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Wen Ao Long Nov 2014
Hello snorer, I hope you didn't sleep any poorer
when I stayed up all night typing this not-poem
I meant you no harm, but I had to stay up
Because I couldn't make music out of your obnoxiously loud cacophony of windpipe crap, er "music".  Time to not-pretend to absolutely hate your snoring under the guise of being perfectly okay with it for the sake of setting the tone a bit nicer to all who must hear it, so they can BEAR to, for otherwise it would be absurd.  Not as absurd as anyone hating to have aural drills applied to all their chakras all night, but still absurd enough to get a chuckle out of me (I hope it didn't wake your fine specimen here). It was never my intent, though it was always my ethical concern (if only everyone could be as reciprocal as you and I).   Oh, my not-pretend hatred is very thinly veiled.  I wasn't totally defeated by your snore-sound armies so that I couldn't type words, but I may have lost some of my desired effect due to the sometimes wincing distraction they caused to my piece of mind at this or that time when I needed it the most (even though I was awake, which is no crime if snoring at night and keeping me that way isn't).

Well, I did ask you if you'd mind if I typed,
I did tell you that you could tell me if its quiet purr of clicks would bother your precious sleep
But I never felt a need to be concerned, because whenever I
was typing, I heard you snore, and whenever I was in the heights of
some new discovery or epiphany, your sharp sudden thunderstroke of near death
corrugated metal vibrating in the torrent of some sudden gale force gust of wind.

These were signs to me of your restful sleep.  So I simply didn't worry about your sleep.  I was certain that my electronic beeps were every now and then music to your ears, just as they were to mine.  This is because in the midst of these I heard you snore, and when you snored, I took you to be asleep.

Ah but then again, then again, these are fanciful constructions which simply say that what is wonderful for me should be just fine and dandy with you, at a bare minimum, and on those grounds of very unsymmetrical attitude about right and wrong I would have to begin my music tirade of words as well.  But I don't view justice and propriety along such selfish lines as these.

What I see is that duplicity is your thesis.  I have anecdotal accounts which are marvelous to behold first hand, but the details of the absurdities cannot be done justice in the language of men, for the intensity of such insanity can only be borne lightly by the frailest frayed ends of my sanity for having lived through your acoustically maddening inanity.

You didn't ever admit to me that my noises were not music to YOUR ears.  Indeed  you claimed never to be bothered by them because you never voiced up against them.  I suppose you might as well voice up against them in the street as well if it turns out not all of you snorers-go-a-viking types like to hear my mouse clicking away like a tapping noises on a metal plate in your skull.  Sorry if it is another non-snorer-who-must-stay-up-late-and-so-be-occupied person whose nocturnal joys were misinterpreted as direct assaults on the dignity, spirit, or just basic mental viability of your wounded snoremonster troop of anti-late-stayer-uppers, because in fact, we used to be sleep-at-night-entities like you, but that was before you showed up, thoracic marching band in tow.  Marching bands are musical also, to some people.  And for some all hours of the night are perfect for a marching band.  Who am I to tell them otherwise.  

Well let me know the next time a marching band is given special permit to come through your neighborhood at night, and I'll be glad to point out to you the first Snorer'sville, because only they should be expected, in all justice to live with the macroscopic manifestation of their personal narcissistic paradises.

Let you all go to your own place and form your own nation, and see if you can consistently demand everyone else find music in your ****** and accursed racket!  But until then I expect some of you will have to take the damage returned by the growing number of people who are very much tired of living under the horrors of your infliction upon us, your demonic and evil tyranny of mind-crushing hate that is your ****** noise.  We will do yoga and breathe, and stretch, and some light calesthenics to relax and seek some focus and composure, whenever our spirits require, and this will be unchallenged by you so long as you are asleep, and it will be unchallenged by you so long as you are awake too.  For in the latter case you are already awake (and so still are we, usually) while in the former case it is far quieter than your snoring, both in its valleys and peaks.  And moreover it has not kept you up, but in fact I have noted that you wake yourself up with your own music when it reaches a certain crescendo.  

Unless you want to say that those crescendos are some sort of involuntary complaint about MY crescendos of spirit, when I start typing about 20% faster than normal, with perfect focus and accuracy while reaching an aesthetic pleasure approaching ****** as I realize that it is almost unerringly in the midst of such an experience that I hear your crescendo resound. And since it was no more intended to be a distraction for me, then surely my music must have also gone undetected by your ears, as well as your spirit. Or is it fairer to say it was the very cause of your crescendo, or at least its inspiration?

Therefore I needn't worry that it is I that is keeping you up, even if for only brief stints at a time, especially by comparison to my all-night vigils.  Not so, but it is you who are so enraptured by my occasional laughs or giggles as I edify my weary, sleep-deprived mind on some bit of morale boosting entertainment.  With headphones on of course.  It's also courteously plugged into the computer to prevent my favorite bit of Judas Priest from hurting your ear drums, or else overstimulating your music appreciation centers, which are verily attached to your ear-drums by a nerve bundle (and what nerve you all have there).  This means I've spared you too much distraction from any already-abundant music of the spheres effect you may be savoring which might have emanated from my bumbling around in the dark (to keep the lights out of course, after all people are sleeping).

Yes but that is a minority of you perhaps, who would lie about that and in fact who ought to say that our nocturnal emissions are not what you'd call restfully mind-relaxing crickets in the dead of night with an occasional hoot in the distance...  But they are a minority, the rest of you are so definitely in good faith.

But then why do I always run into those of your tribe who have strange and unethical habits, such as destroying others' lives by ruining their one perhaps most preciously personal and inalienable need second only to air and water, and that is sleep.  It is, in terms of acute necessity, in many ways more needed than food, though in the long term food catches up.  But food catches up only because not eating food is a  lot like not getting sleep, but just a lot more intense on the body when it drops to some critical point because we know from experience it is on raw nerves that we can go for a while in search of food, but if the food can't be found (perhaps because of our lack of sleep ruining our cognition in some way), then we will not eat, nor sleep, because we'll be dead.  

But either way, we'll be dead, for lack of sleep kills, both directly and indirectly, if suffered over a short time and/or in a diluted form over a long time.  That would be poetically commensurate to the sadistic similitude of the types of snoring sounds with the types of ways to die from being deprived of sleep according to two modes (acute and chronic), over many keys of incident, accident, lost opportunity and ill-stared fate, all of which can be mapped in some way back to that auditory persecution of our very souls of which your kind are in some swelling numbers quite proud.  Just think of all the car accidents, work accidents, altercations, fits of rage, inability to concentrate well or sometimes at all, and other life-damaging conditions of the mind, and also of the body, which accrue from lack of proper and healthy sleep at night!

Good thing for most of you though, right?  Because surely our music is also sweet, and I really hope I've inspired many to face this need for equality, and be on their guard against any unjust whining or groaning from those who seem in point of fact to value their sleep just a good deal more than they value anyone else's.  Not only because they really really love to get those zzz's but because they think that in the natural order of things, before people suddenly went mad and evil, people went to bed and slept well even partly BECAUSE of this brachio-esophageal orchestral lullaby.

But we'll be on our guard against those complaints, because we know you have plotted to take to the streets against us to defend your noisiness-all-night-every-night rights.  So we'll be on guard to defend ours, TO THE LAST FIBER OF OUR BEING.

Because you insufferable ******* are cruel, and cruelty no one should abide.  No one in my world, in my society of people, will be allowed to inflict cruelty on another person, nor be callously prejudicial in their own favor when injuries do occur because of their actions merely on the grounds that the damage it causes coincides with the fulfillment of a need on their own part, even while that fulfillment is of a need which is obstructed from satisfaction in the other part, and by THAT VERY SAME REASON, so that your sleep depends on keeping others awake.  UNLESS you can somehow con or coerce them into developing some form of Stockholm Syndrome and confuse the torment you inflict upon them with a sign of your love and wonderfulness to be around.

Yes, I know you hear me typing now, through your well-behaved proxy.  I feel it. If not he per se, then in a parallel universe not too far off, there's a version of him who does.  Perhaps not the one I know now, on day one of having moved into this room, but perhaps one represented in this universe by someone who has found himself in some sort of circumstances found later on during his stay, this mixed with the fact that familiarity breeds contempt... He'll start making some righteous demands of some kind, and I might not be in a such a good mood about that due to lack of proper sleep, and this will coincide with said contumacy against my own rights (such as to breathe, type, surf the net, or do other nocturnal things other than snoring which might keep others up).

As to that last point in parentheses, snoring is an activity which you perform in conjunction with your getting sleep, and it therefore means not well for your notion of fairness to say things as they are, and simply say the truth, which is that your getting sleep deprives others of theirs, but it can be logically deduced.

It can also be logically deduced that the don't give flying **** if you don't like the fact that we don't like your ear-**** night after night, which is a good name as any, but should perhaps at times be amended to body-demolishing soul-****** of a mortally sinful nature, and with an ethical incongruity to good character of a person to maintain it, all the more to sings its praises to us and call it "good poetry".
My tirade is intended to be expressive of a sincerely felt Truth, manifested in this which is only one of many forms, where things are never neutral, but divided neatly and perfectly into either Good or evil, so that no thought, word, or deed can be trivialized as mundane, neither in its innate import nor in its exported impact for others.  This is of the essence of ethics and has many metaphysical groundings which can be rationally demonstrated, but only to rational people.
Dawnstar Mar 2019
Let me collapse restfully into your arms,
ourselves a bundle of tindersticks,
waking wooden wagons warm.

Neither sorry nor shattered,
only curled in fever
and sunset bliss...

I want this,
in the depths of my core;
I know light,
despite what I try to ignore.

Like gravity you weaken me,
and make me sink each day,
until there is nothing left
but my heart, exposed above the mess,
the rags of filth, the bands of flesh
that made my head so sway.

Till sunlight goes,
we'll think on those
forgotten notes
we longed to play.

Dreaming in risers
of distant delights,
never to surface because they are worn,
themselves neither sorry nor shattered;
merely a feverish hope, singing
pleadingly from the deep:
Let me collapse restfully into your arms.
Jamie King Jan 2015
Reap a reaper,
riddle a riddler,
Out-think a thinker
while watching a man who
still steals steel
find peace in a
pierced piece,
as he see seas
that are ceasable.
laughing at laughter because it's laughable.

Risk seeking
to seek risking
so you can feel feelings
of love for a lover
because they're lovable
while realising that in reality they are not reliable
They get sensitive
about sensitivity
is that sensible?
Questioning questions
that are not questionable.

End at the beginning
or begin at the end
to rest restfully as you
dream dreamfully about
articulating art artfully.
I thought I'd try something different and just free my mind I hope you enjoy it
deanena tierney Jul 2010
My mind is always working,
Down-times are so few.
Now I sit with idle time,
Wondering what to do.

There are so many, many, things,
I have put off for so long,
I should just get up and start them,
Before many more come along.

But yet I feel that I deserve,
Sometime to just restfully be.
And lounge right through this quiet day,
Where my time feels totally free.
I sat restfully on a green park bench next to a gray-haired stranger. He was a tall black man
in his 70's I supposed. He read my predictable

thought and said 76 to be exacted! We went on
to talk for an hour or more, but to me, it felt more
like an unforgettable lifetime.

We share so much of our personal life with one
another and for whatever reason, I am not sure,
but I considered him a friend and not foe.

We were comfortable until he asked me the taboo question. why would anyone
want to **** themselves?

I give him the best answer that anyone can, but with another question of course. I asked him why
not, aren't we are all just primary casualties.
Edmund black Sep 2018
There is this sacred place nearby
And few years past I acquired
A few acres from that sacred place
deep in the woods
Most would call the wilderness
but home to me
So magical of a place
my mind’s eyes disappearance...
Deep In abyss of the mountains
Peace and quiet exactly
What my soul needed
my spirit and heart at peace here
So whenever
peace tries to escape my mind
You could always
find me there, lurking there
Setting up my mind free
and just like a dream I belong
So amazing and sacred
even the greatest artist
could never captured its allure
Perfect place
for a poetic mind to dwell
The sounds of wind blowing
the birds singing
and
the wonderful
sounds of the river caressing
the Rocky Mountains
so peacefully restfully soothing
put my trouble mind at ease...
The Rocky Mountains stone
truly a sacred place to  me
nothing but love
what a place of ecstasy
strikingly when night falls
being way off the grid
In the endless darkness of night
lightning bugs Lanterns my paths
away from the restless tango
of the bright lights
city noises  
and a venue divided by loathing
Here in abyss of the mountains
I am at one with nature
enjoying all God’s creatures
Scrutinizing the wild tango and crawling in
the thickest bushy mountain
while relaxing my back
on my grass quilt
at the Same time cooling my feet
In the creek near the fire
a seeing flare
to keep my soul warm
and with no other care in mind
I allow my mind soul to roam free
In the sacred garden of ecstasy
to escape the here and now
No doubt such beauty
of a place can restore a mental calm
when my feet are on fire
faith cracks peace is no more
and nowhere else to run
Here by the red rock creek
my wilderness Momma
is where I’ll doze.
Anthony Mayfield Jun 2018
Heart songs don’t come easily,
For they breach internal depths unseen.
Loving honestly,
A concept that can’t be placed.
Faux lives to live,
Faux dreams to chase.

I had dreams once,
But they’re so far away.
And I don’t know how to forsake
My dreams.

Run,
Or you will be my next decay.

A heart song is hardly pure harmony.
It thrives on tragedy, chaos, and anarchy.
It wakes up just to daily be killed.
When the soul is distressed,
The heart song is thrilled.
Blood in its name has been spilled.

Because of it,
Rest is so far away.
When rest comes, I’ll sleep,
And I’ll stay,
And I’ll claim,

I’m not ok,
That’s not how I feel.
I’m seconds too late.
I guess that’s just my deal.
I’d be afraid,
If I knew how to feel.
You’ll rue all my days.
For if I’m to survive,
From heart songs I steal.

Heart songs lay me down,
And let me down.
I just crave to sleep
Restfully now.
A heart song is hardly pure harmony
Adele Aug 2014
It's a journey of a leaf
that fell from a tree!

Plummetted restfully
lying on the ground
Atlast, it's free!

Whoosh! Going somewhere,
up an down, left and right
Adhered everywhere.

People step on it,
back and forth, south to north
It's been a dream
but a cruel world it seems
A nigthmare, so dim.

Wishing to come back home
but there's no turning back
Lost it's track.

A whirl of wind
took it where it belongs
It just have to be strong,
and a thought of
good things will come along.

-A

8/15/14
I don't know if it's good but I tried :)
Elizabeth Kelly Aug 2014
You're here now, breathing next to me restfully,
though not totally asleep.

It's the light from the computer,
the tapping of my fingertips on the tiny buttons which house the letters that create the words that are undoubtedly keeping you awake.

I'm glad, though, that you take me this way and understand that I'm a
late game hitter,
A surprise second-string pitcher

-sports analogies, aren't men supposed to understand those? When written correctly, I suppose, and I gotta tell you, I hopeless with sports -

But it's nice for me to have you here,
your warmth and ambient sleepy noise
and dreamland shifting of this arm or that leg,
the habitual fumble known only to boys
who might be unconsciously uncomfortable.

I wonder what you dream about. If I could reach inside, would I find out?

So instead, you get a poem tonight.

You get my true attention without knowing that my heart lies in these words more solemnly than the suspension of time between sleeping and wakefulness.

No, those holy hours pale to the gusts and the gales that create the storm that inspires the fingers
to tip tap away
and create the pathway for my brain to follow
and find the doorway that leads to that hollow space inside.

That elusive candle that hides the dark.

You'll never know, but you are my spark.
Her Heart forever is lost in beauty
as her muse spun celestial grace
among the flowers her beauty out shown
all that once stood unshaken is now her love song
that will inflame her destiny as it is written...

Head bowed among her lovely thoughts
where the light of love adds fuel to the fire
should she hold the new world in her heart
as she lends her spirt restfully
as the mortal in her stretches with a flair....

La ragazza e la Musa, the girl and her muse
sing a mighty tune, in her words of a veil form
that her spirit lives as her colors breathe ...*

Debbie Brooks 2014
https://soundcloud.com/kerstin-centervall/la-ragazza-e-la-musa
I want to thank everyone on Hello Poetry for making me feel so welcome .. I am new here and I feel like I have been here forever.. and its all of you that have received me with open arms ..
there are so many of you
Rapal was the first one
Dee
Michael K. Thompson
DePoet
Firefly
Carl Joseph Roberts
Rhymesmith
Jack
Christopher K. Bayliss
Joseph Paris
and so many others..
I just want to say thank you
Nadia Katherine Feb 2015
A youthful and reasonably innocent being approached me the other day.
With eyes about as blue as yours he gazed in to mine.
Uncomfortable, I thought, for nobody had stared in to my eyes with such annoyance but you. But then again, one could step in to a desert and I'd examine their soles only to say that they reminded me of your feet. You left these marks that I just…

(When your body departed, it left with the only scent of home I had so restfully settled with. Then the following scent I was about to settle with was the cheapest liquor my dealer could offer me for the time being. All I see is you. When the last drop in the drained glass is consumed I think of you. And it occurs to me that maybe you didn’t drain me, but I drained you. You left these marks that I just…)

Anyway, Hanna, about this particular boy... He insisted I tell him what heartbreak was like and he needed me to be straight with him.
And don’t sugarcoat it, he whispered.
Only a fool would unjustly measure intelligence by age, he added.
Well, kid, I said to him.
Had you been in my height, I'd punch your ribs in to the point of breakage so your lungs would puncture.
He then, at that minute decided what he had endured at that point was not as severe as what I had described. It was just an insignificant slip-up with his lady.

Now, you... Just get the **** back home. I’m out of air, and you’re in control of my oxygen tank.
Glenn Sentes Jun 2023
I could still recall how gently I held your seed
and brought you to your bed.
There a drop of sweat from this forehead
joyously mingled with some grains of your soil.
I lay you there and saw the approval of the sun
as he sent his warmth reflected on your cheerful coating.
You lay down restfully on your life bed
And I dreamed…

You rose with your sturdy trunk
so robust with pride that your neighboring flagpole
felt intimated by your presence.
They sang him hymns
they bowed at him with their hearts
while you humbly stood there
swaying your greens, reaching atop, conquering the scorches of your sun
so that they, underneath remain unharmed, unscorched, unsoaked.

Soon you bore velvety fruits that the young munched as well as the old
On lazy days you gave them games of soccers and boomerangs,
and tennis, and catches and fetches.

On moonlights, you appeared to be a violinist
as the lovers kissed under your warm company.

You were the silent listener to the broken hearts
when you offered your comforting barks as a shoulder
till they cried and wept
till they breathed and smiled once again.

You had a way with humans who slouch under your shade
You hummed serenades that only your chirping friends
and fluttering colorflies hear and together
you created an orchestra harmonizing songs of friendship, of peace, of love.

I saw you arise and write down histories on to your memory—
how you tried to reach for the graduates’ caps in the air,
how spirited you applauded for great speeches  on that podium
but no one ever noticed.

I saw you sway your branches gracefully as the marching band went
boom-boom, tug-tug, and kling-klang.
It was your favorite part of the day.

So many times you bore witness to silly fights
of the young and the old too,
but most often you saw these creatures
make peace at dusk.

There I saw you in eternity.
There I saw you to be forever standing tall on your life bed.

Then I heard the hellish rumble of their chainsaw,
the shrill reverberation piercing through this feeble core
as they ruthlessly cut your body.

I could not afford to watch you being slain.

You are my life.

Your death is my death.
A tribute to one of the oldest trees in our campus that was cut down one day.
Patty P Aug 2018
i never view it the same.
it's just quiet.
i simply closed my eyes.
and wait to feel what he makes me feel.
forbidden lust.
an act of sin.
a betrayal of a old friend,
a good ******.
he penetrates,
then sends me ascending to hell.
a
w
       i
          l  
             d
        r
               i
                     d
                            e.
without any stops.
but i can't get enough.
it
e
   a
        t
           s
at my brain.
and i'm
uns
        t
             a
                    b
                          l
                                 e.
During dinner, his hand restfully lays on my thigh, caressing me back & forth.
my body itches and warms up to his touch against my skin.
At the slightest touch of his hand toying with me,
i disintegrated.
my mind is fixated at his contact.
he plays with me underneath the family table.
as the evening progresses, they continue their conversation.
my r                                          his                                  r
             i                          &                                      i
                    n                                                 n
                               g                              g
weights down on our respectfully spoken matrimonial status.
leaving us with the wrath of guilt.

Each time, we swear
it'll be the last time.
but we're both liars of the conscious mind.
we come back to it, giving in
falling in deep
trapping ourselves more into the  further.
we are consumed by each other.

i want more then what is given....
this is the affair of a forbidden couple.....


to be continued.....
love has no absolute control. the heart wants what it wants, and the brain is a guilty partner in crime.....
the affair series
xavier thomas May 2021
Pray today death don’t stand next to me
Don’t place that on my worst enemy
But enemy watch how you address me
I’ll disrespect you respectfully
Don’t ever try to play with my worth
Or these holy hands will replace your legacy
Put your attitude to bed restfully
Give your demeanor a new remedy
talili Dec 2014
As I sit there in
the hospital chair,

I glance at her and
whisper to myself
“This is not fair.” 

I pray for her
but I know she’ll be taken away,
when she restfully lays.

I cry myself to sleep
because all I can think of is her..

I tell my close friends
but it seems like they don’t care,
I feel so alone because no one seems to understands.
Cate Feb 2017
fingers to lips, I press tightly
Eyes close restfully
Inhaling deeply
familiar routine
missing something.

What I breathe
is not dirtied with soot
only frigid air
turned hot steam
near the back of my throat.

I miss the sensation,
Though not the flavor
And this partial craving
Is far easier to stave away
Far easier to keep nostalgia at bay.

1.15.2017
Bo Tansky Oct 2018
Tis the day of walking dead
Zombie look at me
Look at me
Do I appear to be
Among the living
It may seem that way
Going about my business
Greeting the day
In a polite conversational way
If you look closely you will see
That I see
What I see
Means nothing to me
That I hear
What I hear
Means nothing to me
Such is the mind of the walking dead
Scooped out meaningness
A hollow and vacant cadaver
A brown paper wrapper
I gaze out the window
A little red bird, restfully
Perched on a chain link fence, then
What non-thought moves you  
Branch to unsteady branch
Are their other little red birds nearby
With which, with whom you can fly
Please tell me why
For I am lost to my flock
My concrete view is filtered
Through shades of green and gray
Is that gray with an e or an a
Never mind
While motion stills my mind
Cars of steel fly by
Framing the sill
Leaving thought things behind

Tis the day of the walking dead
The dead don’t try
They just die
And keep walking
Unshakable and unbreakable
Perhaps numbing death
Leaving behind
The unkind
Tendencies
Of one kind or another
Perhaps one of many
Perhaps painful
Perhaps slow and steady
A prayer and a song
You’re wrong
  
My breathing is shallow
Thoughts keep repeating themselves
Synaptic electric mantras
Chemical fueled and fused
Electra orchestra
Shades of Zarathustra

(ok, forget it
you don’t mean it
ok, you meant it
eat mush for breakfast every single day
day after boring day
eat mush today because
you ate mush yesterday
and the day before
and the day before
the day before
mush, mush, mush
such maudlin sentiments
stirred up my resentment
because
well I happen to love mush
you really must
will you please
save some mush
for me
because I happen to love mush
the way I do
and understand it
the way I do
and can’t stand it
the way I do
that your mush is not for me
and I’m seeing red
but it’s not a bird
and it’s not perched peacefully
on a fence)  

That you have made room for mush
Is so sweet
So sensible

For someone else
So, crybaby
You were somewhere in the woods
Crouched down
Behind yourself
Standing
I waved to yourself standing
To move
Then threw a ticking clock at your head
Crouching down
No symbolism intended

I meant it to hurt
And hope that it did
So you can be among the walking DEAD.
Then I woke up
So satisfied
What's wrong with me?
Loose thoughts Jul 2017
Rewinding your vn
Impatient to call
Waiting for your return
Can't restfully sleep at all ..

#Yazilines
Micaela Jun 2019
i think
the beds in heaven
will be the same
shade of tender pink
as the peonies
you surprised
my restlessly happy heart
with tonight.

and when i lie down  
in the beds of heaven,
i think
my restfully blissful heart
will crave
my sweeter,
softer,
earthly gift.
Sunday Igwebuike Jul 2019
I have come to see,
That dreams can come true!
I have seen the stuff:  That dreams are made of!
There are dreams, And there are dreams!
Dreams in the lands of God,
Are for me golden!
Facti accompli .  

God's dreams are dues upon us,
The invisible God is in all,
Seeing and overseeing his creatures,
And sending his thoughts,
To us in the name of dream.
God is talking to us, In that dreamland stair.
When we are too still to hear his voice.  

The earth and her children,
Are complaining ,bitterly and in angst,
That their dreams are no longer happening!
Is that so? Of course no.
There is no problem with God.
The problem is man,
Who has refused to follow his ways!
Don't you remember Joseph and his dreams?
Can't you see that God's dreams,
Are really something else?    
  

Now what is my dream?
Stuff I think you should know.
I want God's light to penetrate,
Every dark region of my soul;
So that I can serve restfully,
His purpose for my life.
Meaning the corporeal complex edifice
housing these lovely bones,
where linkedin logorrhea ably
strives to break out
in meaningless song
yobble hum hum ****** dee dee
and dance courtesy
an unexpected burst of energy
helped fashion a second rate poem
heaving up from deep within the key
of Matthew Scott's ideas – née
Harriet and Ozzie
stereotypical 1950's family prithee
i.e. unexpectedly manifesting que
cull lee coalescing, butta not three
endeavors crafted since quota we
kind to exhaust passion before zee...

land revisited, when
a call for shot eye
guarantees, a plethora of ideas
wordlessly will take flight
into the cerebral realm will fly
necessitating exertion from this guy
will necessitate me to type
briskly before hie....
forget what dreams are made
when supine I restfully lie
otherwise once fully awake
I would be forced to pry
remembrance of things past
from the night before trying
to scour subconscious
with plentitude, whereby

ah...whew...just when
I felt at a loss what to write...
bitta bing bitta bang
(optional chitty at no extra cost),
lo and behold ear splitting,
appalling sounds did invite
until dusk hands clapped
over each ear tight
to muffle noise pollution spite
fully generated by
rambunctious youths,
who know no right
that rosily gunning engines quite
obnoxious, and that conviction
edited (by me) tubby polite
buffer this chap hunkers
down for the night
after switching off the end table light.

The following constitutes the e-man
soup pay wanton declaration
emphatically, independently,
and obnoxiously
transmitted thru ether
these loathsome roar of dirt bikes
punctuates the formerly quiet air
where local high school
teenage mutant ninja
male turtles blare
(an educated presumption)
at top notch threshold decibel
definitely inducing deafness,
which will soon be clear
to those motorheads
flooring accelerator scaring deer
and other sparse wildlife,
whose engines I hear
miles away, cuz this bard ****
got extreme (ear river rent)
hypersensitivity to sound
perhaps linkedin
tummy predisposition,
could allow ma

self to expound,
whereby scrawling how painful
eye experience,
where 21st century
urban jungle doth abound
to exacerbate anxiety and panic,
aye noticed round
about puberty, and plugged up ears
to dull the nerve wrack
king Breitbart cacophony
even family pet
dogs (part Border
Collie and Hell Hound)
barked with shrill torturous yap,
which reverberation did
assault and pound
analogous to round after round
of ammunition being fired
making an audible sound
within mine delicate constitution
evidenced by lower gastrointestinal bubbling,
churning, and gurgling
kickstarting what feels
analogous to molten lava
rumbling from ore face leading
within mine leadened belly.

Presenting written access to
excellent outlook powerfully pointing
to the Inferno as Divine Comedy
by Dante Alighieri
and also a best seller titled fiction
written by author Dan Brown.

Within underworld vastness
Beelzebub, formerly known
as either Triel, or Yophiel,
a former Seraph turned
high-ranking demon,  
considered one of the Seven
Princes of Hell and oversees
the Order of the Fly.

He, alongside Satan and Lucifer,
forms the triumvirate of Hell
and  one of the supreme
monarchs of the Inferno.

Audiological ***** of mine
impossible to avoid unwillingly
being part of loud
buoys George culture club
emanations impossible to dub,
thus helplessly bombarded, exposed,
and subjected to discordant
damaging noise found
yours truly to flub
attendant tasks, especially grub
bing to earn chump change
to avoid mingling at social hub
rather remain hermetically
sealed, where nub
body cant see me, hence
that concludes thine literary rub
a dub dub with three men in a tub.
Tom Shields Apr 2021
The stone monolith of judgement

presiding over myopic movements

casting a glare of rage-red, bleeding

residing restfully, on an ivory balcony

wherever I seem to go I'm always leading

the shadow of your gavel ever over me,

like Damocles; I can't stand trial on broken knees


Ideate suicide and violence, stranglehold thoughts don't relent

choking reason, chasing down common sense, my time is spent

fear is a stronghold, you can hide in it, safe from an open view

it's a choice that's harder to make when only pleasantries are tunneled in front of you

I've lived with anxiety in control, giving my madness a voice was never a conversation piece

eyeballing me for burial in a pigeonhole, exploiting the pressure of this lonely sadness,

isolated, on the outside it's easier to justify peers' peering hatred, give it a rest, social police

I wouldn't raise a hand to you if you were my teacher, self-taught, classless, I've had this

streak of luckless love, always alienated, never exonerated


Never been interesting, patience testing

a patient, temperament foul and festering

not being all there might be the best thing

daydreams, Elysium reeds in the wind sing

home calls me, that empty lot looks a lot like a golden ring

free to decide on paradise, no longer lifting the weight of dawn

just to see the next day, conscience flowing, glowing outward on

trickling rainfall association, loose-connection, brainstormed concoction

grow and groom personal Yggdrasil, a bonsai tree, in this place

meditate on the realization of the vision, every clipping is a footfall towards grace

persecuted for the image, behavior, for the portrayal

conceived, thought, written and spoken

every effort to improve serves self-betrayal

a window into a moment that they look through and then call broken.
write
please read and enjoy
Mike Brubaker Feb 2021
There hangs a clock on the wall
Behind it lives a mouse, so incredibly small
When the clock strikes five
In its hole the mouse does dive
And through the wall continues to crawl

In the building the mouse proceeds to creep
Up support beams so very steep
It continues to explore
From the ceiling to the floor
Not making a sound nor squeak.

While the household restfully sleeps
The mouse continues to sneak
He seeks out every little treasure
Food of even the smallest measure
Crumbs that provide plentiful eats  

When the clock signals the morn
The mouse is completely worn.
He returns to his bed
To rest his weary head
Neither happy nor terribly forlorn

— The End —