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"resuscitate" poems
As mother nature's Punitive measure Against a society In maintaining The statuesque That doesn't bother, Our rivers Had become subject To a water thirst, To the extent Of projecting Rocky ribs Terrifyingly protruded out For easy count! But now thanks to The all-out, terrace making And reafforestation effort Of each catchment Farmers have made a point And also  to the afforestation Move of the government Rivers aside from quenching Their insatiable thirst Have resumed To brim over With floods Drinking water To their hearts' content. Our forests once stripped of Their wooded cover Have started, fast, to recover From afar they are seen Robed eye-catching green From a fry-pan sky Allowing a shelter Also busy Carbon to sequester. Wild animals That migrated Have preferred Back their way to find. Now farmers don't have Deep to dig To sink a water well Or find a nearby spring. Birds are heard chirruping Be it winter, summer or spring, While Brooks bubbling. Buzzing and hovering From this to that flower Bees are producing Organic honey by the hour. Promising a bumper harvest Farmer's plots have Fortunately continued To resuscitate! Those leaving Their denuded abode behind Away, who preferred To stay 'We will return back home soon! ' Is what They  say. Happily enough Mother nature Affords us a second chance Imbued with Environment stewardship If  we are willing to mend Our wrong 'Feast today famine tomorrow! ' stance. To dispel the spectre Of climate change And systematically face The global challenge True to the adage 'We have either to swim together or sink together! ' Hence in fighting the challenge Or adapting to the change Back scratching, We have to be on the same page. Indeed, irrigation must Not slip our mind For erratic rainfall A  lasting solution If we must find.// Once a famous Ethiopian Poet  Pro.Debebe Seifu Who had passed away had  penned down a picturesque poem lamenting the land degradation, deforestation and change of climate the country was suffering.The bad scenario seemed unrecoverable.Now a days Ethiopia is reversing that sad episode.I have therefore to write a poem on this #change   #trees   #erosion   #climate   #deforestation   #enviroment   #degeradation   #desertification
0
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Fortunately it resuscitates
As mother nature's Punitive measure Against a society In maintaining The statuesque That doesn't bother, Our rivers Had become subject To a water thirst, To the extent Of projecting Rocky ribs Terrifyingly protruded out For easy count! But now thanks to The all-out, terrace making And reafforestation effort Of each catchment Farmers have made a point And also  to the afforestation Move of the government Rivers aside from quenching Their insatiable thirst Have resumed To brim over With floods Drinking water To their hearts' content. Our forests once stripped of Their wooded cover Have started, fast, to recover From afar they are seen Robed eye-catching green From a fry-pan sky Allowing a shelter Also busy Carbon to sequester. Wild animals That migrated Have preferred Back their way to find. Now farmers don't have Deep to dig To sink a water well Or find a nearby spring. Birds are heard chirruping Be it winter, summer or spring, While Brooks bubbling. Buzzing and hovering From this to that flower Bees are producing Organic honey by the hour. Promising a bumper harvest Farmer's plots have Fortunately continued To resuscitate! Those leaving Their denuded abode behind Away, who preferred To stay 'We will return back home soon! ' Is what They  say. Happily enough Mother nature Affords us a second chance Imbued with Environment stewardship If  we are willing to mend Our wrong 'Feast today famine tomorrow! ' stance. To dispel the spectre Of climate change And systematically face The global challenge True to the adage 'We have either to swim together or sink together! ' Hence in fighting the challenge Or adapting to the change Back scratching, We have to be on the same page. Indeed, irrigation must Not slip our mind For erratic rainfall A  lasting solution If we must find.// Once a famous Ethiopian Poet  Pro.Debebe Seifu Who had passed away had  penned down a picturesque poem lamenting the land degradation, deforestation and change of climate the country was suffering.The bad scenario seemed unrecoverable.Now a days Ethiopia is reversing that sad episode.I have therefore to write a poem on this #change   #trees   #erosion   #climate   #deforestation   #enviroment   #degeradation   #desertification
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91
Resuscitate our dead memories only just to die again; Waking from a deep slumber, Staring out the window pane; Counting hours, how long can I endure the need to restrain?; Nothing have changed I should just get back to sleep again. The sun rises slowly as it burns my pale tainted skin; It just felt so good just to feel pain! For so long I've been so keen; I grew weak in my dreams when I'm asleep, the thoughts of you makes me sick! It's not that you vexes me, It's because of what I did to you that worries me; Never before I have felt so sensitive within this lifeless body... Lived only by drinking blood! To be confined in this coffin just to feel lonely! And then you came... The one I thought who restrained the beast in me; The one who gave warmth not burning me, calmed my soulless fury. But we must all know that the nature has its way of breaking; Something that is beautiful, Something profound! A new beginning... And so it came to that point where I fed on her! left her dying! Perhaps it was all meant to be for a while just to forget the craving... I'm a killer, a monster! An abomination to this world! But I can't take my life...Believe me I tried! I bathed under the sun turn to ashes and died! Only to know that when darkness falls I'll be revived... I must make a choice... It fancies me just having this thoughts right now; What could I possibly do?If the beast within is the one who contains me and how? It seems like a personal attraction just to add some satisfaction as I reach for the **** A little drama, show some masked humanity, make them live a little just to quench the thrill! I have glared, I have grinned, I have laughed and I have seduced... As I get closer for my teeth to sink in, let loose, let the hunger reduced; But after the feed do I feel remorse? For hours I thought I did... It's been like that through all the years... Feels redundant indeed. So how far will this story goes? For centuries I have pondered in circles. I have been there the evolution, the changes, the life as it cycles. And again...Here and now as I stand where once I become capable staring at the sun; I will forget the unforgettable, sail away! Far away from this land... Remember my story as it will never end; I'm finding a way now to break free from this curse; To be one with my prey walk free no more blood to quench thirst; So long and goodbye from me Dracula... Serenity is what I seek...A redemption of what they speak.
0
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
Dracula's Redemption
Resuscitate our dead memories only just to die again; Waking from a deep slumber, Staring out the window pane; Counting hours, how long can I endure the need to restrain?; Nothing have changed I should just get back to sleep again. The sun rises slowly as it burns my pale tainted skin; It just felt so good just to feel pain! For so long I've been so keen; I grew weak in my dreams when I'm asleep, the thoughts of you makes me sick! It's not that you vexes me, It's because of what I did to you that worries me; Never before I have felt so sensitive within this lifeless body... Lived only by drinking blood! To be confined in this coffin just to feel lonely! And then you came... The one I thought who restrained the beast in me; The one who gave warmth not burning me, calmed my soulless fury. But we must all know that the nature has its way of breaking; Something that is beautiful, Something profound! A new beginning... And so it came to that point where I fed on her! left her dying! Perhaps it was all meant to be for a while just to forget the craving... I'm a killer, a monster! An abomination to this world! But I can't take my life...Believe me I tried! I bathed under the sun turn to ashes and died! Only to know that when darkness falls I'll be revived... I must make a choice... It fancies me just having this thoughts right now; What could I possibly do?If the beast within is the one who contains me and how? It seems like a personal attraction just to add some satisfaction as I reach for the **** A little drama, show some masked humanity, make them live a little just to quench the thrill! I have glared, I have grinned, I have laughed and I have seduced... As I get closer for my teeth to sink in, let loose, let the hunger reduced; But after the feed do I feel remorse? For hours I thought I did... It's been like that through all the years... Feels redundant indeed. So how far will this story goes? For centuries I have pondered in circles. I have been there the evolution, the changes, the life as it cycles. And again...Here and now as I stand where once I become capable staring at the sun; I will forget the unforgettable, sail away! Far away from this land... Remember my story as it will never end; I'm finding a way now to break free from this curse; To be one with my prey walk free no more blood to quench thirst; So long and goodbye from me Dracula... Serenity is what I seek...A redemption of what they speak.
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37
i smoke a little bud because i am drowning take a shot of liquor because i am drowning face it i aint sober because im drowning everyone needs little relief to save them from drowning i am drowning drowning government eats while the people are bleeding so they're drowning system is shady wont compensate for the drowning all alone with nothing to eat because we're drowning the world is full of hatred so bitter we drown in it we drowning drowning feed the homeless people because they drowning where's our human rights because Africa is drowning resuscitate all Africa because she is drowning you'redrowning drowning we don't deserve the sanctions because we are drowning maintaining your pollution so we drown in it we can't stop drowning drowning we crave stability because we're drowning still fighting for equality because we're drowning give me back my identity and prevent me from drowning diminishing the role of an African Queen to watch her drowning drowning drowning stand up for ubuntu because abantu is drowning
0
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC
Who is the life-guard
i watched blankets of people rip themselves off of you one by one by one you were no longer beautiful to them, the wrong things became important to you and so they left and you turned cold. i still find you beautiful but i have divorced my heart from you there's not much to say when i see you, not enough space to feel when i'm around you, not enough affection to resuscitate all of the moments you let me drown. i don't want to hate you anymore, but i don't want to love you either. both of them are painful, so i get caught in between. i wish i could wish you a happy mother's day and feed into your belief that you are a good mother, the belief you use to cover up your deep seated self hatred but i can't. i will always find you beautiful but i won't be around anymore to tell you that.
0
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
motherless day
∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰ Too little and of course, too late they spend what’s left imprudently attempting to alleviate the love of God’s own liberty: The world transexual one-party state. They think it’s normal — right for all lost in a prideful dying fall their lions heed the sea-horse call attempting to transgender fate; the devil searches for a mate his nightly Babylonian date: the world transexual one-party state. They’ll legislate the Lord away (his fundie followers as well) their hateful heaven, holy hell shall wither up and disappear before redemption can draw near. Their myths no more shall obfuscate nor dangle such celestial bait that underwriters overrate: the world transexual one-party state. Their antichrist is overpriced, the nations, globally enticed, now glorify the deviance in herd-like mass obedience surrendering to expedience: where good is bad, and bad is great and Christ the only one to hate, allegiances exacerbate the world *********** one-party state. Parties will form and parties end but parties can no more defend consolidation into one than flip a switch and dark the sun; the Caesars left this part undone the Muslims are just having fun with our *********** one-party state. Bring on the night until we see that dark means dimming by degree two parties? Overdone by one ! So let it bleed and let it be till One is All and all agree that we are doomed to hesitate when God cannot resuscitate the late One-World *********** State.
0
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
Switch the Flip
∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰ Too little and of course, too late they spend what’s left imprudently attempting to alleviate the love of God’s own liberty: The world transexual one-party state. They think it’s normal — right for all lost in a prideful dying fall their lions heed the sea-horse call attempting to transgender fate; the devil searches for a mate his nightly Babylonian date: the world transexual one-party state. They’ll legislate the Lord away (his fundie followers as well) their hateful heaven, holy hell shall wither up and disappear before redemption can draw near. Their myths no more shall obfuscate nor dangle such celestial bait that underwriters overrate: the world transexual one-party state. Their antichrist is overpriced, the nations, globally enticed, now glorify the deviance in herd-like mass obedience surrendering to expedience: where good is bad, and bad is great and Christ the only one to hate, allegiances exacerbate the world *********** one-party state. Parties will form and parties end but parties can no more defend consolidation into one than flip a switch and dark the sun; the Caesars left this part undone the Muslims are just having fun with our *********** one-party state. Bring on the night until we see that dark means dimming by degree two parties? Overdone by one ! So let it bleed and let it be till One is All and all agree that we are doomed to hesitate when God cannot resuscitate the late One-World *********** State.
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46
To be born, is to emerge as a soul within a verse existing through eyes, ears, nose, and feelers. Persistent as the bindweed thriving in a blind spot and the rat-fleas riding around in the cellar. All life contains this soul, it’s in; the drumming and the drift, the way one shifts to their feet when battling the throes, and the persistence of plague, which encodes each cell with a rhythm and a role. To drown in a river is to **** that portion of the river’s soul, as there is no way; no lungs, no mouth to resuscitate waters that can no longer flow. The soul needs a body to show; the body needs a soul to breathe out to be re-born, is to re-exist in recurse of a soul already given, that is, unless, the soul has already been driven out. S.L. Weisend- 2014
0
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
Symbiotic Flux
In brief: scalpel words so cheap Misanthropic cold compress Jaded and hard in denial Heavely Medicated without Prescription Mute Pain Guilt soaked peace Once more At least On this rock I’ve built my church And drunk of this poisoned cup Enough Salted sigh the spike Do not resuscitate For the bones of it Are a pistol cool pressed To a temple Derelict   Sleep without rest Please, one more breath Vein or scar Blood loss And the cost: Everything
0
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
****** is my ******
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety) I. (love) We are meant to live the clichés; we are meant to resuscitate the words, and rehabilitate their wounds into a fertile viewpoint where we build respirators from clichés to filter the virulent dust kicked up by the marching pigs. (re-invented clichés offer back breath in an exchange of circular breathing) The swine contort love into armaments of antipathy; they push buttons, squeeze triggers, pull pins, and aim where it causes the most damage. Even though we are natural born hypocrites, we don't have to let that knowledge corner us into using love as a weapon. The pen is mightier than the sword, and I wield both; I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge. If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike, but only channel love in defence. II. (poetry) The pigs march to a beat of nuclear blasts that bring poetry's flag nearer to half-mast. Poetry should stand on its own merit, instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles constructed with aspirations of popularity that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines devoid of accountability and integrity, or lean upon smiles filled with slivers from far too much fence-sitting, too worried about the trending majority, to see the complexity within simplicity and clarity, or propped-up against degrees while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara: husks of lines tumbling across dunes, only to be imploded by atomic-pork mushroom clouds, their fallout marring parchment into a poisonous terrain. . III. (dreams) (revive, twist, and switch the clichés ) We must not fear saying "never". Surrender to love, but never surrender to the jealous captains who attempt to hook and net the defenders of Neverland. With compasses of conscience beating in hearts kept young, navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog emitted by the marching pigs. (we must never give up on our dreams) Dream about the courage needed to love everyone and everything, including our enemies who conduct genocide on the language of a purer intent. Dream about word-seedlings pushing through the arid rind of dying poetry, in hope for a more organic fruition to grow in our hearts and minds, so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality to once again stand on its own merit. +/-
0
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Live the Clichés
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety) I. (love) We are meant to live the clichés; we are meant to resuscitate the words, and rehabilitate their wounds into a fertile viewpoint where we build respirators from clichés to filter the virulent dust kicked up by the marching pigs. (re-invented clichés offer back breath in an exchange of circular breathing) The swine contort love into armaments of antipathy; they push buttons, squeeze triggers, pull pins, and aim where it causes the most damage. Even though we are natural born hypocrites, we don't have to let that knowledge corner us into using love as a weapon. The pen is mightier than the sword, and I wield both; I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge. If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike, but only channel love in defence. II. (poetry) The pigs march to a beat of nuclear blasts that bring poetry's flag nearer to half-mast. Poetry should stand on its own merit, instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles constructed with aspirations of popularity that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines devoid of accountability and integrity, or lean upon smiles filled with slivers from far too much fence-sitting, too worried about the trending majority, to see the complexity within simplicity and clarity, or propped-up against degrees while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara: husks of lines tumbling across dunes, only to be imploded by atomic-pork mushroom clouds, their fallout marring parchment into a poisonous terrain. . III. (dreams) (revive, twist, and switch the clichés ) We must not fear saying "never". Surrender to love, but never surrender to the jealous captains who attempt to hook and net the defenders of Neverland. With compasses of conscience beating in hearts kept young, navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog emitted by the marching pigs. (we must never give up on our dreams) Dream about the courage needed to love everyone and everything, including our enemies who conduct genocide on the language of a purer intent. Dream about word-seedlings pushing through the arid rind of dying poetry, in hope for a more organic fruition to grow in our hearts and minds, so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality to once again stand on its own merit. +/-
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73
Flowing up to the surface Submerged under the waters.. Chocking gasping for a bit of air.. swollowing.. suffocating.. On Life.. sorrows_hardships.. Just can't even imagine the reasons behind the tragedies... Of what evils lurks in earthly places.. With the ability to rearrange and change peoples faces. After all the hearing and the witnessing. The feelings and the knowings. All the seeing of evils news.... I didnt realize I was chocking emotions deeply bruise. Anxiety snatching the ability to breath where its comfortable.. Breath normally.. Panic sneaks its way in..makes me uncomfortable in my skin. Pulse rushing pulsating. All of a sudden the sheer emotion of losing. Can't see another day lighting the way.. Soul feels the falling when you realize there's so much suffering.. Arms gone limp all passed out..From the exhaustion. This is when God holds yah in His arms. Calming down irregular heart beats. God breaths His air into you. His breath is your air.. as he breath Life back into you. Resuscitate He is the air you breath. Without Him you can't breath there's no air without Him. He pulls you up to this worlds surface.. This worldly ocean called life. Where day by day moments felt like drowning. He gives you inspiration and sets within you a song. Tells you to keep holding on.. Revive.. The ocean is still there but for now..I have been brought up to the surface. hear it on soundcloud copy n paste link below https://soundcloud.com/selinaros3y/atherbest-revive-0-1 S.A.M @h.e.r 2018
0
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 8:27 PM UTC
Revive!
Flowing up to the surface Submerged under the waters.. Chocking gasping for a bit of air.. swollowing.. suffocating.. On Life.. sorrows_hardships.. Just can't even imagine the reasons behind the tragedies... Of what evils lurks in earthly places.. With the ability to rearrange and change peoples faces. After all the hearing and the witnessing. The feelings and the knowings. All the seeing of evils news.... I didnt realize I was chocking emotions deeply bruise. Anxiety snatching the ability to breath where its comfortable.. Breath normally.. Panic sneaks its way in..makes me uncomfortable in my skin. Pulse rushing pulsating. All of a sudden the sheer emotion of losing. Can't see another day lighting the way.. Soul feels the falling when you realize there's so much suffering.. Arms gone limp all passed out..From the exhaustion. This is when God holds yah in His arms. Calming down irregular heart beats. God breaths His air into you. His breath is your air.. as he breath Life back into you. Resuscitate He is the air you breath. Without Him you can't breath there's no air without Him. He pulls you up to this worlds surface.. This worldly ocean called life. Where day by day moments felt like drowning. He gives you inspiration and sets within you a song. Tells you to keep holding on.. Revive.. The ocean is still there but for now..I have been brought up to the surface. hear it on soundcloud copy n paste link below https://soundcloud.com/selinaros3y/atherbest-revive-0-1 S.A.M @h.e.r 2018
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38
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she                                                struggles to intubate a cat.   I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage, pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than                                                       practitioners are with humans— hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,                                                                      the sternum sore.   Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.   After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week. Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue        after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.   The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.   The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.   The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the brain shoots off minutes before death.                                                                          The eleventh hour,                                                                   isn’t that what it’s called?   We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.   We have to, but it won’t register.                                                               After a loss, after a trauma,                                                                    we are on autopilot.   I think of my mother,                                         six feet beneath frozen soil in                                       a pink padded casket and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out next to her in an above ground crypt and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.   Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.   We don’t talk about it.   We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.   (But that’s not always possible or healthy.) I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes on a clipboard in the back of the room.   I couldn’t do these things.                                                  My hands tend to break what they touch.   The glass bowl in the pet store.                                  The clay project in art class.                                                               The succulents, the basil, the orchid. I’m good at things I don’t have to think about: good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,                                                                                     good at trauma.
0
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
It’s Not Fight, It’s Not Flight, It’s Freeze
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she                                                struggles to intubate a cat.   I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage, pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than                                                       practitioners are with humans— hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,                                                                      the sternum sore.   Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.   After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week. Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue        after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.   The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.   The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.   The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the brain shoots off minutes before death.                                                                          The eleventh hour,                                                                   isn’t that what it’s called?   We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.   We have to, but it won’t register.                                                               After a loss, after a trauma,                                                                    we are on autopilot.   I think of my mother,                                         six feet beneath frozen soil in                                       a pink padded casket and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out next to her in an above ground crypt and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.   Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.   We don’t talk about it.   We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.   (But that’s not always possible or healthy.) I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes on a clipboard in the back of the room.   I couldn’t do these things.                                                  My hands tend to break what they touch.   The glass bowl in the pet store.                                  The clay project in art class.                                                               The succulents, the basil, the orchid. I’m good at things I don’t have to think about: good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,                                                                                     good at trauma.
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47
Faked but believable, her resolve to cut away to throw away to never resuscitate all the bad parts all the parts that chose her. Replace the broken pieces the useless pieces with ones you pick out.
0
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
Plastic Surgery on the Soul
If you have something to say, say it with conviction believe in the words coming from your mouth because once they're out they don't go back in and no mouth to mouth will resuscitate a bridge that's in flames and as long as you meant every last word every last volley shot over the walls built from years of friendship then no blame can be sent your way but do not be alarmed when they come back around, a little crispy around the edges all shrieking like demons faces black and sooty and eyes red from the smoke that rose from the fires that only tears could put out and they've got a hot coal in their hand that they don't feel and they want to see you burn. All that makes our demons scary is who they're throwing fire at.
0
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC
If You Have Something To Say
on those days we spent weaving into each other on my mattress perhaps we were writhing we just didn't know we didn't have to care if we let the summer fall into the blue someone else would haul it out and resuscitate the days we just let our phones ring and wore the song to bed beneath nothing but our laughter thicker than my duvet i guess i'm lucky i can be heartbroken for a reason i was heartbroken for so many reasons none of which i can place or replace on the wall where the sun tore our photos into ribbons of shadow we made the mistake of holding each other too close to the light was i always warm or just aware that you were near me i'm a rusted furnace with nothing but bones to burn apparently there's always a better fire burning in another town
0
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
flame
white blanketed trees and iced over telephone poles, rectangular flashes of color are boxcars becoming a blur, a monotone rainbow smeared across the passenger window sending subliminal messages that say do not resuscitate but you're falling away with every rung of the railway falling further behind, step out onto the platform tears falling down and they're mixing with the rain, no, this isn't home, this isn't home.
0
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
reckless abandonment
We have a checkered past I call it a story, Inevitability, Or something beautiful I don’t see it with your cold hazel eyes I don’t dissect it into painful little bits Trying to discern cause of death As we’re lying entwined on a cold autopsy table Before our heart beats have even had the chance to stop racing I don’t believe it’s avoiding failure if we never try I never have You read our history like a eulogy Citing each fight as a mortal wound Recounting the tales Over a mahogany coffin Holding onto your love Was like listening to a coroner’s report Each “I love you” was a doctor, calling it Was a DNR order You are ready to dress in black And call in a headstone engraving With past tense dates To bury everything And just call it a mistake you had to make But I am not an obituary
0
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
Do Not Resuscitate
Beech trees like cathedral pillars soar To vaulted ceilings oozing dapple-green, Where twinkling sunlight, filtering to the floor Dilutes the dusky darkness in between. A concert hall, acoustically tuned To amplify each tremorous touch of stick On wood, where silent magic is cocooned, Responding to the scuffled tap and tick From scrunching undergrowth, where dusty death And dried decay seep back to nature’s store, To resuscitate with pungent earthy breath The spirit of the leafy forest floor.
0
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:14 AM UTC
Sanctuary Wood
when you look like that you cause even the calmest waves to become a tsunami enveloping this skeletal city destroying the strongest walls drowning me in your silence only to resuscitate me with lips pressed against mine briefly transcending breath and nerve endings.
0
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
transcending breath
everything i've wanted to tell you i will tell you tomorrow and the wait of it all doesn't even give you sorrow these dilapidated sentence structures suffocate us, they drown out our intricacy, our noisy illustrations and i don't even want you to resuscitate me
0
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
tomorrow
My favorite quote would describe knowing even one life breathed easier because you have lived; The meaning of life. But when do I breathe easier? How can CPR be performed if the life guard has no breathe? Surely resuscitation would fail. Yet, laughter originates from the larynx; Our primary source of sound production. Cords vibrating as air passes, Laughter production. Laugh often and much, We are breathing. Resuscitation! Share the breathe, Share laughter. This is to be a success, To resuscitate leaving the world a better place By whatever necessary method. Ralph was right, Just resuscitate when needed.
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Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Resuscitation
She’s a writer. She’s doing time, handcuffed in the dead of night, locked up in prison with just the lonely voices of her mind. And the demons of her past are wardens, floating in corridors, keeping her in sleep deprived misery. She’s a writer. Every word she scrawls is a letter to her broken heart, because with all due respect, it is an idiot. It falls for the wrong people, it longs for the wrong places. It shatters and she is forced to resuscitate it daily. She’s a writer. She didn’t choose it, every poem and story is a risk. Work is accomplished by the light of constellations and ink is just the blood of her soul pouring out on a page. She is brave, in one of the quietest possible ways. She’s a writer. And that’s how she stays alive.
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Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
She's a Writer
November days sees me pummelled, bashed and clubbed to a pulp. Buried then exhumed... Skin and bones, hair and scalp. Dusks watch me stretch, warp and break. Bitten, chewed and spat out. So that I could come together... So I could nurse the same old doubt. Nights abrade, as they span for hours. They sap, they wear. They mock and they jeer. There is bittersweetness in the solitude where coherence of mind is scarce and rare. Dawns greet with tiptoeing feet. Cradle my body where it had lain. They resuscitate me. Fill me up. They ward off nightly deaths so I am reborn, again and again... ***Into November.*** .
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Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
Eleven
This woodland differs by lack of Nothing. Backward on the road lies the stifling Void - granted safe haven behind complex cosmetics - crass trivialities - and labeled "the real world." Here, in the forest, there is only Incorruption. No effort is required to breathe. - fr
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Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
Resuscitate
I do not like it here I do not like what we have. Take the shovel, here. Pigeon-toed, austere. Dig deep in the earth, big capable man. Plunge through that dirt until you reach the other side. I'm restless as desert dust the steps on me, heavy. Plant in me the rose and garden the romance. Won't you resuscitate the dear in my tongue tighten the clutch of these arms soften this face, unalarmed out of its casket into a smile... Take the shovel, here. You’ve been cold too. Your body is quivering so dig through that dirt Dig deep in the earth, big capable man. Bring us both back the last breathing rose. But the man with the shovel never came back... However I did hear he reached the other side.
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Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
The Man with a Shovel
I have a dream from which I refuse to wake holding on to it so tight that my reality is slowly fading what drives me now is what I see behind closed eyes Titles do not impress me what you do for a living your bank balance or your car the number of likes or your amount of followers these are lies that you regurgitate to yourself that you've made it self-approval for mediocrity my question to you? what does your heart ache for? the more you focus on your dreams the more the nine-to-five only living for the weekend paying bills occasional holiday ******** becomes a sad existence on repeat is this it? each time i ask myself this crucial question the lyrics from a song the artist and title unknown to me keeps ringing in my head "there's gotta be more to life than chasing this temporary high" sadly I judge others that doesn't see the world like I do that fills their dreams with excuses but I cannot be angry with them since my life as it is now is not what I wish it to be as the bible say "let he who is without sin cast the first stone" I have my head in the clouds and my feet cemented to the ground every part of my being wants to throw caution to the wind but whispers of doubt painstakingly reminds me I have studied so long worked so hard for this career that is slowly ******* the life out of me like a dying patient hooked up on ventilation machines who's heart is slowly giving up each time I silently scream do not resuscitate i sadly ignore my own plea and the shock of my responsibilities brings me back... to this reality and yet I still have a dream from which I refuse to wake
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May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
i have a dream
I have a dream from which I refuse to wake holding on to it so tight that my reality is slowly fading what drives me now is what I see behind closed eyes Titles do not impress me what you do for a living your bank balance or your car the number of likes or your amount of followers these are lies that you regurgitate to yourself that you've made it self-approval for mediocrity my question to you? what does your heart ache for? the more you focus on your dreams the more the nine-to-five only living for the weekend paying bills occasional holiday ******** becomes a sad existence on repeat is this it? each time i ask myself this crucial question the lyrics from a song the artist and title unknown to me keeps ringing in my head "there's gotta be more to life than chasing this temporary high" sadly I judge others that doesn't see the world like I do that fills their dreams with excuses but I cannot be angry with them since my life as it is now is not what I wish it to be as the bible say "let he who is without sin cast the first stone" I have my head in the clouds and my feet cemented to the ground every part of my being wants to throw caution to the wind but whispers of doubt painstakingly reminds me I have studied so long worked so hard for this career that is slowly ******* the life out of me like a dying patient hooked up on ventilation machines who's heart is slowly giving up each time I silently scream do not resuscitate i sadly ignore my own plea and the shock of my responsibilities brings me back... to this reality and yet I still have a dream from which I refuse to wake
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Love love love The riddle of the Sphinx Love poems, eternal hieroglyphs and lovers, desperate archeologists attempting to decipher the ruins. Dead languages that haven't been spoken for thousands of years, the naive attempt to resuscitate an extinct civilization, sit pretty on the tongue because things are sweeter when they’re lost.
0
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
Deciphering