i didn't recognize.
It could be me, another side buried deep down underneath all of the pointless optimism i've used to hide years of negativity. Whatever it is it scared the **** out of me. It's like my reflection was about to ****** me deep into the pit of  pessimistic lamentation he crawled out of. All my evils, all my repressions, all my failures, and more importantly, all my anger was staring me right in my face. And he came to let me know that he was in charge now. I'd always fought that "evil" voice in the back of my mind but i'd never seen him. Now that i'm looking him eye to eye, I really had to fight him this time, but.....i couldn't.
he looked me dead in my face and said "i'm already here". My heart sunk. Because for the first time in my life i was scared and couldn't do **** about it. I felt so helpless. You can't fight yourself. Can you? Because if he is me, then what i've been fighting all these years is inside me. So this "Evil" I've been rejecting isn't a possibilty, it's an inevitability.
If it is, pray that the hellfire isn't too hot
This is my thirteenth poem. As you can tell, my poems aren't so much poems as they are journal entries from my descent into depression.
Now the need to rediscover himself rises over him, he leaves the Machiavellian stupor and the breath of his organism flavored with bile, alchemy, and pours it out until he expels his cancer-causing avital situation. Everything was already clear, Ludwig had a great refuge of himself, he was the superman who locks up all ages, who is senile and youthful; since it is surrounded by the aura of the perceptual smell of evil. That he renews knowledge and does not feel invariable, that he is a Cybernetic and divine Monarch. In contrast, the other is a mastiff that allows himself to docilize his instinct and follow the one who beats him, the one who mistreats him and shatters his will that accompanies the master who makes use of him, who uses him today, still and always. Now almost in his normal state, he decides to smell better and change his appearance, he coughs up his lobes by filling them with broth from Colibrí's twittering. He combs his damp hair and talks to himself by saying words like ...: Hello, how are you ... Who will you be today ...? Although his spirit is reluctant, he goes to the birthday of his friend Sara, a close friend of his, and lends to his benevolence. When he arrives, he repeats the protocol and cheers up his appearance, greets the ladies present, and hand in hand with the gentlemen, in Ludwig's intimacy an anti-desire pierces, the anguish of a weak pleasure that his expiring sap disturbs in the worldliness of him.

Distracted, he continues, walks with her eyes, and stops them in a brown hair, with radiant light he receives the sensual gesture, and the damsel takes her hair with her hand, pulling it towards her back. Ludwig, astonished and puzzled by her, made her look ******, he already imagined receiving from her a smile her, but knowing that he loved her, that her hair would let go of her and engender in him the impression of her as possessing the sculpture of her. He approaches her with a firm temper a little more, glancing at her casually. She, very contemplative, manages to find the vigor of her strength by getting close enough, he very thoughtful, pending her every step it would be easy for him to glimpse the future, to find his equivalence to his unpredictable existence, who for the moment would desire glory and majesty and not fugitive decadence, like something suicidal that instead of satisfying him, kills him.

When he was preparing to meet her, he did not hesitate and the last steps to her were the most solid, wherever he was with his idea of having her, he hung in his stomach the sharp desire to put out his eyes with a fork and thus proceed at a slow pace in his masochism in frisking his agonizing death. There came the other gesture where he would drop his arm and brush it with hers, with a stealthy touch he could see a certain excitement between his teeth, and the saliva was escaping from his mouth when he looked at himself in a mirror, also seeing how it trickled down his makeup chin impatience. He never believed that such a phenomenon would happen to him, so it was where Sara, who was tasting a delicious menu, was going to tell him that she was leaving her and that later he would call her. As he left and went through the front garden, he felt the birthday song being sung to the piano and at the same time he saw someone outside with an immutable expression --- And Ludwig told himself that the strange-looking one was an Augur del Budú, that It weighed on her stoic peace of being normal, which was just her high-profile imagination. Then he walks through the Prehistoric Park, crosses a low-level tunnel that endangers his balance when he barely sees his hands, but he manages to advance without paralyzing his limbs and reaches the main street where he sees a dog run over, takes it, and says to himself. ..: "I will take it to the food chain of my Green City, where the pure bacteria will gnaw its tissues ..." With great strength and noble spirit, he entered his Floral Forest, where he points the Cypress to the Sea, thus releasing it and sheltering it with his Deist energy, which is more than medullary and unbeatable. He withdraws and cannot help turning and looking at him, as if said Energy wanted him to resurrect the dog. Believing in his conscience, he asks permission to rest, he lies lightly on the humus; where photosynthesized leaves inoculate the percentage dreams of vegetables, trees and flowers. What the archer in his bolt threw, his chest oppressed unbreathable pneumonia, driving him to sleep for twenty-four hours. When he wakes up, still lying on his humus bed, he wants to lighten his heavy load by eating well, and drinking himself into alcohol. He did not know how to proceed, whether to beg or rob the wealthy of his leftovers, or humble himself with God and disavow him from throwing misfortunes, carelessness, cataclysms, the self-criticism of being imperfect, and whether he has to bleed or He has to defecate, provoke personal disgust, and may this lead him to lust, baseness, sin.

The more he brooded, the more weightless he became, and the murderous scavengers lurked around his will. Like a narcotic effect, it loses its cognitive capacity and reverses itself swirling through the funnel of reverie, where the sub-world circulates and where repressions, oppositions, and powerlessness collide. At the initial place where he hallucinates and sees himself entirely, he leaves the vigil and goes into the subconscious ...: He sees Debra in her moderated state where she was leaving that space --- Ludwig looks at her and so does she, but nothing is said to each other, only he says to himself "I prefer to love her to my distant ideal and not body versus body, just as the thought of her makes of her a kind, sweet and current portrait ..."

When he begins to walk renewed, he sees several Debra in reproductive phases, they worked ardently in his subconsciousness. Some kissed him, others beat him, others confused him and others hurt him. In favor of his life and for his salvation, the virtuous side would mercifully go to dismay him and open the floodgate of reality, to desolder his eyelids and flowing air go with its dreamlike substances. Already fully awake, he sees through the window of the branches how the clouds moved and how everything moved, the bushes with their branches and their flowers. When seeing with alienated simplicity and electrifying the sky, the radiant light beams touch the vibrant colors, which touch his heart like a disquieting shout, although at the most acute in his decay it will be like the noise that broke his eardrum, or like the chard that her stomach upset. He gets up and straightens up, by the time he's standing, he takes a paper and writes ...: "How relieved I am to dabble in sleep ..., now that I make the inscription tangible ..."

When he left his home, he was accompanied by a splendid sun, the birds fluttered with indescribable happiness, the prevailing clarity and cleanliness of the environment was already perceived, seeing that everything was hubbub, he continued to be a victim of his endogenous suffering. But the children's laugh made him laugh, dissipating his sorrow. Passing through the Prehistory Park, where he always believed that trees were Dinosaurs; he remembered the jerks of his father when he took him to school. He concludes that there is no place on earth that is not ancient, and here in this park you can smell the sacrifice of the primitive to survive. In the same way, the Mammoth in instincts was the same as **** Sapiens, only that it took its spear against the animal because it evolved faster, without knowing why ...?, Perhaps to see this inhabitant moistened in the Jordan, very close to Jesus Christ. The world revolves around the man in need, who invents what is necessary, in this case fighting his hunger. In this way he kills the Mammoth, cutting it into pieces to then eat it, and whoever takes the food from it, simply dies in the struggle to survive before his ambitions.

When he got out of his mind, he set out on the path to follow, and when he crossed the Fountain of Geysers and Hot Springs; he saw at the top of the Waters of Delphi, that woman with chestnut hair; Sara's birthday. She was alone and with her eyes without detaching them from the vapor, from the liquid element, so excited Ludwig approaches her almost calm, with a racing heart that he could hide when talking to her --- Well he said to himself ..., now I'll talk to you ... - Excuse me, You. I saw you on Sara's birthday, I saw you surrounded by many people. Look, I would allow myself to be by your side, I promise not to get in the way --- Thus, the soliloquy continued, with great shock I watched her and seeing how delighted she was, I could even kiss her, achieving it with ease, because it was daytime, perhaps where it was. found in the nomenclature matter.

After a while, when she was thinking of quickly moving away from the place, from the Source that inspired her enchantment, she spoke to him and said ...: “We women are not very fixed when the man casts his insatiable gaze, but we do the vanity of feeling admired. That's why I remember you at that party, I even got really worried when the saliva ran down your chin, I thought you were going to faint. As you can see, if I remember you.--- He did not take long to ask her name, and he told her that her name was Antonieta. Ludwig thought how beautiful her name was --- she has the name I like the most, and she illuminated with adulation cleared her eyes making them greener and more feminine in her manners. He knew that he would be calmer if he met her again, asking her to be so. She affirmed his request, but it would be in a few more weeks; because she had to fulfill a contract with the Ballet Company. Since she was an actress and a dancer, this was going to take place in the city of San Lorenzo. Thus it is that the ballad mishap was fulfilled, in the thick of the Park, one and the other had the magic of enchantment; her with her eyes of her green sea of the rocky shore, of the green algae and the salty green fish with the immeasurable shine in her eyes eager to dance and interpret the steam dance of that deep-rooted Thermal Spring.

Even when she wanted to start saying goodbye to her, he was imbued with her beauty, like the wind of pure air that lifts her hair with pacifism and open disposition, with the peace of a face that looks at the ****** world and at first instance positive and very beautiful. Well, Antoinette said ... I have to go. I would have liked to be here more, but I have to continue rehearsing the Work. She telling Ludwig ...: I want to let you know that we are slaves to fulfillment and we all seek to communicate, that's why like you I will also go. Together they left without saying anything and when they reached the exit they said goodbye with an injective kiss of love, with sweetness and psychology. The latter, she leaves the place until lost in the hazy gray of the day. When Ludwig wanted to talk to himself about what had happened, the preliminary virus entered her brain, so that he could not remember her clothes, only her hair from the Thermal Abbey with her spells that he introduced stiff and sharp the benefit by clouding his unreason produced by the virus of unreason. He believed he was Troilo and she Créssida, raising his suggestive and despotic view of her, whose order tells him to walk away ... Perhaps where ...? Maybe to drag the golden threads of her dress destined for her debut. By introducing his instinct to a simple will, he remembers Sara and puts forces in her footsteps to shorten her arrival. As he passed through the jasmine trees, he approached his house in a tiny way, up to the Eucalyptus massif that always welcomed him, expelling the unmistakable and pleasant aroma of his house. Before it struck, Sara said ... come in, and he came in but didn't see her, and he started looking for her around the dining room and the living room, until she came out of somewhere fast and well dressed with the scent of a great woman, with the better scents that surrounded her satin dress with attraction and grace. She tells him that she is going to the Aula Magna to see a group of Medieval Music. He tells her that if he left so after her, arguing that he came to see her and tell her how beautiful he found her friendship with her and how good it feels to be I live here, She tells him not to worry when she smiles at him, and he agreed to her words telling him how happy he was after the sun that rose magnifying everything, even she felt willing to improvise their good moods.

He answers her by making her words difficult as if intensifying her anemic and soft ductility in her breathless lungs. She rebukes him by saying that her illness should be treated more regularly. And he answered her only by shaking her head moderately, telling her that when he was not with someone like her, he believed he felt that the weight of the calculations of the geophysical world and the floating voices did not leave her hope in the peace in peace. her brain. Sara takes Ludwig's hands, giving him her comfort. My poor friend Ludwig, Alma Matter, you have now awakened the affection that I have never felt before for someone I hold dear and feel good today. She gets up and serves him a Vermouth, to go to the exhibition. In the fourth sip he wanted to fall into the hands of a certain audacity, he could not avoid falling into the ******* of the vision of paintings and sculptures, he wanted to stop and go to the garden to philosophize, perhaps with a butterfly such as the peaceful and healthy essence, full of transparency and stillness. She in this way she stretched her nose towards the ****** leaves, filling them with pure color, with pure airy candor. Sara, looking at him through the glass door, understood his state and wanted to caress his head and face. She immediately called him Ludwig ... come on, it's about time ...! He waited for him to close the door, before cutting off his overexcitement, until Sara quickly arrived and they went to the car. Upon arriving at the Aula Magna, both were in an excellent state of predisposition. They went in and up, sitting in the box. They instantly cheered up and Ludwig, shocked, was getting ready to tell him of his well-being, but the lights just faded to initiate the presentation. They begin by instrumentalizing the works of the 15th century in Spain and France, to later continue with choral music from the  Gregorian´s chants  Solesmes.

In the intermission, they commented on the lightness of the performers with their instruments and the fiery auditors acclaiming the variations and colors of the voices. His gestures also said how perplexed some attendees were by the perfection of his mastery. As they continue, pairs are introduced performing music for Bach's Harpsichord, and ending with pieces by Vivaldi, El pastor Fido and others by Telemann for Guitar. In the final moment, Ludwig remembered his youth and among them the metallic sound of the instruments that his father carried to compose in his house, assimilating the inexhaustible sounds of those volumes in his sensations. And so the aerial images escaped beyond music and love, from that inexhaustible resistance of his body, from his doubtful states which destroyed the apogee of his evolution. Those great awakenings of little serenity like the great clamor of union that he saw in his parents that later he did not seem like that, but belligerent on all sides, and how hatred broke out and disordered in his person increasing in swearing mouths altered in not measuring his words. Very close together on the step, they said goodbye to the Auditorium, and with a melodic sound, Sara appears singing, Ludwig not understanding that mixture that she sang in her French hymn. He seemed very bohemian and spoke of the pioneers of the Juggler Song. With telepathy he carried the fulfillment of his wish for a magical state, which had no input or output, only it corresponded to extracting an abstract thought from what was divinely related to music. Outside of Ludwig, Sara sang with satisfaction the appropriate atmosphere appropriate to her, but not so with his who was about to spill an ocean of liquids from eyes and ears, in which would come the remnants of quiet time, of the conflict of the others, maybe Debra with a handicapped part endocrinately composed with the flow of mineral and organic acids. In order to open the necessary contact of a soon to relieve, to suspend the claustrophobic tormenting existing, derived from the seizing and painful gesture of her unbearable wanting to heal and not getting it.

Ludwig said intimately ...: Uz ..., Uzzz ..., What a burning sensation I feel, it will pass ...! When the fatigue was overcome, the derutinization begins, to receive the delight, the music of the plumber ingredient of early life. That if it is spontaneous, it is capable of generating great proportions of delight and externalizing the result of the bodies in agitation that still emanated from its rhythmic musical cortex. They said goodbye to the Aula Magna "Bernardo Courtois", leaving a memorable satisfaction in his already enlarged spirit.
Weirdly Emigrate Chapter IV
StrangeFruit Jan 2019
There has not yet been a string of letters strung together in a way to express the deepest repressions of my mind.
I have not yet felt an emotion strong enough to make my life feel as if its worth the amount of effort i put into it.
Nor have I met a person who is able to recognize the sparkle in my eyes as my depression and anger's warning signs of implosion.
Azalea Apr 2017
Let me graze my fingers along the ripped edges of your figure
and flex mine with the movement of the sun.
Do I frighten you?
Does my negative space equate to your negativity?
Am I that reflection
reduced to your oblong form,
absent of your scabbed and scarred skin,
you’ve no longer hid
since no one said
anything in the first place.
You’re sadistic.
Repressions.
Aggressions.
Depressions.
Holographic clones multiply
on floors, walls, and colored party lights.
I’m tugging on you
whispering
let’s go… let’s go..
Babatunde Raimi Jun 2020
He changed the world
Yes, he changed the world
And transited a martyr
How HE takes the dumbest things
And brings out the best therefrom
So, unquestionable HE is
Surely, HE has the final say
For HIS ways are perfect and just

For years we fought oppressions
Institutional and organized repressions
Corruption was deep in our fabric
Our collective voice was weak
The voice suppressed by great   institutional firepower
But HE had a joker, Floyd "Eledumare", so humorous
The same way he chose a stammerer
To lead HIS people to peace

He chose a non-entity
Without any massive political clout
And turned him to a celebrity
His blood, for a change, that's how it worked
Just as Christ died for our sins
His death is a reminder of the blood oath
This is to racism and institutional brutality

Racism has no place in our world
Kick out racism with your everything
We survived over 400years of slavery and abuse
It's time to take a stand
If one man made an emphatic statement with his voice
We don't have to die to live

With her deeds, Mother Theresa changed the world
Mandela and Martin Luther;  with their words
Bob Nesta Marley and Fela Anikulapo used their music
He is touching the world with his writings and poems;
His name is Babatunde Raimi
But George Floyd, the boy from Houston, Texas
He died to change the narratives
He didn't have to die, but he couldn't breathe
What are you doing to change your world?

— The End —