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"resetting" poems
we always want to re-invent ourselves when we feel rejected, unwanted, left to the side. we dye our hair or cut our hair or style our hair so differently, so drastically, so unrecognizable. we pack on make-up or strip our make-up or pierce our faces, belly buttons, get tattoos, choose a permanent mark to remind us of something solid; something that represents self-sufficiency or this too shall pass, because we know we are gonna feel rejected, unwanted, left to the side again (and again, and again). we buy new clothes, give away old ones to our friends, new shoes, new bags, new look. and we’re always picking up new vices, new habits, new addictions. cigarettes, alcohol, razors, all the late night reckless binges on wine, narcotics, food, cutting ourselves. sometimes we pick up healthy ones too, like running, swimming, dancing, yoga, meditating, resetting sleep patterns, taking vitamins, treating ourselves to the spa, eating regularly, getting out of the house to see friends. we either avoid intimacy at all costs because we can’t fathom the concept of trust anymore or we dive into it with practically anyone, just to feel something real because we are so ******* lonely, but we never really feel anything real at all. we make resolutions, goals, plans for our next relationships so that they won’t follow the same patterns as our last crumbling ones (they usually still do). some of us change what we like, what we want, what we need to impress people so that they fall in love with us and will never leave us. we begin disregarding ourselves for another person, or disregarding everyone else for ourselves, both because we don’t want to get hurt again. and then somewhere, somehow after weeks, months, maybe even years of the full fledged wavering of destruction meeting recovering meeting ignorance meeting shyness meeting loneliness meeting accepting meeting fear, we start to see the intricacies of the pattern much clearer - we make all of these sudden changes because we just want to feel better, we just want to be better; that’s all. it’s taking charge, which is healthy. it’s also making fact and point that we need to change to deserve love, which is unhealthy. all of it is like learning algebra for the first time, some of us take a bit longer to understand it all; the formulas, the variables, the balance. and once we understand the formula, the variables and the balance, then we can welcome back the beautiful, real version of ourselves we’ve been trying to cover up.
0
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
girls
we always want to re-invent ourselves when we feel rejected, unwanted, left to the side. we dye our hair or cut our hair or style our hair so differently, so drastically, so unrecognizable. we pack on make-up or strip our make-up or pierce our faces, belly buttons, get tattoos, choose a permanent mark to remind us of something solid; something that represents self-sufficiency or this too shall pass, because we know we are gonna feel rejected, unwanted, left to the side again (and again, and again). we buy new clothes, give away old ones to our friends, new shoes, new bags, new look. and we’re always picking up new vices, new habits, new addictions. cigarettes, alcohol, razors, all the late night reckless binges on wine, narcotics, food, cutting ourselves. sometimes we pick up healthy ones too, like running, swimming, dancing, yoga, meditating, resetting sleep patterns, taking vitamins, treating ourselves to the spa, eating regularly, getting out of the house to see friends. we either avoid intimacy at all costs because we can’t fathom the concept of trust anymore or we dive into it with practically anyone, just to feel something real because we are so ******* lonely, but we never really feel anything real at all. we make resolutions, goals, plans for our next relationships so that they won’t follow the same patterns as our last crumbling ones (they usually still do). some of us change what we like, what we want, what we need to impress people so that they fall in love with us and will never leave us. we begin disregarding ourselves for another person, or disregarding everyone else for ourselves, both because we don’t want to get hurt again. and then somewhere, somehow after weeks, months, maybe even years of the full fledged wavering of destruction meeting recovering meeting ignorance meeting shyness meeting loneliness meeting accepting meeting fear, we start to see the intricacies of the pattern much clearer - we make all of these sudden changes because we just want to feel better, we just want to be better; that’s all. it’s taking charge, which is healthy. it’s also making fact and point that we need to change to deserve love, which is unhealthy. all of it is like learning algebra for the first time, some of us take a bit longer to understand it all; the formulas, the variables, the balance. and once we understand the formula, the variables and the balance, then we can welcome back the beautiful, real version of ourselves we’ve been trying to cover up.
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51
A moment frozen in time; Sublime and reclining Speckled clouds in the sky. A moment to reflect on My minds eye divining My mood weaves the meadows in which I do graze, Breeze on my face, The echo of natures innocence resounding. What is this place? Why is it so hard to reach? Still to my bones. So aware so aware of it all. This altered conscious hears my plea. **A warm, deep breath for my soul, resetting life's toll on me.**
0
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
Every herb in its Season
He was an alchemist, Turning my lead tears to gold, Because to him I was beautiful To him I was worth more. He was a metalsmith, Fixing my broken copper wings With tarnished feathers Because to him, I could still fly. He was a clockmaker Resetting my fragmented cogs and beating pendulum Spending hours and hours Because to him I was fixable.   But I am a just broken clockwork angel With lead tears, broken wings, and severed insides Rusted away by time and life And no amount of mending can save me
0
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
Clockwork angel (Metals and You reworked)
A singular urge is a first, reach out and stretch to grasp what's ahead. Craving the crest of a wave, we're high on the day as it's made. Each is a slave where emotions are led, fixed with impatient aches when we age. Hard to remember which intentions were sent, resetting said objectives of late. Targets in sight from the white of your eye, these short lived events curl up in death. Less than a wisp as it fades into air, rolling along to reclaim what we shared.
0
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 12:33 PM UTC
Thirst
Walking alone in the darkness My world looks so different from yours No one notices No one takes my hand Somebody please Just notice my pain I just want to reset Want to return to my happy days I want to reset Just help me reset I'm just stuck in this lonely darkness Floating around, hopeless Someone tell me why I'm lonely Why is only my world stopping? Walking with someone in the dark is better than walking alone in the light So please just offer your hand One hand is enough to help Help me go back to the beautiful days I want to reset Just help me reset I need a hand of warmth But why isn't anyone there? All I get is weird looks Don't we all deserve the help we need? We can all breathe..... Isn't it the same? I pray for a society Where we get the help we need Without the discrimination We all deserve that hand of warmth. I just want to go back to those fun days Just help me reset Reset my whole life Finally, I can breathe.... I actually have a reason to live, Your smile that is very warm Finds me before disappearing In the darkness your smile Shines brightly into my gloomy heart I can finally reset Reset my life Into the light I come My new life awaits I'll be sure to give A hand of warmth To that person Who needs help resetting
0
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
Hand of Warmth
You know how Emily said Hope is a thing with wings? Well mine is nosediving and I can't believe how much it stings. Despair it grips my soul, And all I hear is screams. They always echo on repeat and swallow up my dreams. I used to love your arms around me. Now they are suffocating. I used to believe in one and only- Now it just feels lonely. I used to imagine a white wedding, Now that thinking is steady resetting. I used to do anything just to see you smile, Now I know I haven't made you happy in a long while. I used to believe in magic. Now it's all just noise. Once the static passes, it's the silence that destroys. I used to be a hopeless romantic- Now I am only just hopeless.
0
Aug 23, 2022
Aug 23, 2022 at 7:48 PM UTC
(Hope)less Romantic
***An earthquake passes Beneath my toes An unsettling notion Is left in my heart As thoughts of concern Race by like 2 ton trucks An empty freight train May shake a small town However the frenzied freight truck Shakes my nerve Serving up appetite for destruction Watching with watchful eye Seeing itty bitty houses fall to the ground Like a house of cards being blown over Once the appetite is fulfilled My notions will be settled Once and for all Justice, Peace at last Resetting happiness To the beginning of A brand new day Where love settles in the hills Looking over the tip top of the mound You notice the sun shining Brightly***
0
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 6:39 AM UTC
An Earthquake Passes
First see new photo, or else won't make sense. Word is out Animal kingdom on red alert, No animus allowed near the chair, Tween human and animal. Good eats, good writes to be had, Near that ye old adirondacke chair, Where scribbles float in L'air du temps, Ripe for the plucking. Arrived in the night dark, Twelve eyes grinning, sheepish, Wasn't tho no sheep, just a  veritable **** deer herd munching the shrubs, Who when head lighted, indifferently said, Yo ******* it is September, remember, Get the fk off our lawn! Argh. Morning. Coffee-armed. Tablet shotguned, Went to write in the fall sun, When to my shock n' awe, A gaggle of geese, awaiting. And I mean a good-god-damn giggling-gaggle, no sht! Probably resetting, resettling, looking for forgiveness, For ******** all over the hard scrabbled grass. Well no atonement boys, Yom Kippur notwithstanding, I ain't the forgiving type! No, no poet! We stand before you on the Jewish Judgement Day, Decorously waiting, in a row, Before the throne, tho honking a little rudely, Impatient for inscribing in Natalino's Hall of Fame, Book of Life for the coming year. Harrumph. Well, in that case, (Ego melting secretly inside), Here is a poem just for you. Fly south safe, Inscribed and sealed you will be, In both the Book of Life and Prosperity, But only if you, stay off my grass in perpetuity! Done and off they flew, Me smiling, proud of my new fame, Until I found their presents Under my flip flops. ******* deer. ******* rabbits. ******* geese. I wish they were not such Poetry fanatics. Ok. Forgiven. 10:11am Yom Kippur morning.
0
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
Poetry For a New Audience
First see new photo, or else won't make sense. Word is out Animal kingdom on red alert, No animus allowed near the chair, Tween human and animal. Good eats, good writes to be had, Near that ye old adirondacke chair, Where scribbles float in L'air du temps, Ripe for the plucking. Arrived in the night dark, Twelve eyes grinning, sheepish, Wasn't tho no sheep, just a  veritable **** deer herd munching the shrubs, Who when head lighted, indifferently said, Yo ******* it is September, remember, Get the fk off our lawn! Argh. Morning. Coffee-armed. Tablet shotguned, Went to write in the fall sun, When to my shock n' awe, A gaggle of geese, awaiting. And I mean a good-god-damn giggling-gaggle, no sht! Probably resetting, resettling, looking for forgiveness, For ******** all over the hard scrabbled grass. Well no atonement boys, Yom Kippur notwithstanding, I ain't the forgiving type! No, no poet! We stand before you on the Jewish Judgement Day, Decorously waiting, in a row, Before the throne, tho honking a little rudely, Impatient for inscribing in Natalino's Hall of Fame, Book of Life for the coming year. Harrumph. Well, in that case, (Ego melting secretly inside), Here is a poem just for you. Fly south safe, Inscribed and sealed you will be, In both the Book of Life and Prosperity, But only if you, stay off my grass in perpetuity! Done and off they flew, Me smiling, proud of my new fame, Until I found their presents Under my flip flops. ******* deer. ******* rabbits. ******* geese. I wish they were not such Poetry fanatics. Ok. Forgiven. 10:11am Yom Kippur morning.
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54
It has been many moons since these translucent eyes set forth the bellowing cries of a whispered hymn. The cries of those long since forgotten, briefly heard, myopic, blind to the background sound of our nestled unruly world. The white noise that paints the landscape continually resetting itself in a desperate attempt to regain its foothold in our lives. It is this fight for free reign that forever brings me here. Brings me to each infinitesimal moment in life where we as the white noise fight for dominance over our subconscious realm. Leery of what we experience with our senses and what we experience with the extensions of. Touching everything with our nothing making sure that the existence that we live is not just a state of mind but an actuality. We are self-altruistic, in this i am sure, for we care about the well being of ourselves. No state of mind left behind this is our status quo. Let it be that no mirror binds you to your own failures nor to those that look onto from a distance. Let you be your own shadow let your own shadow not be a former representation of what is but what's to come. Let your shadow be effectively that of which you strive. Let the shovels of ill will be fated to bury themselves hand in hand with those that foster it. Stand firm in your position overcome only by the mountains of your own design. These peaks scream out echoes of your hate and shame not for you, nay. Not for I, nay. but for those that challenge what you stand for because the earth beneath our feet stands for everyone. stands stained with bloodied tears that rained down from our glorified manufactured heaven. This epoch marks the second coming of our custom, individualized, patent-pending, rights reserved, copyrighted Christ; our self-proclaimed god. self-proclaimed because we are the gods we seek, we ignore, and we pray for. the effervescent pool of life reads no running so we segue our way on this Segway to take advantage of the loopholes we ourselves placed as if only to cheat our fabricated reality because rebellion is refreshing and different but only when no one else is looking.
0
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
Stream Of Consciousness
It has been many moons since these translucent eyes set forth the bellowing cries of a whispered hymn. The cries of those long since forgotten, briefly heard, myopic, blind to the background sound of our nestled unruly world. The white noise that paints the landscape continually resetting itself in a desperate attempt to regain its foothold in our lives. It is this fight for free reign that forever brings me here. Brings me to each infinitesimal moment in life where we as the white noise fight for dominance over our subconscious realm. Leery of what we experience with our senses and what we experience with the extensions of. Touching everything with our nothing making sure that the existence that we live is not just a state of mind but an actuality. We are self-altruistic, in this i am sure, for we care about the well being of ourselves. No state of mind left behind this is our status quo. Let it be that no mirror binds you to your own failures nor to those that look onto from a distance. Let you be your own shadow let your own shadow not be a former representation of what is but what's to come. Let your shadow be effectively that of which you strive. Let the shovels of ill will be fated to bury themselves hand in hand with those that foster it. Stand firm in your position overcome only by the mountains of your own design. These peaks scream out echoes of your hate and shame not for you, nay. Not for I, nay. but for those that challenge what you stand for because the earth beneath our feet stands for everyone. stands stained with bloodied tears that rained down from our glorified manufactured heaven. This epoch marks the second coming of our custom, individualized, patent-pending, rights reserved, copyrighted Christ; our self-proclaimed god. self-proclaimed because we are the gods we seek, we ignore, and we pray for. the effervescent pool of life reads no running so we segue our way on this Segway to take advantage of the loopholes we ourselves placed as if only to cheat our fabricated reality because rebellion is refreshing and different but only when no one else is looking.
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3
I've been fighting with temptation in everyday that I'm faced with Resetting my mind all of my hopes and my dreams onto the re--placement Of every loss And the suicidal thoughts of me Losing / Control Still engaged in my mind, I'm inclined while Maintaining the goal of walking down that straight and narrow road of Life Because I have a date with Destiny in spite of what is ailing me in- Sight While all the while? Through the dark of night I'm forced to fight with many different things, With no self-esteem trying to figure out who to believe And who to trust and on whom can I call? Soul is uncontent to balance the fence Slowly committed to fall All while seeing the steady fall Of my many brethrens called For the same purpose and the work that was meant for us all But still my soul fell slowly down De-pression's Well Totally left to figure out how to make it out Wondering how I slipped and fell? Fallen waist deep Lost within the clutches of grief With seemingly no way of me finding an answer, And no way of me holding my Peace So as a means of release? I'm now speaking my Peace Releasing for this reason having the means of picking up the Spiritual  Pieces And putting it all back together using it for what it's worth Visualizing the Holy theme giving birth to revive my hopes and Dreams But these dreams are not seen through the eyes of surprise But only seen through the joyfulness of watching our spirits Rise Riiising out of the ashes where the fearfulness is cruel and savage, Out of the madness where the hopelessness is the rule of sadness Escaping the Pain No longer bond under heavy Locks and Chains No more wounds to be healed No wounds to seal No bandages with -Stains-
0
May 8, 2022
May 8, 2022 at 12:27 AM UTC
-Stains-
I've been fighting with temptation in everyday that I'm faced with Resetting my mind all of my hopes and my dreams onto the re--placement Of every loss And the suicidal thoughts of me Losing / Control Still engaged in my mind, I'm inclined while Maintaining the goal of walking down that straight and narrow road of Life Because I have a date with Destiny in spite of what is ailing me in- Sight While all the while? Through the dark of night I'm forced to fight with many different things, With no self-esteem trying to figure out who to believe And who to trust and on whom can I call? Soul is uncontent to balance the fence Slowly committed to fall All while seeing the steady fall Of my many brethrens called For the same purpose and the work that was meant for us all But still my soul fell slowly down De-pression's Well Totally left to figure out how to make it out Wondering how I slipped and fell? Fallen waist deep Lost within the clutches of grief With seemingly no way of me finding an answer, And no way of me holding my Peace So as a means of release? I'm now speaking my Peace Releasing for this reason having the means of picking up the Spiritual  Pieces And putting it all back together using it for what it's worth Visualizing the Holy theme giving birth to revive my hopes and Dreams But these dreams are not seen through the eyes of surprise But only seen through the joyfulness of watching our spirits Rise Riiising out of the ashes where the fearfulness is cruel and savage, Out of the madness where the hopelessness is the rule of sadness Escaping the Pain No longer bond under heavy Locks and Chains No more wounds to be healed No wounds to seal No bandages with -Stains-
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61
Words wandered to express your charm Poem could not portray your smile Sonnet sauntered resetting the rhyme to your tune Acrostics acquired feelings to fill out your name. Free verse flied away fluttering it's words Knowing it's about you. About you. Ineffable beautiful soul.
0
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 4:26 AM UTC
Words wander
I'm not a poet. But if I were, i'd probably be a nocturnal one and i'd write about how on most nights my tongue is a tombstone, my throat a grave filled with regret, and my voice is each grunt and whine I give my timed reflection as I avoid every mirror because I can't stand looking at myself...i'd tell... I'd tell people that my depression is an ocean. Within it's waves, high and low...slowly but surely blanketing over me...dragging any broken and lost pieces of my happiness back into itself, resetting the sand that is my skin so tomorrow you can't see the holes that were there. Yeah. I'm not a poet. But maybe if I were, i'd write a song about her. It would tell a story about how on days when the sun blinks and everything around me is grey; and the world is stained with my fears...she. is. the honey-warm scent after a summer rain, an evening primose before the tempest, and the quiet cerulean air in an earthquake... she's...every hue of a pacific sunset. I'd sing about how she was the moments between each tide that kept me warm; how she was the sun that fed the daisies in my throat reminding me that life is possible. I'm no poet. But if I were then this paper would be the towel I dried my heart with, the words would be all the unspoken dreams of my insomnia, and the pen was the blade used to cut this heart so I could bleed my everything to you...I swear. If I were a poet, i'd whisper every vowel i've been given that completes me into stardust. Sprinkled into the cosmos to someday create a world where the ocean never raged. A world where there were just enough clouds and no earthquakes...then again...where's the poetry in that?
0
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
If I were a poet.
I'm not a poet. But if I were, i'd probably be a nocturnal one and i'd write about how on most nights my tongue is a tombstone, my throat a grave filled with regret, and my voice is each grunt and whine I give my timed reflection as I avoid every mirror because I can't stand looking at myself...i'd tell... I'd tell people that my depression is an ocean. Within it's waves, high and low...slowly but surely blanketing over me...dragging any broken and lost pieces of my happiness back into itself, resetting the sand that is my skin so tomorrow you can't see the holes that were there. Yeah. I'm not a poet. But maybe if I were, i'd write a song about her. It would tell a story about how on days when the sun blinks and everything around me is grey; and the world is stained with my fears...she. is. the honey-warm scent after a summer rain, an evening primose before the tempest, and the quiet cerulean air in an earthquake... she's...every hue of a pacific sunset. I'd sing about how she was the moments between each tide that kept me warm; how she was the sun that fed the daisies in my throat reminding me that life is possible. I'm no poet. But if I were then this paper would be the towel I dried my heart with, the words would be all the unspoken dreams of my insomnia, and the pen was the blade used to cut this heart so I could bleed my everything to you...I swear. If I were a poet, i'd whisper every vowel i've been given that completes me into stardust. Sprinkled into the cosmos to someday create a world where the ocean never raged. A world where there were just enough clouds and no earthquakes...then again...where's the poetry in that?
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17
i pay you back for your lack of attention with well aimed selfies at other men snapchat carrying them faithfully across the pixelated airways no evidence for you to find. in the end, i resent everyone i love for every opportunity that i stayed silent about what i really wanted i resent them for my own flaws. my quietness, my need to please. i make myself a dog, and they pet my ego just enough to keep me from leaving. the curse of a fat stomach, arms, thighs, attributes of a fat *** they can keep me in my place because i do not believe i am deserving i've been taught that well, but instagram makes me brave. there are other girls like me i stand on the foundation of the horror and humiliation they endure in the hope of a better future less fuckboys less degradation more equality for my fat *** how much longer will i believe i have to put up with less than what i deserve because i am lucky someone wants to **** me at all? i don't think it will be long. decades of socialization taught me to beg for every scrap from a table laid for girls much thinner than i but the tables are turning resetting rearranging the playing field is changing fat is okay fat is pretty fat is normal fat is just like anyone else i just want to be treated like everyone else.
0
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
im on holliday
Today I saw the sky Drowning in the rain I saw the world's negligence And felt our worlds pain We as a species Disconnected from our earth Comfort found from possession Instead of family by the hearth I saw our world crying From the pain we have caused The Forrest stripped to nothing The northern ice now thawed And as we turn a carless eye To our world and our mother Neglecting all we've been given Provided for like no other All in life we need.. Was not created by man We have simply forgotten How to live off of the land One day rapture will come Not biblical but for sure And mother nature will abandon us.. Like our species has done her. Our world is dying.. And resetting.. Is the cure.
0
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
Our world is dying..
Van Gogh lost an ear And ****** was born Something tells me history Will repeat itself Is repeating Roots to grow Roots to pull up Like the near future My star-clock keeps resetting Connect the dots I don't believe in accidents And I'm the most sane I'll ever get Call it what you will In the waves and on the ground Is where I find myself And yet that's where The enemy lies Or say they tell me Another truth turned on its head The weight of my decisions You can't handle Yet it's not your heart Frozen to the mantle In the clouds Eyes peer down A ***** on a mechanical bull A cup transformed into a robot They sure have eyes everywhere Turning big sister into a threat And if we're all headed underground Why the mixed bait of suicide and peace Danger or sleep And if it all happens for good reason Why the dependency on TV skies Hearts or eyes Read the diagram of a head If it makes you sleep sounder in bed But the anatomy of a mind Will put your concrete beliefs in double-bind Roots to grow Roots to pull up The future is here Our star-clock keeps resetting
0
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
Turbine
The air burns where I sleep; you trudge in almost-snow. The resetting of alarm clocks let the wind slip through your dreamcatcher. And my sunset is all the colours of your fall. I write a poem; you will awaken six hours and countless miles later in the cold while I burn. The ink lies between the segments of the universe; unreachable, incomprehensible in the fire while you shiver. What is it to miss someone? I do not know.
0
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
air turns to fire in the cold
caffeine crutch restless midnight rush memorize words to pinpoint precision leaning on a coffee cup fuel for cognitive ignition unproductive nocturnal emission of restless sighs and tears from tired eyes mesmerized hypnotized out of mind passing time dreary dreamer 2am alpha wave fighter front line gunner of disappointment in the making time wasting consciousness fading daylight breaking clock resetting
0
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
college
there's such a strange feeling brought in by sunday mornings. it's as if you can feel the calender resetting, a groggy haze of transition between one row of boxes and numbers and the next. the dates themselves adding line-breaks on type-writers, molding the ever-changing scripts of our lives. the day gets claimed for resting and resetting - we recharge with early beers and late lunches followed by a hefty dose of sweat-pants. at least 'round here, "sunday's best" has never been anything classy. it's paint-stained denim, muddy boots, and over sized thrift store sweaters. we don't own church shoes or pressed slacks, because we've never needed ornate buildings to silently give thanks in. we need the wind, and the wild, and the dirt. we set out with the intention of getting lost, for the simple joy of the instant that we find ourselves resurfacing on the face of the map. we give thanks any time that there's nothing between us and the sky and our wind-chapped faces are covered in smiles and sun. desert dwellers need the sun. we greet her daily, wildly and emphatically as the frozen layers of earth. sundays are for defrosting. we bake beneath grandma's home-made quilts, and in the arms of good love; thawing enough to ensure growth without cracking our foundations. "sunday's best" is just a good place to be. it's a refreshing state of mind in an augmented pace of time, where we slow down, and step back just enough to see what really matters and what never has. and when the alarm clock howls like a rabid beast come monday morning, we'll rise reflective and refreshed; strengthened up to continue driving forth towards the lives we're living for.
0
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
sunday mornings coming down.
there's such a strange feeling brought in by sunday mornings. it's as if you can feel the calender resetting, a groggy haze of transition between one row of boxes and numbers and the next. the dates themselves adding line-breaks on type-writers, molding the ever-changing scripts of our lives. the day gets claimed for resting and resetting - we recharge with early beers and late lunches followed by a hefty dose of sweat-pants. at least 'round here, "sunday's best" has never been anything classy. it's paint-stained denim, muddy boots, and over sized thrift store sweaters. we don't own church shoes or pressed slacks, because we've never needed ornate buildings to silently give thanks in. we need the wind, and the wild, and the dirt. we set out with the intention of getting lost, for the simple joy of the instant that we find ourselves resurfacing on the face of the map. we give thanks any time that there's nothing between us and the sky and our wind-chapped faces are covered in smiles and sun. desert dwellers need the sun. we greet her daily, wildly and emphatically as the frozen layers of earth. sundays are for defrosting. we bake beneath grandma's home-made quilts, and in the arms of good love; thawing enough to ensure growth without cracking our foundations. "sunday's best" is just a good place to be. it's a refreshing state of mind in an augmented pace of time, where we slow down, and step back just enough to see what really matters and what never has. and when the alarm clock howls like a rabid beast come monday morning, we'll rise reflective and refreshed; strengthened up to continue driving forth towards the lives we're living for.
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36
In rooms of stiff air, hold tight to your collapsing lungs running out in the blissful, swirling air resetting your lids and taking to dancing if you're still running, you're the lucky one because we all tiptoe on the wrinkle between reality and fantasy peeking over the cusp of brilliance fearful of the flying dance on the open swirling air diving into an unspoken fate of landing indefinitely on either side of reality and fantasy but did we miss the opportunity to paint it all simultaneously exactly how we saw it viewing each life as an absolute timeline, disregarding the space beyond zero and infinity is where we fault using the transcendental space to paint your skies and life is where we make change determining the merge from one life to another is subjective so paint your new life today dive into your excellence fight for the dance on the open air under the grinning sun make sense not of these words but of the blending of your next masterpiece who are you today, if not who you want to be right now?
0
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
Don't make sense of me
Repelling Relations Resetting Rotations Regretting Compassions Embedded Sensations Suppressing Emotions Forgetting Formation Settling Stagnation Corrupting Narration
0
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
Cᴜʀꜱᴇᴅ
screams of systematic repetition tuned to the key of C rejuvenating the pulse of the pulp on the floor I found the time space continuum on my back porch swing stepping toward the screeching sirens revealing the past scene by scene Timing the sun in wrist-watch format the liabilities not mine the doormat said "welcome" you catch my eyes glaring, hastily waiting for your tears to run your feet follow in suspended motion Gunning for the hallway laundry chute only to find the triggers on safety the notion alone is enough resetting the sun dials with steady hands of anxiety attacking the knobs at their fastens My subtle brutality breaks as I awake on the kitchen floor while the screeching of the sirens pull me in
0
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 9:16 AM UTC
How Many Licks Does it Take to get to the Center of a Gigawatt?
A pace of life. A metronome is set. To rush with a crowd. Or walk alone. Or in-between. Resetting the metronome. There is too much verbal Hate in this world. Which results in physical Hate in this world. Cause and affect. The ripple affects afterwards. With doings that cannot Physically be undone. After the fact. Everyone knows this. But the people who Live these damaged lives Would never wish It upon anyone. When everyone knows The inevitable outcome Of war is peace. (or extinction) Everyone should be intelligent Enough to never start any. Every person carries their own Legacy of lies and Possible untruths. To live with unknowing possibilities. Some structures are ceaselessly Being formed with needless Complexities To barrier communication and Understanding. It’s still great to be alive, don’t forget to breathe (air).
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Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC
Agoraphobic Towards Your Species
Supine and enamored in cotton sheets. Motionless, with vessels dilated at the time. The filtered light makes it’s journey. Warmed by the hour, warned by the noise. A voiceless yawn, a reflex, and then stretch. A conscious gasp followed by flaccidity. Yet the day before, perpetuates the morning after. Evenings always seem to foretell the prior hours of our working days. If the day moves, without faults we speak in a elated way. When a hinderance appears and untimely tragedy commits. The liquid labor may be your vice to secure then admit vulnerability. Nothing more are the stumbles that only gather footing and stand against the door opening to traffic, streets garnered with endless glows within our restless minds finding exits to resetting the past and just returning home
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Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 3:26 AM UTC
Filled Elements
If I gave you the light Would you guard it Hold it tight Would you carry it in the middle of the dark Hold it to continue the spark If I gave you the time Would you waste it Within your mind Meaningless thoughts of the day Wistfully thrown away in the midst of the fray If I gave you devotion Would you leave it For in a vaster ocean For a quotient of a far greater value To bask in the light of another hue If I gave you divine Would you receive it Will you eventually find Actions were purely awkward sustainment In the path of a broken perfectionist attainment If I gave you pride Would you destroy it All worthiness inside Resetting in bottles of placid shame Until remnants of memories can barely be claimed
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Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Better given...