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I am quiet, I am serene, I am wind and fire, I am, a queen. I am breathe and voice, I am heart and beat, I am sounds you cradle, I am the sole of your feet. I am carrier and word, I am thought and mistrust, I am heat and ice, I am *** and lust. I am fallen and hit, I am, sleep, I am dominant and stubborn, I am crushed and defeat. I am bells that toll, I am a philistine, I am hushed and centred, I am thou and thine. I am pulled, I am broken, and torn, I am consciousness and lost, I am reborn. I am woman, I am words and tongue, I am here and present, I am bullet and gun. I am wolf and fierce, I am protector of all, I am belief and faith, I am short and tall. I am fever, I am skin, and bone, I am a hug at night, I am a place you call home. I am sleep, I am dream, I am sufficient and loud, I am sewn and seam. I am lover and beauty, I am incredible and bereft, I am walk and talk, I am dumb and deaf. I am depth and substance, I am creator of life, I am misdeeds, I am trouble and strife. I am siren, I am power, I am forbidden fruit, I am the choir. I am fear, I am fright, I am creep and gentle, I am sense of right. I am tree, I am creature, I am autumn leaves, I am life's student and teacher. I am stop and halt, I am impe-tuous, I am starving, I am ra-venous. I am pelt, I am growl and claw, I am raven and rook, I am hammer and saw. I am flight, I am graceless, I am mercy, I am faceless. I am duty, I am bound, and enslaved, I am soar and breeze, I am story and fade. I am *******, I am almighty power, I am she, I am the tick, tock, tick, in your hour. I am beseeched, I am judged and shunned, I am a rough ****, I am powder in your gun. I am movement, I am forward, and pause, I am magic and mystic, I am the air in applause. I am brake light, I am crash and burn, I am wanton and demanding, I am 'when will you ever learn?', I am ex, I am honesty, and offence, I am lying naked and marked, I am dreaded intense. I am baker, I am cook, I am carer, I am all you took. I am forest, I am howl, and fang, I am bracken and bush, I am sung and sang. I am heave and sigh, I am a look of disgrace, I am tortured thought, I am disappointed face. I am halo, I am the barren chest, I am fortitude, I am armour and breast.  I am hot, I am spice, and flavour, I am between and in, I am reverence and saviour. I am bold red, I am bright and hue, I am sought and hidden, I am me, not you. I am the edge of forever, I am precipice and knife, I am forged steel, I am husband and wife. I am hedonism, I am beautifully free, I am arms wide open, I am everything of me. I am thought, I am prayer, I am darling, my darling, I am awake and aware. I am the trigger, I am a white flag of peace, I am the mother, I am desist and decease. I am climbing up higher, I am builder of bridges wide, I am swung high and low, I am by your side. I am cut grass, I am burnt toast, I am broken crystal glass, I am what you love to hate the most. I am a lady, I am a lover in the day and the night, I am restart, renew, I am a flame burning bright. I am gay and straight,  I am dual and nigh, I am man-lover undercovers, I am the apple of my eye. I am au-revoir in the morning, I am the last goodbye, I am something untold, I am the last time I cry. I am ******, I am drugged and tired, I am pain, I am high, and wired. I am level, I am calm and content, I am wink and thumb, I am the mortgage and the rent. I am fumble and tumble, I am drop and slip, I am smash and grab, I am slide and trip. I am laughter wide open, I am smile and teeth, I am depression and loss, I am the widow in grief. I am inner child, I am hurt and abused, I am friend and lover, I am wasted and used. I am survivor, I am strong in spirit and mind, I am a force to be reckoned with, I am resiliently kind. I am nature and nurture, I am tribe and race, I am society and people, I am colour and taste. I am within, I am without, I am shadow and hand, I am thought and doubt.
I am but, me. I am not.
W A Marshall May 2014
hospice is the admission
they bring morphine
the good stuff
it’s six months or less
a one way flight
of hosts and guests
now numb from the blast
there’s no turning back
it’s inside out
and your hardwiring  
is resiliently engaged  
to move you forward
into this final encounter
day after day
drinking red tea
with spoons and cups
of Bonanno and Kubler-Ross  
their ghosts slurp
with you -
in your prepped room
your James Dean role
now flickers with light
on the ceiling
and you dream
a third stage bargain
that your son had been hit
instead of you
with this wicked sickness
then coolly counseled
by your wife
that it was no dream
just your mind  
regulating - processing
you slump there
dying there
in front of a familiar wall
where you once taped
painted olives green
and sipped scotch
with your books
at night.
Got this out of my head today, and onto my machine gun/laptop, after seeing a friend dying of cancer. (Last night).
Alan Brown Jun 2016
Bellowing trumpets call the palace to order and servants,
Dressed from head to toe in exquisite lace,
Promptly wave their lush palmetto leaves while the Pharaoh
Ambles domineeringly down the marble corridor.

Though the floor rattles at the cries of enemy soldiers
Penetrating the once impregnable palace walls,
The mighty Cleopatra, exuberant in both beauty and intelligence,
Maintains a powerful, dignified forbearance.

Immune to cowardly apprehension petrifying those surrounding her,
The Pharaoh relies on only her brooding heart to guide her.
Though her once opulent eyes scorch in melancholy,
They look onward toward the cynosure of her existence.

Clad in dense armor, Mark Antony clasps his sword resiliently,
Pacing nervously back and forth throughout his room
At the thought of the danger soon to overtake him.
His breath hangs heavy on the seaside air.

Antony’s complexion brightens at the sight of alluring lover,
And he releases his guard, opening his arms as she approaches.
Shouting erupts from the neighboring corridor
Though neither he nor Cleopatra discern the enveloping chaos.

As Roman soldiers zealously round the corner and overtake the lovers,
Waving their weapons high in hopes of slaughter,
The couple’s lips merge together as one,
Producing an everlasting bond that no sword could sever.
Not meant to be historically accurate
Grace Spalding Apr 2014
There’s something about the lonely hours,
Just you and me, our space overlapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

No passion-filled debate, no vying powers,
Lazy destiny dreams, eschewing plans or mapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.

Past today, the future glowers,
But reserve this sacred instant for reflection, recapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

The earth is straining, injustice towers,
Insidious corruption, pain and deceit chafing, chapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.

The darkness consumes, seconds become hours,
Sorrow lurks at hand, irksome insecurities tapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

Yet, peace resounds, the evil cowers.
Hope, the thing with feathers, quietly, resiliently flapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours,
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
Zywa Jul 19
Resiliently hanged:

the instrument is restless --


In search of balance.
Autobiographical account "De harde kern" - 1 ("The *******" - 1, 1992, Frida Vogels) and "Diary 1966-1967" (2009) - April 4th, 1967 in Amsterdam

Collection "Trench Walking"
Cody Haag Mar 2016
There is a vacancy in my heart,
One that tears me apart.
A vacancy in my soul,
A gaping, ghastly hole.

I am shoveling things into the spot,
Oh how resiliently I have fought.
Yet the world does not see me suffer,
Its forces in response become tougher.

I am tempted to taste forbidden fruit,
Dagger, pills, then dresses and suits.
Solemnly bowed heads, grieving eyes,
A weeping woman whom I despise.

Alas, I would not see these things,
These awful things that funerals bring.
Like ants from the woodwork they'd appear,
As if they ever cared about my fear.

Mommy, drink another beer.
Go ahead and do it.
Mommy, cast another leer.
You will regret it.
manlin Jul 2020
cw: ****** assault and suicidal thoughts

I want to combust.
Not into the traditionally red flames.
Red is my mother’s color; because, it’s
the one that suits her the best.

But the reason why I hate it, is that in a deeper shade,
it is the same color that runs between her thighs
and stains the bedsheets we clean
when men decide that they’re more worthy.

I want my flames to be purple,
the same shade I have been fixed on since I was little.
Purple like the heroine I always dreamed of becoming,
and the edges of my vision when I

swallow the cleaning products,
count out the pills,
pull the belt tight around my neck,
grow so furious with myself that I wish I was just dead.

When I told my mother I wanted to die,
she screamed at me,
“How dare you think you’ve gone through so much,
when I’ve gone through so much worse!”

That is why
I want to explode
into flames
that dare to justify my own right to pain.

But purple is the same color
I see around my little sister’s face,
concern in her gaze
as she whispers, “I love you."

How could the world be so cruel?
Locking a man in our home,
a man who tries to take away every piece that makes us whole,
and forcing my little sister to witness me in such a state.

I can’t live up to being a
college student
daughter
big sister,

yet
I can’t bear forcing my little sister
to witness her big sister
lifeless in the room next to hers.

When I go out,
I want to combust into purple flames
because I’m so
terrified, furious, disappointed.

Unlike the men who built the college,
I want to die
without a trace,
and my ashes to disappear.

I guess
nothing would change after I die,
except there would be more
purple little bruises on my sister’s heart.

But would I become
greedy, disgusting, memorable
because I would
leave her?

Leave her like our father
who forgot our birthdays
or when it was his time for child custody,
but could never forget his favorite beer?

When my mother’s boyfriend tries to break into my room at night,
I beg the flames to take me.
I’m too tired, hungry, and weak
to believe I have a right to my own body anymore.

“Traitors,” I whisper to the flames,
hoping my emotions would be strong enough
to ignite myself
and disappear.

But the following morning,
my little sister would knock at my bedroom door,
greeting me with a sleepy smile,
and sitting on my bed to chat.

How could the world be so cruel
to my little sister by making me,
the girl who can’t even protect herself,
her protector?

“I missed you.”
She says, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I just saw you before you went to sleep.”
I reply.

Suddenly
the purple flames that I once called traitors
remind me they were with me the whole time,
burning resiliently.
i'm sorry if i post this incorrectly or it uploads strangely as this is my first time posting on this site. thank you for your time reading.
E l l e Sep 2018
A promise
Is when someone vows something to you
In order to maintain a temporary trust;
A strong
Abundant trust.

A promise
Is when we let that abundance of trust
Fill the whole in our hearts where we need reassurance-
And like the white whales in the Red Sea,

We are resiliently hooked.

A promise
Is when we are given a hope,
Even when we know It's sometimes false.
People make promises they can't keep;
In our hearts, we all know this to be true.
Sometimes false hope is the heart-pumping blood we all need.

Red in all its glory; It's our life support.

Sometimes a promise cannot be fulfilled, but only vowed-
Our involuntary recipients,
Harrowing over our grotesque stabs at being their very veins.
Like the vows of a marriage,
We say them to prove we can provide some sort of air for them;
Though as if we live underwater.
We give people their air, though it is only a bubble-
Just to put in their lovely heads that one day,
Maybe they'll get a whole breath.
I wrote this out of spite and honestly I love it.
Doobie Shemer Sep 2014
Her sprouted Soul eternally grows,
Her pathways manifest for them to follow,
Resiliently she struggles upstream as she flows,
Humbly she enlightens, inspires them all,
Oh, sacred spirit, guard her ways for she is our strength, our sole hope.
From: Sprouted Soul: Whole-Souled Poems
Joseph C Ogbonna Aug 2022
Poverty may not necessarily
laziness connote,
and riches may not
necessarily hard work
indicate.
The hand of providence
does its major role play,
as successes and failures
to each man is assigned.
Work resiliently before
the twilight of life,
extending the goodwill
of fortunes divinely
earned,
thus leaving indelible footmarks
on the paths of existence,
because one day,
die we all must,
and our deeds to future
generations will loudly
speak.
Philosophy about life
s Nov 2014
i will remember you

(i)
in your onitsuka shoes you were wearing when we reunited at taipei main station after three weeks of silence

(ii)  
in your old hoodie walking back toward me resiliently in the rain to give me an eskimo kiss after i repeatedly told you to leave

(iii)
in your skin that you slept in till dawn while beside you i wept from sheer fear of losing you

(iv)
in your spontaneity leaning into me leaning into you while we sang our thoughts to the waves crashing below us

(v)
in your unbridled passion when you kissed me for the very first time in the dark

*i will remember you
to the love of my life, i'm letting you go
Ken Pepiton Jul 2023
Vu. { as long as any story's told wrong}

- suffer not a novice to teach

No bet. Nothing wagered, no pledge to be paid,
no bet was made between the unspeakable name,

core processing access id-entity… we'll call Truth.
And time, if there were a wager, Truth be against Time.

- thus we develop a worth for attention.

The way life works super resiliently, bouncing back
after starry chaos leaves a constant possibility
for truths beyond our scale of instant relativity
to manifest as seems with none the wiser,

the sun could flick us from existance, and be
acting as naturally as all such suns act
after a while, maybe

seven minutes ago.
---
listening to me bellyache and moan,
woe is me I am good for nothing.

Hmmm. I could just die, but then, there
would be just cause to believe me selfish,
and selfish is something I try not to be, in fact.

Information flow, twists awry through held truths,
never taken apart to reset the spring.

Nietsche was wrong about a lot of things.
Knowing he had a voice he could
convince himself was otherwise,
he had a real raw idea of God.
That's good.
Not useless, mostly used up. Flame.

That's what the real old *** in me said.
Fretting naught,
letting go all wishery wasery,
growing old effortlessly,
be causing, as wishes are supposed,
sup-post,
same as prayers properly aimed, to
be collected to be
be answered, as information related
to pain in the brain or heart, or core
mental effort processing part, which
detects and destroys the infecting barb.
Just in time.
Release relief, unbelievable lies,
pile into icy dams, late spring
in truth
past all thorny issues,
life is not intentionally difficult,
ants - the super colony kind
run vast ecology balancing systems,
on auto pilot, pure intuitive duty drives.
On a global scale, spreading without war.

We can see we can be better rich than poor.
We can see we live on a wet ball spun
along a spiral in a spiral in a spiral, and so, on
and on and on, looping the grand loop, a little
farther along than last time,

our eyes have seen the glory, our children
can imagine thought speed, information passing

as time carries matters to gravitationally bound
points past which nothing is ever the same,

because you, cause me, to cause you to imagine
we share a plane conscious level,
as we stare across the heavens from JWST,

just adjusting reasonable focus, is it asking
too much? Asking to effect the healing
with truth that cannot be denied, and be truth
indeed…

Whatsoever, whensover, so today is fine,

infinitely fine, as a whole time bit, with us in it.

Who arranged the world's laws of nations,
?
not men in my general class, retired disabled
boys used in immoral warfare, and paid glory

and allowed to march in war winner parades,
even though, Wounded Knee and My Lai,

fester under America's Exceptional Blessing.

Agricultural superfluity, aided by machines,
and the modern incarnation of king control,
usurious
war debt, cost of plunder,
always need latest enemy detection tech.
- Confidential is above us all down here.

Who you gonna call to collect on reneged
deals, see the big picture, be visionary,
wars are lost for want of a nail, a nail
that woulda been seen missing, if the smith's
bills had been paid in time for precharge inspection.

Who allows evil to prosper,
who prospers from peace never made?

imagine you're the powerful and magnificent
leader of North Korea, or a Metro-mega Church.

You quote Lincoln, and agree with the great
promoters of idle time boredom prevention,
knowing you can fool some of the people,
all of the time. And some of the people
a predictable percentage of the time,

and all the people, after a while.  

Oakridge radiant Gospel,
"you listen too long
  you do eventually die."

- and thus it came to pass
- none found fusion, pfft.
Deep mindtimespace silence

Nonsense to any, therapy to me,
the effectual fervent prayer,

which is really
closer to need announcing, auto
awareness, missing pieces, up
ethos more or
pathos, up path of logos,
as winds winding times
recurrency circuits
up right
is not.
Down is not. Here is midway,
midterm… middle distance
**** sapien augmentedus
in the net spread
in the sight of radio beacons.
submicrowave accuracy,
acutron concept of counting
seconds worth of your attention

Practically stretched
past tensile strand strength

stretching to a C-note,
harmonica

calling all my musing friends,
come hang with me,
in my tree.

In the forest of humanity,
the ant intuitive interconnecting -umph
-- last stack, let patience prove possession --
---- Pa-airing Suckacessfull…
Yeah, blue tooth vestibular augments.
-- I can hear birds now.
Who is on war's side, if this were after
I made my case and closed it,
this is the future when we have
global access to once secret libraries.
5g- ****… radio directly individuated,
as once first accounts were coded, so
now, we are our comm device's user,
we filter using truths we used
and proved just so, we lived

asking truth to show itself in ways
a mortal who labored fifty years,
could be led to expect, jubilee,
boom,
I am free, and I am not uncomfortable,
U may read my mind and find news,
formed from used theories untwisted,

and stretched to the extent of one man's
heart fire, expanded with knowledge,
edified with activated agape, lief be,

take a second, what's such a bit of being
left alone, at second glance, become,

some kinda curious thing, clap trap.

****, all wishery is yours, it's time again,

to review the prayer/wish fullfillment section.

Did you, dear, oh, dear, what, what makes
dear the lessons life teaches for your attention,

no price, a quote, a song
"Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you without money,
come, buy, and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost!"

Isaiah 55, thriving on hope deferred,

refer again to the references,

decide yourself if you believe James I of England
was at any point a person you could work for?

My task is not to teach, unless my life proves
worth my continuing continuance, thinking

plinking, *** shots, clang… in the olden days,

when a family could live by a prentice knack,  
for taking things  apart, to play new roles,

as whole days that may be shared with wary
few, readers readied by experience, to become

as ware, soft, observant, paying eyeservice,
alert for entertaining clap traps when we all laugh.

Okeh, in a dark bijou-kiva, place where aspirations
are presented to the gathered together
to be entertained, de-brained, turned off, and

let be so, the picture show, as it were,
in the so esoterical initial induction, holiness exposed.

It is all in what you did not know, that makes
what you know now, worth living
through.

Yep. Fishing for a whole reality blessing
as living water
does occur to us as time,
we live in the flow, but we row,

because war rules the world we were born in,
and all the churches of messages etched in spirit,
written in light, of course, as on the silvered screen,
live to preach divine rights as old as lobsters's
stacking urges…
tapping scratching

And fire and memories paradiddling
cloudy smoky misty
shapes and shades noise uselessness knowing inspiring
zingers written on the door post, for good luck.

I read a coloring book, once, at a mall, in La Jolla.
"Grandma keeps a Kosher Kitchen" had a scene
to color yourself into, as a curious child noticing,
the little thing Grandma touched as she came in
from the garden of herbs and flowers for bees,

"what is that for?"
In the uncolored coloring book, it was so nonchalant,
"Good luck."
Grandma's grasp the lucid concept.
- food you know not of, love… luck
Thanks given. Praised be.

Long stories, should only be told as true,
if you, personally… lived to tell it, with no sugar on it.

Bitte, Schön. And so it goes. Kosher us, unclean other.

And what am I? Wild child left between the pillar
and the post of an aspiring great man, whose hopes

were dashed, when he crossed a line, in other peoples
ways of sealing soul stealing redemption agreements,

with a shotgun one potential solution…

by the grace of good luck from any source such
luck appears to have kept me breathing, aimlessly

as I imagine a spirit might decide, in truth, one breath
let go , allows a sense to follow, as glowing cardboard ash,
as the teller zones across old causes fought for and won,

which winning needs another singing, which cheek
this time? Which last laugh is led upto, now,

as I acknowledge the precious readers who form
the recognostic think thank thing,
deja deja
This has a sunset with it on Facebook and kenpepiton.com
Jacobo Raymundo Nov 2013
Old Glory resiliently stands steady and silent
Yet tells a tale
Not of its darkest hours, days of doubt
But of hope
It tells of an ideal fought for, killed to protect
It tells of hope
That life will be granted with equality, freedom
It tells of hope
That no enemy shall bring us to our knees
It tells of hope
That lives lost in battle shall be duly honored
It tells of hope
That tomorrow will always have a brighter sun
It tells of hope
Hailyn Suarez Sep 2017
In the kingdom of Saturday an angel holds nothing,
encompassed by picture frames.

A human trafficker bites a popped Tylenol,
Eviscerates the nightmares that circle his crown.

An optimist puts their hands up,
Envisions a tableau soothed with moisturizer.

A chieftain offers a beer to an orphaned
Child, lush with vermillion blotches.

A physician shrinks down in front of,
A simmered-out wife, head towards the door.

A gypsy considers being alone,
xenophobia resiliently grips her throat.

A mystified boy points to a girl,
Whispers inaudibly “I miss making her laugh.”

A priest begins an unimaginable service,  
“My prayer is simple, my dear one,

Live for tomorrow, not yesterday.
Open your hands.
written for CW350A, this writing assignment was impossible and this is what formed


Slowly the life disappeared
Thus road of LOVE widened

Slowly the thoughts disappeared
Thus the path to soul opened-up

The mundane lethargy of life
Lead to the glory of LOVE to bloom

The flower creepers grew
Beyond sorrow and despair

Everyone was swept with life's
Tsunami and hurricanes
Earthquakes and tornadoes

The cold and heat of life
Did consumed humanity fully

Now we understand why people are surprised
With FREEDOM
Oh.. It's LOVE blessings on them

Because "LOVE happening" breaks down
All the walls that life builds around

With ample hopes & no terror
No self-delusion and indulgence
Eluding imaginations & fantasies

Prayers of LOVE transcends
Millions of eons
Beyond visible contours of life

Thus...
When the history of LOVE is written
Everyone will tell folk tales
Of how LOVE remained "LOVE"

Under the skin of every human's core
Flowing as LOVERz breathe within blood
Resiliently fighting invasion
That was driven by life's aimless goals

Through harrowing and courageous tales of LOVE
Those who feel and realize LOVE
Will seek and find TRUE LOVE within...




Danielle Rose Dec 2012
It could rain for 40 days and nights
flooding the streets incessantly
and he still looks on lovingly
as the water destroys everything
and he's left treading on resiliently
gripping my hand firmly
keeping my mind from drifting
singing to me steadily
as the winds pick up and pelt his face
the tears like stone engulf my place
yet he stands and braves the storm
carrying on
refusing to let me drowned in sorrow
A spirit so strong VS a mind so narrow
Parable of Torvisco: “branched among the thickets of ignorance, their foliated stems speak of the white blood that has fallen from the souls that resiliently endured the solitude of their limbs and who enjoyed their ruddy bark and the pubescence of the Daphnes that gawked at over them turned into Laurel, she being a spatulate flower of Vernarth, like Apollo elliptically adoring her with the underside, and something fuzzy hiccuping over the teachings of someone who is not loved. Being the Daphniform Torvisco, of appressed retractable sepals that are pronounced on the laurels in Dafnomancia of the pubescent Torvisco on the first ******* of Daphne, leaving the ovoid crusts near the foliate stolon of the grayish spurs on the fins of the Pelecaniformes Petrobusjos, leaving the Malloga the lice. of their plumage that they are eaten by laurels, as a carminative antispasmodic digestive degassing, in the flora of the intestinal Torvisco engulfed by their pride and eagerness of nobility.

Parable of Sacred Bud: “first the animals and the buds that emanated from the inflorescences were venerated, as gods of the occult sprouting from the long-lived saps being miscellaneous family taxonomies that were consecrated to gods trapped by the mists of their foliage, over the colonies of other species with outbreaks of bud expiration in the distant buds of the leaves, towards non-renewable woody plants, for critical tempering to germinate on the dogma of woody herbaceous plants, as sacred shoots of ferns without their cell walls. Here is the tree of evil and good, sprouting one of each but as hyper-sprouting, which deceived the eyes of those who wanted to cut it because of the human snooping in bloom, on the shores of Medea's hands, growing on the shore of a headless river deity, who was not yet poisoned by an Olympian gesture, agreeing to have long fragrant and rosy hair on the pubescent teenagers who dared to call themselves Medea "

(Prócoro redoubling his sinister imagination of the Rosé of the Witches and grotesques, he was still ecstatic at the expectation of the extensions of the Rosary of the Evangelista San Juan simulated in the crowned Torvisco, for purposes of the genetics of the world in the hands of pubescent bodies that were embodied in the bodies and their stolons, like retrograde shoots going towards the spheres of the pelecaniform Petrobus and its little lice that resided in it as vital alarms. Structuring thus, the grazing that ran from its wings with vigorous fine pediculosis, which was abstracted from the scalps Medea decked out in megalomania in the sprouts of the Enchanted Torvisco)
Procorus´s Parables
Tom Stodulka Jun 2018
To smile, to laugh, to be kind and gracious.

To resiliently cope despite the stress,

To the outsider, life is sometimes seen as a mess.

I guess,

But what would I know, may I go, how low.

So I look, observe and respect, never direct, nor instruct.

To be, to see, no, not me.

To go up high, along and into the bigger world.

Forwards, onwards, but accept occasional backwards;

Fairness and kindness.

Love and warm wishes,

Skills, and the will to go ever upwards and onwards.

(From 'Storm Clouds & Silver Linings; My Journey' by Tom Stodulka)
Mari Jan 2022
The urges and thoughts
toy with my heart
my mind collapsing in
what feels like slow motion

Old habits revitalized
like a dying need
to **** in a breath
after my soul being
bound and *****

A torturous nightmare
intertwined with the shadow
of truth and surrealness

Funny how trauma can forever
stain the mind with so many
shades of colors from the
darkest of blacks to hauntingly white

My quiet hell from the past
where self-sabotage, fear
and delusional trust collide

Deciding to live resiliently
I stride forward while fighting this endless silent war,
to reclaim my sense of self-worth

Putting my heart on paper
I know I am alive
migayle ocuaman Jul 2019
hear the siren calls that shout from a woman's soul
she screams, she yells that she is here, standing firm,
she is not merely a woman but a fighter, a revolutionary,
her undying valor matches her fiery delicate beauty,
her heart filled with passion no matter the burden.

songs she sang with grace and an enduring voice,
that tremors and shakes the old orders of the world,
this mad desire, this stumbling, ceaseless search,
that she's the guiding wheel where man is at fault,
resiliently unwavering patient through the ages

she is not merely a servant, nor mouse to be played,
she is a valiant fighter who hides her struggles,
she acts alone but never quenched neither silenced,
she is armed with dignity and the will to carry it alone,
struggling with ceaseless ridicule and abused for change

her soul fights against nature, realizing the absurdity,
to be liberated never to be numbed and content,
embers the light the fires of her harden soul,
a model of modesty and immortalize sacrifice,
to give and lose everything except her ideals.

she who holds her red banner proudly towering high,
defined not by her looks but her action as a woman,
who toils, sweats and bleeds like men in any field,
till death she shall raise her fist in defiance,
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
Classy J Dec 11
(Verse 1)

I know I ain’t no optimist, but yet I’m still in my prime!
Rolling out with the fellas & ****** **** is so divine.
Chalking up some game with some chicas who be looking hella fine.
Living our lives while our other brothers be serving time.
But that’s the life we chose, a mirrored reflection of the time we hold.
Is the soul transferrable?
Is our fate truly set in stone?
Is there a heaven for a G? Tell me; I’d like to know!
I feel the weight of the world; still, I carry it with pride,
Battling these demons that be creeping up inside.
The system’s rigged against us, but we hustle, we survive,
They want to see us fall, but we rise resiliently with our middle fingers held high!

Is there redemption for a sinner when the story’s already halfway told?
Do we answer for our sins when the universe implodes?
Questions in my mind as I walk this lonely road,
Still searching for the light, though my heart is turning cold…
But in this life, we were never guaranteed any ******* gold.
Good thing God created me a gangster cause gangsters are raised to be resilient and bold!

God created me a gangster who craved straight-up lyrism within my soul!
You have to hustle and grind, and you have to stay vigilant when they put you on parole.
You have to keep your head up and push through it, just like the late great Nat King Cole!
Pray no matter what, not just when things are feeling low!
God created you a gangster man, so start acting like it pendajo!

— The End —