Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Skylar Keith Jan 2018
20:00 - Dinner
Alone but entertained
I like it that way

21:00 - Skype calls
Not having talked for four days
I've missed her yet the occasional silence is nice

22:00 - Fillers
Scrolling through pictures and sharing thoughts
A pleasant and calm feeling

23:00 - Rethinking
The first hypothetical theories about the day
Laughing at the slip-ups to push them away

00:00 - Reflecting
Doubting choices throughout the week
Faking a small smile

01:00 - Endurance
A familiar feeling spreads
Downcast eyes and a facade of peace

02:00 - Creative
New ideas and thoughts fill up the space
Pick and choosing which ones would hurt the most now

03:00 - Idealistic
Reading stories about happiness, pain and change
Wondering what will become of me

04:00 - Closure
Horrible thoughts tearing down the last walls
Curling up and crying again

05:00 - End
Following a familiar routine before sleep comes
Cradling the broken mind
A familiar Routine
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2023
(and I cannot live
from with-out)

<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo

<>

I, too:
          - am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight


                                I too,    
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor,  quite similar

         - my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
                                    noting, it lives my artifice,

with in & with out

Then, we are a We:
                                  
          - my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,

          - Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”


This duality:
          - where the haunting of words providential,
             emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
              She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out

She, Poetry:
          - leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
            depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements  of
            externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands             be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which

when Poetry’s  birthing:
          - chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
            abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
            no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
            product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth

you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you

“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*

just another unfinished work in progress

periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed

and you say to no one and to everyone:

this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4717212/leave-if-you-can-ii-by-rossella-di-paolo/

(1) And Ruth said: “Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

——
Leave if You Can II


I live in the house of poetry.
I ascend her stairs slowly
and leap back down.
I sit in the chair of poetry,
sleep in her bed, eat from her plate.
Poetry has windows
through which mornings and afternoons
fall, and how well she suspends a teardrop
how well she blows until I tumble / With this
I mean to say that
one basket brings
both wounds and bandages.  
I love poetry so much that sometimes I think
I don’t love her / She looks at me,
inclines her head and keeps knitting
poetry.
As always, I’ll be the bigger person.
But how to say it / How to tell her
I want to leave / honestly I want to
fry my asparagus…
I see her coming near
with her bottle of oil
and crazed skillet.
I see her,
her little bundle of asparagus
slipping out her sleeve.
Ah her freshness / her chaotic glint
and the way she approaches with relentless meter.  
I surrender / I surrender always because I live
in the house of poetry / because I ascend
the stairs of poetry
and also because
I come back down.

    — Translated by Lisa Allen Ortiz & Sara Daniele Rivera
Emma Jacobson Mar 2011
we're sleeping in the sky
and eating the sun
our bed is Orion's belt
my pillow is the moon
we could run all day in the stars
and swim all night on the tails of comets
you keep galaxies in your pockets and i keep constellations on my fingertips
so ever collision makes gravity rethink itself
we've spent centuries ******* plasma out of nebulas
and playing jump rope with Saturn's rings
i want to be in constant supernova with you
and wrap myself in your universe
CP May 2014
Late night thinking
Unblinking and sinking
Rethinking my choice of words
It's absurd
Everything is so blurred
Fragments shifting through holes
I take on all these roles
What lost souls

Late night thinking
Tinkering with memories
I need remedies
These fragments slash through flesh
Fresh wounds fester
Exposing new memory holes

Late night thinking
Should I have said that
Combat of my mind
Memories become no mans land, blind
Confined within the crevices of my mind
I just want to unwind
Let's leave all this behind

Tomorrow, perhaps, you may find
Some peace of mind.
Ayeshah Nov 2014
You've said and I'd have to agree
I'm  
selfish,

Because
I refuse to let you do anything to me,
Selfish ......

Why because
I refuse to spread wide & let you
**** me then leave?

You've expressed to others
how

Selfish

I can be,

because
I wont give in to your deceit,

I refuse
to allow you any sympathy
when it comes to

your fuckery

your an
infectiousness diseases...

Selfish

cause I wont be

subdued with all

the lies and ways
you mistreat me,

all the game playing,

trying to scheme

fake me out,
while you try to
make me lay out

my cards,

ya stupid cheat,

Selfish

because I've told you

I Wasn't Ready

I'm calling your bluff,
Your not so tough,

Ya sort of funny papi

Your always trying to knock me,

wishing to cause havoc and bring me down again.

Selfish

huh

really?

I'm so

Selfish
because I'll put my children

all of them before you,

I've placed my walls back up

wont allow you to climb em

I've changed my mind

more than once it's cause

of something you've done...


You've got me rethinking
being up on this pedal-stool
&
I'd rather you stop shaking it

so
I can get down

but you'd rather see me fall.

It's

Selfish

*of me- right
cause

I'd rather not have to fight,

I don't like being put down,

Specially ya
small jabs

about my mental

the many excuses

you've come to make

time and time again

You've dismissed

my past and all

the bad that's trapped me,
You make fun of me
for having PTSD
& D.I.D.

You've said and I'd have to agree

I'm


Selfish

cause I don't want to do this,

I don't need another man's

to abuse,
or for you to
use  and beat me

I'd rather be


selfish
then to take care of another drunk

or man with any type of addiction,

even if you're addictions me.

I'll be


selfish

While
I guard all that's dear to me

You've already
deliberately

tried to cause me so much pain

dressed it up and called it love

but I wasn't fool to your game.


Selfish

huh?

Is it because,

I didn't let you in

well not as much

as you'd like me to,

Naw papi

it's because
You
can't just pop into my life

then try to take it over.


SORRY *******

You can't mistreatment

and abuse me

than bring me flowers

cards or candy,

You can't rock my body

then dismissively

treat me like

I'm worthless....

But it's me

whose so *******


Selfish.

I've said it long ago
Oh how he thinks

I'm


"His Type"

Well that's not true
because
baby you've made it

so **** clear

that
I'm nothing.

Besides

a *****,

a **** & a ****...

A *****

even though

You've apologized

each and every time

those
words left your lips,

not right away

but you've done it
&
I refuse to forgive you

over and over

each time you've

repeated ya crimes...


No way could
I allow you back
because
you showed you'd
do it
again and again,

and if
BIG ******* IF,
if I allowed it

which I wont-
not anymore and never again
its because  
you've said it
right

and
if you cant

remember

well  baby
I'll help you

out

its
because

I'm


SELFISH!

*Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®
         K.A.C.L.N ©
     All right reserved ®
Copyright 1977 - Present
AND I DON'T NEED YOU, NOR DO I EVEN LIKE YOU ANYMORE! GO ******* WITH YA FUCKERY!
luciana Jan 2021
listening to your dreams
it's inspiring
heart lifting
you're too good for me
it's intimidating
heart breaking
Silence.

Silence is what brings me to the keyboard.

Silence is the most forgiving thing, also the most condemning.

Never before hearing silence have I ever felt so insecure, never have I felt so free, so sure, never have I felt worse about myself as a person.

The silence has always given me everything I need and taken away anything that I’ve ever wanted, you see, my mind processes information faster than anything or anyone else. Not math or science, just thoughts, the series of movements never ends, thinking, rethinking, losing thoughts, remembering, wishing to forget. Along with my quick-silver mind, I can’t forget, anything, ever. Remember that time that you did something bad? Anything? I remember that every second, every minute, every hour. Every time I was wrong, every time I forgot something important or didn’t do something I was supposed to; I can’t just shrug it off, the thought of neglect or inferiority never leaves, it just gets harder and harder to not think about. Remember that time something bad happened to you? I was robbed once, I can see everything except the faces, I didn’t see them then and can’t see them now. The feeling of being robbed burns through me, fear, horror, sarcasm, lack of will to fight, lack of will to fight for an object, I cared so little about things then.

You may be reading out of curiosity, maybe out of boredom, maybe even out of true, pure, finalizing interest, because interest is always the enemy of silence. Have you ever sat in a room with a loved one and been completely silent? Seven out of ten times, I am, even if there’s noise. Before you ask, or even assume, we all assume things unfortunately, but before you do, I’m not deaf. I may be a bit blind, but you’d only think that would make sound stand out more. Only it doesn’t. My mind processes sounds just like everyone else, that’s one of the few things I have in common with anyone. Not saying I’m alone in this world, that would be conceited of me, but I certainly don’t feel similar to anyone, to anything, I did once, but that was before the silence overtook me.

When one talks about silence, I feel it only fair that sound should also be spoken of. Everything makes a sound, no two sounds are perfectly matched. Though we may hear two sounds that seem similar, no two things are exactly the same. Ever. Remember when you were young, how everything seemed so loud? The age of ten was the last time things were loud to me. Not to say that my ears have become any less sharp, that my senses have dulled, but that was when silence overtook the sound. The sounds are only a blurry memory to me now, maybe someday someone will show me the beauty in sound again, but for now I’m stuck in my own silent world.

I wish this were a two way communication, though things would still be silent at least I could read your lips, your words, your body language, those things never truly lie. In a way silence breeds the truth in all of us, in another it brings out the most horrible lies. I like to think it makes me more honest, but no one likes to think of themself as a weaver of lies and betrayer of friends. But we all know we have at least once and in the silence, not my silence, but your silence, you will feel, hear, and touch all these things as I do.

The silence makes me want to confess to the most horrible things I’ve done, to be modest about the most heroic, it makes me want to boast and brag, to lie, to do anything to just try and have someone stop the lack of sound. I’ve tried to scream, though my voice is just as silent to me as the outside world is. In a way, the silence is darkness, yet, the silence is light.

What would you do to end your silence?

Would you fight? ****? Would you be dishonest? Would you betray your friends and family, all for the sake of getting someone to say words that could honestly reach your ears?

I wouldn’t. Not anymore. And I certainly wouldn’t suggest it. I tried every bad thing I could think to get someone to talk, actually speak words to me. The English language is nothing but sounds now. Broken, failed sounds. Not that any other language is any better, they all just sound like silence, not even static, true static, which most people equate with ghosts or some other form of other-worldly something. That would certainly be a gift now, but I would never ask, could never, for something as unneeded and unwanted as static.

On the other hand, would you be a hero to end the silence? Would you fight countless monsters, not all of them necessarily realistic just in the hopes that someone you saved would say something? Would you put out fires? Defeat enemies? Could you even? I could. I tried at the very least. I was even brutally honest for the longest time. People don’t much appreciate that believe it or not. No one wants to be lied to and no one wants to know that they can’t follow all their dreams. Unfortunately for everyone, myself included, we’re all lied to, and we most certainly can’t follow most of our dreams.

The silence makes sure that I remember this. Three seconds from now I won’t care to try and talk to anyone. I’ll let this communiqué fall from my lips and try my hardest to forget that I ever wrote it. But we all know that won’t work. The silence that helps me sleep is also the silence that keeps me awake. How do I sleep? I wonder that just as I wonder how to rid myself of a silence like this. The short answer is that I don’t. The long answer is more complicated than I’d like to explain.

But the Silence, I feel I should treat it like its own being now, its own perfectly horrible, evil, monstrosity of a heroic being; the Silence doesn’t forgive, much like me it doesn’t forget, the only difference between the Silence’s memory and my own is that my mind screams at me, screams in the Silence that permeates around me. I never remember how hard or horrible my mind thinks before I sleep, all I see is the images that make up my dreams, rarely do I have nightmares, but it wouldn’t matter even if I didn’t dream, Silence fills my mind, my heart, my soul.

Do you remember the first time you were ever discouraged from anything? That first time you went to speak and realized you couldn’t so instead you cried? That is the exact feeling that I feel in the Silence. Knowing that no matter how hard I scream that my voice is utterly and completely incomprehensible. What would you do in my position? For that matter, what would I do in my situation? Some have told me all I need is a modicum of patience, others have told me that I never should wait and should only take action. Neither plan has ever worked for me.

Ever waited for time to pass while looking at a clock? That’s my entire life. Every moment seeming more Silent than the last despite that things never seem to change. Sure I’ve changed locations, but I’ve changed locations before and nothing is ever any different. Would you like to see inside my mind? That would probably help you speak to me, help me hear your words. But then again, maybe the Silence would only overtake you as well. For the sake of an attempt I have never tried, I’ll do it, free-thought writing, granted it will be much slower than I think. Just read it as fast as you can while understanding, but remember, don’t speak, don’t hear anything but the Silence in your mind,

Empty, but not. Women, memories of every one I ever met. Betrayal, both by me, and from me. A day where the sun doesn’t rise, but only falls again. Hoping this will be poetic. A name, not mine, not yet. Falling stars that bring me silent wishes. Hoping these words will speak to someone who isn’t me. Laughter, the sweet sound, I think that’s what it is. Complete Silence. Time elapsed, two seconds.

Not everything is simple and clear, many thoughts are more focused, like holding a magnifying glass backward, I squint my eyes and can see the world as it is, but with them open all I see is blur, Silent blur that reminds me that in a way I am all alone and in another that the entire world is watching me with narrow, scrutinizing eyes.
I'm sorry to say that this one is massive, no rhyme scheme like my others, more like a memoir over a poem, but in its own way I think it has managed to be the most poetic thing I've ever typed.
judy smith Aug 2016
Ten minutes is all Sabyasachi Mukherjee has. “Can you keep the interview short,” I’m asked, as the announcement of his participation in the finale of Lakme Fashion Week’s upcoming Winter Festive show is made. Is ten minutes enough to recap the 14-year journey of this master of colour, cut and construction, I wonder. But I realised that Sabyasachi in rapid-fire mode can make ten minutes seem like twenty! Excerpts:

What is it about LFW that made you return?

It’s here that I first made a mark as a designer. I’m familiar with the format, and know the people. It is like a homecoming. The good thing about LFW is that everything is taken care of – from building the set to inviting people. So I have the freedom to focus on the clothes. It is like putting together a complete show, but doing only half the work!

Finales are a challenge – given the expectations of people in the fraternity, profiles of attendees and the intangible themes created by Lakme for interpretation into garments…

Well, it’s not at all difficult for me. This is my fifth finale at LFW. Once the make-up and hair are set, it is easy to imagine the look and what the girls must wear. I’m way too senior to worry about pre-show stress. My biggest pressure comes from whether I will like what I create. Beyond that, even the critics’ reaction doesn’t really concern me.

Will this line too be about Indian-ness?

Whether I do Western, Eastern or a combination, I always use Indian handcrafts, and all my clothes are handmade. Traditional textiles, block prints, weaves and embroidery are a constant in my collections. The theme being “Illuminate”, this line is about red-carpet clothes with a strong shimmer quotient.

Sunday was National Handloom Day. Considering our diverse range of homespun textiles, do you think everyday must be celebrated as handloom day in India?

Absolutely. It is mandatory at my stores. My staff wears only handloom saris or kurtas made of hand-woven fabric. My Instagram hashtag says ‘Wearing handloom everyday.’

Social media plays a significant role in promoting tradition. Smriti Irani’s ‘I wear handloom’ campaign on Twitter and the 100 Saree Pact are recent examples. Isn’t it time designers too found new ways to promote heritage?

Yes. As more and more Western brands enter the market, our designers must first establish an identity of their own. The Zaras of the world are bringing active prêt into the country, so it is important for us to revive the market for Indian clothes. Reinventing tradition and rethinking marketing strategies are critical at this point.

Has the hustle of today’s business taken fun away from fashion? How do you strike a balance between creative expression and commercial viability?

Oh, that’s very simple. I set my own rules. For instance, this year, I had too much on my calendar. I didn’t do ramp shows, I only had a showing on Instagram. Established designers must create new templates that suit their creativity instead of allowing the market to set the pace for them. Because, at the end of the day, only if you have the time and space for creative expression, can you create beautiful clothes that determine the durability of your brand.

If you were to spell out two major problems faced by the fashion world, what would they be?

Lack of originality. Lack of self-belief.

Fashion has evolved into a glamorous industry, and today, many youngsters want to be part of it. But most of what we see on the ramp and in the retail space are risk-free repetitions.

Well, for designers to evolve, the market has to evolve. But the mood is changing. There are designers who are willing to push boundaries and clients who are ready to experiment. Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram are changing the way people see and respond to fashion. The horizons are widening. This is a wonderful time for young designers to launch their labels and sustain their inventiveness.

Very few Indian designers have taken the effort to document fashion. What about you?

Yes, I will at some point in time get down to writing about my brand. But for that, I will first have to find the right publisher!

Many corporate players are keen on collaborating with designers.

I receive so many proposals for collaborations that I refuse one every day! I am collaborating with Asian Paints, Forever Mark and Christian Louboutin. Another huge one is coming up – but I will not be able to speak about it at the moment.

Do seasons really matter any more in the world of fashion?

Global warming is making designers understand the importance of season-defying clothing. And people too, I feel, don't shop for seasons any more. They just want beautiful clothes.

Can you update us on your forays into jewellery design and interiors?

I have collaborated with Hyderabad’s Kishandas & Company to create some iconic pieces that are hugely popular — and of course, plagiarised! I have a line coming up for Forever Mark. As for interiors, I wanted to design homes, but people did not seem to have enough confidence in me! (laughs) So I ended up doing up my own stores. I have also done up the Cinema Suite for the Taj in London. Celebrities who have stayed in the hotel have appreciated it. A significant collaboration in interiors is happening in October.

Your suggestions to keep traditions going…

People need to be educated about handmade textiles and crafts. A time will come when China will lose out to India because as people become aware, they will only want to support products that are ethically sourced and foster craft communities. Surprisingly, the new millennials are in favour of luxury that is completely handmade. I see that as a positive sign.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
Kelly Weaver Jun 2016
Heavy eyes and unspoken lullabies were familiar to me

Now, I never truly wished for your demise but the thought just came to me

If you were able to walk away from what we had without a single regret

Why wasn't I given the ability to pretend we had never met?

Unfairness was a common theme in our problematic little fling

And you were the one to pick a fight over every little thing

And I never wished for someone more muscular or tall

But I cannot love a man that loves to bang his head against the wall.
Nomkhumbulwa Mar 2020
I was beginning to know who I am,
Or so I thought until now;
But now im thinking again
…..do I really know who I am?

I thought myself a good person,
Though this thought comes and goes;
But now im not so certain
Am I someone you should know?

I feel like im under performing,
Stupid, and over reacting;
As Coronavirus reached our shores
Perhaps everyone is over reacting

I look on at the rest of the world,
Most Countries affected 1st world;
For South Africa the danger is greater,
Yet others say we’re not in the world…

Do they now understand?
Or is it me being pathetic?
Im not mocking these countries
I know life must be hectic

But is it wrong to be worried?
Although our case load is small,
For with a huge *** burden
The case load surely wont stay small

Here people struggle each day,
The economy fails more and more;
Yet we need to pick up the pieces
We need to do this for all

This is not a time to be greedy,
Solidarity and compassion a must,
There wasn't any money before…..
But now finding it is a must…

Though numbers are low right now,
200 overnight to 750,
With densely populated areas of deep poverty
The spread must be contained immediately

Yes, the measures we’re taking are drastic,
But the worry and fear is real,
If this should enter our townships
Its too late…too many will fall ill

Our poor rural people are vulnerable
The mass communication campaign not accessible
What will happen to these people?
To forget about them is just cruel

I dont think its a time for mocking
Or laughing at us here in SA;
For if we don't act, the risk is far greater,
affecting millions, more than the UK

Sometimes I look forward to isolation
But not from the people here,
Rather from the ignorance online,
To help me keep things clear

No one even sees im stuck here,
Not that I wish to leave;
But just knowing people are unaware
…of the disruption here by this disease…

I have faith in the Country to act,
They have witnessed mistakes made by others,
Yet never once did we mock them
For these are people- our sisters and brothers

I care deeply for this country,
So distance myself I may;
From the cruel internet entirely,
….Thats all I have to say…

……………………..Nomkhumbulwa
Sorry....im new
ME Oct 2013
The abstract,  the obscure and the predominatly boring
the living, the insane and the dead
the flowers, the water and the bed
twisting the solid out of shape
rethinking the notion "of"
constantly paraphrasing what once was
who, what, why and when
them, time, tales and sin
redundancy is exploring us
Julia J Jan 2015
Waiting a long time,
I can’t stop staring at the clock. Hearing it tick and tock.
Building up excitement,
for what seems like forever.
Trying to occupy my mind, checking every moment.
Thinking the time has come until finally it has.
I check and its not what I want.
I am disappointed in the moment.
I pause rethinking what I heard,
my eyes close.
For once I feel pure disappointment.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2023
National mindsets self interested suffer
forms of dementia as the order all confessed,
demands of each a concentration of self worth,
you bet your soul, but only in the spirit,
step into the fray, say, let me lead you,
say let me take elected office,
democratic to the edges, being your voice
in a popularity contest, not an intellectual joust.
Tutelary deontology 101.
Governing is managing the labor. Ask the king.
Any flock in the system, governs itself.
Business is business.
Some arrangements are always secret. All
grown ups are in the business of war supplies.
Let your children's minds be at ease.
Trust the checks and balances history proves,
have never worked on balance, for the poor.
Get rich quick as one can imagine, on a bet.
War meets Peace, like it is the storm
that left Greenland, a legend until now.

Easily intreated innocense, who could know.
Prosaic first morning pizz to prime the pump.

How deep is the generational debt due to war?
How many bonds have been sold to pay interest?
How many times has the national debt ceiling failed?
You know.
Every time.
"Each major conflict in U.S. history
has been accompanied
by a sharp rise
in debt as the government raises funds
to pay for the fighting."

But laws do exist…
"Without a declaration of war
to put the country on a wartime economy,
Congress paid for Vietnam
by increasing the national debt.
Over the course of the conflict,
America's debt nearly doubled, growing
from approximately $317 billion in 1965
to $620 billion in 1976."

Now the debt is rising
on interest alone. No need for another war.

And America's trade balance is hinged,
on the point of war.
The ideal centermost irritant, war's hate pump,
pain expanded by generational trespass acts
likened unto the pea
under the stack of feathered beds,
or the bit of grit forcing oyster stress
that has made the misshapen pearl sold
to sovreign entities, those colors on the map,
these mental aggregations called nations,
by nationalist mind frame riveters,
foundational eye beams, remove before demoting,
ah, slow, riveted beams spanning ferro-concrete tech- think.
Building a reasoning trap, children,
ask your fathers to whom we owe our national debt.
Ask also who sells the weapons to the world at war.
Semper fi,
no offence, but… holy hate is as crazy as hungry hate.

A voice from a song, from nowhere,
you just could rethink, or did, that first time think
a bridge over troubled waters being a truly old good idea,
come to rescue you,

in the early days of Boomer parenthood… being grown ups,
we never missed a Disney Movie, though by then,
they were losing the gnostalgia, old knowns to be like so,
were no longer even imaginably so.
Old Yeller,
Childhood's end, the separation
from hearth felt comfort,
to the class rooms and hallways
of massive cold concrete schools… where on day one,
the child pledges with its cohort of coeducatables,
the ancient bond of aliegiance...
I pledged mine first in 1954, the year "under God" was added.

In the just now settling down towns along the great freeways,
there has been no peace on earth in my generation,
at the level of military minds in conflict caused by stories,
boys bred with old hates just waiting for a sigh-psignal
sci-revealed to those willing to become Jason Bourne,
to the best of your abilities, ring the bell, any time.  

Welcome to the front. Sanity is on the line.
There is no conspiracy, we sell our souls for what money
can be demonstratively proven to allow and even augment.

War is all we sell. There is another game, it's a liar's game.
Many famous authorities have filled the space at the table.

Take your hat off, Bartholowmew, she does not understand you.

------------
Daily communication with myself,
one person, with no power to use
save the early cultural confidence;
sworn to tell the whole truth,
so help me, God. Yes, your honor.

Except we reactivate the curious why,
functionally suppressed during the standard
test taking by the proximate others
diligently filling in the blanks,
with graphite rounded just right, one swipe.

Except we see that hanging senselessly realized.
Each problem, one answer, not one option.
Only select correct answer.
Tell the child learning the pledge,
God is on our side, emphasize
how exceptional those who know so are,
extremely discriminatingly,
arranging the economy around
the great decussation at the air gap,
at the back of our national neck.

In this time,
thoughts and prayers, we hear
spoken of as easily done,
almost without thoughts, who
responds?, who, has ever responded
to the said to be going out constantly
thoughts and prayers, asking truth
to intervene and call the liars liars?

God is not angry, nor without resources,
according to the cultures now at war--
¿
Whose mortgage was not paid with earnings
from war readiness industrial complexes?

Whose talent was left with the userers,
because the Bible says y'sposed to earn interest?

Whose 401K deflated to oops?

Business begins with informed agreements.
Let's make a deal.
No killing, stealing nor needless destruction.

Minds join eye to eye, one mindwise agreed,
we become an entity, a being essential
to the parts, a mind in harmony, rank and file.

Greedy men with no agreement. Hmm, who loses?

Line up, not by rank, single file, fall in,
first and following, get in on the end,
and wait for the circle to close,
re done dances, life going wild as
we celebrate our circle, we sing of it
being unbroken in the sweet by and by…

The land of those who talk back to El,
yes, yes, we do, to honor Iyobe,
who first called for the Daysman,
who first
told reality, with all it's evil potential,
you cannot not be true, you know, in form
as spirit and truth containable in words, logos,
logos of all o-logies,
so powerful as to allow, in fact, cause, new mindforms,
species of thoughts that function as a system to make
sense, discernible, bits of valuation determinable in agreement.
--------------
Contractual obligations religiously adhered to
just between us, we take advantage for the nation's sake.
Madrassahs and aliegiance pledges set habits hard to break.

Set the cost of goods, lower than replacement cost of the price.
What does it cost a state to rear a warrior class individual
that self replenishes?

What does it cost me to scatter confusion in profuse create-ifity?
So, add a proper tip,
and pay the cost to ride this line to the next re-entering angle.
Middle east,
cauldron of all the holy empires thus far into the age
of entertainment so vast,
wise men can imagine, some day
there will be a war, and no parents will have
offered children to the infantry or made
righteous indignation acceptable national pride to k-ill for.

There Hamas, holy brainwashed haters of hatefulness.
Repents and perishes the very thought of peace.
Repay in kind, here, swear undying obediance,
fear not death, this is Allah's Promise, die killing Jews,
turns on the monstrous virgins awaiting you…
in post mortal walled places,
where the oldest civilizations occurred,
as God's great idea, I'll
empty the center of me, and seep
back in through fractured rationality
along trade routes between Africa and
the forested north above the desert.

Me, there, in mental efforting, thinking
thoughts, not prayers, but wishes, hopes,
thoughts that prayers attach to, as evidence.

"Ask and ye shall receive."
Love those who call you enemy, can you?

Face me, Mr. Nobody, the essence of other,
I declare peace, where none is, and you laugh.

No ritual, no enchantments with promise,
no sacred making of secular deaths, just
just just adjust the justice aspect, blame
the holy haters whose God dispenses vengeance,
at the behest of warriors fitted with military minds.

As when holy Americans gather to offer military aid,
blessed by the congregations alerted to intercede,
on the side that denies Jesus was God,--- ah, both sides,
in this case…
whither turn we, do we face Mecca, or Jerusalem,
or Petra or … Sol or Luna, all our enculturated faith,

blinks, a lense clarifying effort, rub the crust
of sleep fallen into while mourning, unsealing eyes
to see again, a war between two national identities,
both with warrior glory emulation traditions,
one with money as first de-fence, the other with hate,
nothing less than pure hatred, Cain to Able, sorry bro.

Old mean spirits.
If the hate can live in any man, wombed or un, it will.

Willingness to hate enough to k-ill a stranger, will
manifest as holy terror… enough to make Jesus weep.

--- and those were a few of the local thoughts made prayer,
seemingly automatically, as mysterious as most final secrets.

Part three, deeper, faster, harder… or not

Doings in the dark, are done by feel.
One, you or I, or some other sapien
augmented with the messiah's mind, feels the need for the deed.
Take the message from Garcia.

Mystic experience in story realms,
holding all the visions taken raw,
as revealed… as when a curtained
entry way is opened for inspection,

are we ideas in bodies?
are all ideas spirit in form?

Inhale an intuited absence of evil,
breathe the air of answered prayer.

Imagine that, let fly the idea of you,
beloved individuated potential saint.

Here is your sentimental inner edge,
your gnosis pressed flat as you see in.

The edge of this bubble, is distant
only to the holy cloaked in asceticism,
twisting wicks
for someday light in someday night,
circulate one way then the other,
rethinking perfected emptiness,
there are no others, up or down,
to and fro, vectors tie targeted states,
spider kites form single ray classic webbing,
slim banner, a flag unraveled long since.

Follow me, I say to me, follow me,
I say to you, saying back, I am not you.

My option.
Turn on, sit back and watch,
evolving cave wall interesting hooks,

look around, nothing intersting, eh?
Television as imagined by petrified apes,
during the peak preserved in history,
when men like Franklin and Voltaire,
met to share secret meanings of things.

Previous to any whole story that remains, as when any mind mistakes
tzimtzum inside as first occurrence,

total emptiness, pre space, one time
this instant accepted as audience

in true gaseous we form, auto informing
the vegetable phaze passed eons ago, life
tells tales too esoteric for novices
to notice, in the ideal state, active
imagining, as with a child's mind, yours
since ever was, so far as you may wish
to remember,
a time when the state was deemed
comforting and beauty filled, chaotic
process of floating lipids, in form of air,
light has not dawned on us, we are
night scene setters of settings, nodes
of potential anything you can imagine,

level with me, even, straight, right… yes it
is the optional meandering mind engine,
an idol, or a daimon, madness of sorted
degrees, a little bit off the charts, sorted
out.
Not in, the bubble being becomes,
when one emerges in a self…

subtle is good, right, we agree?
Jesus, before Christianity, as a kid,
instructed with his cousin John,
likely by his temple servant uncle.

That can be imagined, projected
on the outerwall of this bubble we be in. At the moment, on an Earth wired

for sound, elephants agreeing to meet,
to follow the pilgrimage, pilgrim beings
activated by stark necessity successful
to this degree…

by the reader's time's at tension, pull
release
snap back, at what ifery, at once, push

most bottom centered point once sitting
in raw time thought processing, in
and out, efforting
- slightly off, not fully on
uncomfortable impression of holy
you better get better or else. Holy

blank slate, bubble pop, soft wow

Now, we're in the swirl, in the spin
toward, froward lips sealed, golden
silence,
subtler than any beast, creature,
living thing in the ruliad, am I? No.

BUT, you know, those penance prayers,
given you as a child, enchantments,
as with all your renouncements of evil
and pledges under God, in your child mind.

Look. To your own self, be true.
You still have private interpretation access
to your child mind.

If you put your worried mind to work
on some thought too deep to ponder then,

The idea of punishment by the Creator
of all that is not God, but was deemed good,
by God, because I said so, said the father,
in the child mind.

To know good and evil knowledge,
that talent, initial mark on our blank slate,
to know, not what you know, but ask
your child mind, how does it feel,

flat on your back gasping as others laugh,
and your child mind blooms an entire eon
- just to catch a breath takes for ever
and there were others, the whole family
of mankind of your kind, to your child mind,
stood laughing at your attempt to perform

a first flight, from an edged bet with an
I think I can virus perpetuated in ever after,

since mind made time make sense in chaos.
Instantly, things start to take shapes, in mind.
Non sense. Since. Processing time. Go.
Instants out of mind, in atari.
Fog of unknowns. I used to play the game.
Not really, only, one off thought forms,
cloudlike in symmetry, no clear tongue
and groove, fitting our pro-posed… pose

supposed, to listen and while listening,
learn the use of any knowing, can be
taken as granted possibility by your self.
- distant sound of light sabers actuation
Your blame and shame catcher, out front,
as we steam ahead across the gap,
thoughts made prayers must leap.

Keep your eyes on the prize, three
walnuts and a split pea with a hair, fine
infant hair, see it there, your old minds eye.

The unveiling of an artifice, an angle
greater than straight, from this point…
a re-entrant angle, like a point, banked shot.

in
Thanks, I needed you to ready become... said the little blue man... whatsoever we agree... indeed. Let us see...
judy smith Mar 2017
There is something discombobulating about feeling a shudder and a tilt, the models in front of you apparently moving slowly sideways, as the stand with your show seat starts to move in circles.

At the same time, the models at the Céline show seemed to be going off in all directions. Popping in and out of the black holes of space were models - young or older - wearing a smart green masculine trouser suit, a striped shirt, a white belted raincoat, something furry and - unexpectedly - a tunic and trousers printed with black wheels and checks skittering before your eyes.

All this and the bodies and arms of shadowy people behind the plastic backdrop. I rushed backstage to try to make sense of the show chaos (sorry: artistic intrigue), but designer Phoebe Philo did not want to talk when I asked her the point of her dramatic presentation of her Autumn/Winter 2017 collection.

"Just ideas coming together with lots of ideas," said the designer. "Just lots and lots of ideas and how they impact each other."

Around me, Phoebe's team were hugging and sobbing and clutching each other, as if this show were their last. Overview notes provided by the public relations people seemed even more confusing, apart from telling me that the installation (that required more electric cables and wires than I have ever seen above a fashion runway) was by French artist Philippe Parreno.

''The Céline AW17 collection explored Phoebe Philo's storytelling design process of how a collection is created and the notion of how changes result in impact," read the statement. "Further, the collection relates closely to the interconnected nature of women's lives and possibilities for women."

Before I read this, I had thought of Phoebe as the English designer who has her children running around backstage and who made practical but classy clothes for today's woman. She threw into the mix a few charming pieces like the fluffy flat sandals that have been picked up by other designers across the world.

With all that on offer, why did the new Céline collection have to complicate things so much?

Take away the moving seats and impossible-to-follow criss-cross of the models and there was the Céline look that any woman would crave: the bold, floor-length tailored coat; a tuxedo with its hemline sweeping right down to the ankle. The tailoring looked bigger, oversized even, which is in tune with the Eighties-style square shoulders that we have seen elsewhere this season.

Phoebe seemed to be offering a hardened version of the serenity she once found in streamlined clothes. An example of the new severity would be a plain, long sleeved dress with a hemline at mid-calf. Its softer side was a blue shirt elongated to the ankle and worn with trousers.

Ultimately, Phoebe offers 21st century elegance with the smooth lines disrupted by a tangle of fringe at the hem or what appeared to be a big blanket over one arm.

I received an overall impression of longer - to the ankle - length, a sense of sobriety and a few fanciful things for evening. What I missed in the hurdy-gurdy of the presentation, is, as yet, unknown.

With exquisite workmanship and Victoriana melded with pop, Pierpaolo Piccioli had a new vision of romance for the digital era.

Prudishness and pop - can the two really meld together? Yes! If the Victorian-style cape is in a vivid, sugary, postmodern pink and the dress underneath a colourful geometric pattern, recalling the Memphis era.

At Valentino, the 1880s met the 1980s with sensational results as designer Pierpaolo Piccioli dismissed the feminist vibe that has reverberated through the Autumn/Winter 2017 season yet created a collection that was respectful to and joyful for, women.

Just looking at the designer's four moodboards was a history lesson, as Pierpaolo whizzed me through dark Victorian carved birds, bright Memphis furniture, coral with a religious connection to Medusa - so much from the past crammed into one collection.

Yet on the runway, the result was far from overloaded, as the history of coral was subsumed into the necklaces all the models wore and the deflated Victorian silhouette - long and high waisted, but slim where a crinoline once was, seemed perfectly acceptable as a romantic vision of the 21st century.

"I wanted to add deepness and romanticism to the modernity of the shapes, so these are absolutely items that you can wear separately - a white shirt or the skirt with your own sweater," said Pierpaolo. "I think fashion is made for dreams, but sometimes you want a dream that is daywear."

The Valentino studios are at the heart of the matter, apparently finding it as easy to toss off a tailored coat with a mid-calf hemline nudging Victoriana bootees, as it is to make a soft, light dress to flow underneath. The detail and delicacy of the dresses seemed like an extension of the haute couture, but the designer was eager to point out that the clothes came from the Italian factory dedicated to Valentino.

Whether it is so easy visually to mix a sorbet pink top with tiny ruffles down the arms that flowed into a cherry ripe panelled skirt, the result was surprisingly calm. Even the dresses patterned with Memphis pop blended in with the plainer, pleated versions. And just when you thought that the show's high romance was over blown, the designer would slip in a black top over a pair of sloppy velvet trousers or calm a Memphis patterned dress with a tailored coat. A severe black jacket could be worn with anything already in the closet from an LBD to blue jeans. Like the tailored coats, it kept ripe femininity in check.

"For me it is important to keep the lightness, otherwise it doesn’t feel confident and if you don’t feel that you don’t feel beautiful," said Pierpaolo. "I think if you feel confident you can even be able to show your sensibility and really feel stronger."

However you rated the clothes - too fancy, too froufrou, too historical - there is no denying that Pierpaolo has created a vision that is respectful to women and which makes them feel beautiful. In a churning political universe, Valentino offers a small, still voice of calm.

Demna Gvasalia revisited Cristóbal’s silhouettes with surges of modern colour, print and volume.

Balenciaga haute couture has been revived for the first time since Cristóbal himself closed the house nearly half a century ago. The last nine outfits shown by creative director Demna Gvasalia, on the huge carpet patterned with the word 'Balenciaga,' had their roots in the legacy of grandeur left by the noble Spanish-born couturier, who died in 1972.

Demna, who started in fashion by building street-smart, unadorned clothes, deliberately named just Vetements (the French word for clothing), has turned towards the grandeur of the original designs that are part of the Balenciaga legacy.

“I thought 100 years was a good reason to make couture available again,” said Demna backstage. “We're not going to do a couture line or show during couture, but these pieces will be made to order – basically for people who want to buy a couture dress from Balenciaga.”

The grand offerings – the polka dot dress with bustle back, the layers of dark pink taffeta, and a slim black gown, all with large back bows, were not the only historic links. The show opened with tailored coats which were worn with a drape over the left shoulder, reminiscent of the way that the models of an earlier era would walk with their heads up, shoulders rounded and stomachs sunk in.

“I studied how the pieces are worn and I found these images from old mood boards of Cristóbal where women are standing with their coats like this,” the designer explained. “The idea was to bring this kind of elegance, the gesture of wearing those pieces, but take it into a kind of cool and make it more modern. You can also wear it in a normal way, but it is constructed so that one part is larger and then you can also pin it up. And this is what you see basically in all these books.”

Demna's way of rethinking with his brain what he had seen with his eyes is exceptional – and the reason why he seems able to update the house as if he were growing new shoots from existing roots.

The arrival of vivid colour signalled a change of pace, as every figure stood out in the farthest reach of the enormous sports stadium. The hosiery especially perhaps, in grass green, and cut-away waistcoats like harnesses in pastel colours, took the image of Balenciaga back to the early days of Nicolas Ghesquière and his futuristic period at the house.

Demna is also drawn by the flowers that were a part of the Cristóbal Balenciaga look; by showing a patterned skirt with big, bold, brightly coloured sweaters, he gave print a modern feel.

The show was not perfect. Mini dresses in the floral patterns and bright hose looked out of place. But the overall effect was precise but theatrical, with the couture creating a dramatic ending.

Choosing Demna may have been a gamble by François-Henri Pinault, CEO of Kering, the luxury group that owns Balenciaga. But the designer has turned out to be able to answer fashion's most difficult challenge: finding the balance between old and new, tipped towards the future.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses
Just Anna Sep 2013
Oh great
Now I can multitask
Playing the piano and rethinking
All my stupid actions

Oh how great
Daydreaming even while playing piano
Simply marvellous
What a handy talent right?

Who doesn't want it
You get to practice
And set the background music
While you replay your nostalgic film
Of how dumb your words have been
How insensitive they were
How over the top you have been

A lovely talent
For a lovely mind
Hanging in the gardens where
scents of jasmine
share space with
hair that cascades amongst
the dew
you
watch
womanly as women do
as the walls crumble
unevenly,

unleavened bread
does that rise?
does
what ties us to this place
have a place

I watch your face
as a man will
stoic
still.

And then it is written
from our memory
as if
it was never
there,
but
we were
and we are by far
the better for having
known it.
Jonny Angel Aug 2014
You think we have all the time in the world.
Think again.
I close my eyes. Feel your words inside my head. Whispering carefully they say the sweetest things, on my thoughts they do tread. I feel the beat of your heart, it pushes from beneath my skin. Oh. My. Lord. My saviour. I cannot withstand this heat from within. I feel no breath to breathe from, no more. No ending, no beginning of my hand to your lips; from where the waves meet the shore. Tender music is made and formed from the shell of my ear. No-one will believe the symphony I hear. I crave the touch of your fingers. Thought I should let you know. You lie with me, myself and I. I am addicted to the very idea of you. You became my labyrinth, my torso, my rabbit hole. I tied you in a knot around my neck and left you there to hang.

And he held my head in his hands, looked at me and told me that he was at home. He took my eyes from the world and gave me a universe to see. It’s a miracle. I was blind, now I can see. Take my breath and I am still free, to breathe. Where does the time go when I am laid in your arms? I could be here forever and never know the sunshine, the air, the rain or the wind. No night will seem so dark. I watch you talk to me, and I am lost in your words. I forget myself. I forgive myself. We conquered the world that night. We made new revelations with our silence, and killed the silence with the laughter. Oh my god the morning after. La la laaaa la. Sorry do I cry tears right now. Do I look at you and make my vow?

Phe-nom-ne-nom. I sing along to you in my head. Reliving our moments. Rethinking what you said. Jefferson Airplane never said it so well. Woodstock was where this moment was born. I cut off my locks, I was reborn. Samson was not I. Running round walls I never thought were there, catching the moment before it was lost in the air. I listen to music before I never knew how to exist. To love, to cry, to believe, to fly; I was kissed. Traipsing my hand across your back, I listen to you. I try to hear what you’re saying. But all I can hear is myself. I revel in my wealth. I was lost, I was lost, I was lost. And , man, it feels so **** good.
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2016
.
I once was young on shores of pond,
Deep in clump grasses mossy, longed
By seasons that turned shining winds,
Older than years etched into tree rings,
I played at song in the rushes of marsh,
Danced to moon from my bedroom loft
And in the theaters of starlight shadow,
Wrote my fables after sleeping narrows,
Dreamed dreams as young boy should,
Rethinking Sophocles in hemlock wood
I named the flowers wildest within sun,
Built forts from the forest floors of ruin,
Burned in rashes of ivy, itching poison,
Swam by water snakes in mucky unison
Spring was tireless as nettles and bees,
A wide river glided into the seven seas,
Pond was lake and oceans uncharted,
Skies rolling thunder after lightenings
More gold than lots' aspirations prised,
All showers flamed, Promethean fires.
Sitting in the bar just drinking
Tired of waiting for someone who will never come
My brain going overdrive rethinking
I will never reach an outcome
Throwing my glass at the wall
Remembering how it feels to be small
Thinking of where I went wrong
Drowning all of my sorrows and mistakes
Why do I have to be so fake
Looking back and remembering how it feels to have a real smile
Always acting as if I am on trial
But I can not I am too scared
Everything in my fantasy
Just sitting by myself drinking Hennessy
Naomi Sa'Rai Jan 2013
The night will **** us
Days haunt
Coffin open
What more could slaves want
The waters will lead us
Wade wade
As the songs say
Drug my feet
I swung
Tiptoed over oak
Couldn't catch ground
The runaway
They've found
John told Annabelle
Who whispered truths to Sally
Shovel heavy
Hand
Pouring sand over
Covering man
Coffin open
How often slaves taunt
Spoke
To an essence
Molded from clay
Adam told Eve
Gardens where all should have stayed
Haulted
Feet fell to earth
Simply rethinking life
Death births
I swung
Couldn't catch ground
Tiptoed over oak
Wade wade
Rivers flowed
To heavens gates
Waited till sun down
Till the soul escaped
Rethinking your curiosity. You really shouldn’t have inquired
Your craving for exploration satisfied,
You’ll get what you thought you desired.

No promises that it will fulfill your expectations, or grant insight to my motivations.
The sensations will be overwhelming, you’ll yield to stimulation.

At first it’s exhilarating, emotions climbing to peak, just wait 'til you see the drop beneath.
You’re afraid. I was too. Now the fear pulls you through. Cliffs and valleys, highs and lows,
Have you begun to wonder when this ride slows?

Oh; I apologize, I should have warned, you can’t walk away from this place;  this time or this space.
You can attempt to gather your things and go, most don’t survive whole. If they find the way out they leave battered and bruised, ego sore, something torn.

Now you find yourself tangled. The buckle won’t release, you’ll struggle and squirm, but you’ll soon come terms.

I’m half strangled right beside you, you didn’t know ‘til you wanted to.

See, “I’ve been in here for years. I decided to enjoy the ride. I promise it can only get better over time. Think of it as the bite of the whiskey with the sour of the lime. You’ll be drunk soon enough... I know I am.”
Third Mate Third Aug 2014
this time different,
the crafting, the words knitted,
care taken, no quips or easy rhymes,
metaphors few, but the stitching is yet
rhythmic, disciplined,
beholden to its construct
~~~
yesterday,
spoke of the more and the ever less,
and the alpha seas restorative,
today,
the ****** quick and the ever still

the beating of jumpsuit orange fabric, wind-whipped,
musical homage to the terrifying
silence of a battlefield,
your utility belt,
body parts and soul silences,
a composition of what was
and what will now never be

you were there
you are there

witness-combatant,
no denying the voyeured carnage
of a human self destructing,
or being destructed in a way
**turned you on,
worse, temptingly familiar

the horror meets you, it recognizes, locates
its place within that is stored close by,
where you keep it just close enough to surface
for quick retrieval

you postulate, pose, clap hands to heads,
make groanings awful, rethinking fearful pictures

I don't believe in free will
I don't believe in free
I don't believe in will

there is good and there is no good
there is the quick and the still
the still comes fast and stays longer,
the quick lasts longer, the obvious now
always seconds of too long,
all implausibly undenied and factually reversed

I hang myself crudely,
my throat slit quick,
and the still images that follows
everlasting and unerasable,
no matter how quickly,
how often temples hard squeezed

I see the images,
the quick and the still
they won't let go of me

text me that you know,
exactly what I mean,
know what I know
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2015
I once was young on shores of pond,
Deep in clump grasses mossy, longed
By seasons that turned shining winds,
Older than years etched into tree rings,
I played at song in the rushes of marsh,
Danced to moon from my bedroom loft
And in the theaters of starlight shadow,
Wrote my fables after sleeping narrows,
Dreamed dreams as young boy should,
Rethinking Sophocles in hemlock wood
I named the flowers wildest within sun,
Built forts from the forest floors of ruin,
Burned in rashes of ivy, itching poison,
Swam by water snakes in mucky unison
Spring was tireless as nettles and bees,
A wide river glided into the seven seas,
Pond was lake and oceans uncharted,
Skies rolling thunder after lightenings
More gold than lots' aspirations prised,
All showers flamed, Promethean fires.
a friend May 2016
what do u think the purpose of life is

I don't mean like humanity's purpose as a whole. just like the purpose of one persons individual life

I think the purpose of life is just to be happy

and even in like 4th grade ppl would like ask "what's the purpose of life" and have these intense conversations and I didn't understand what the question was

bc it was pretty obvious to me that you were just supposed to be happy

and everything that we do is just a step in reaching eventual happiness

but now I'm rethinking that and I don't think the goal is EVENTUAL happiness

but rather perpetual happiness

why should I suffer now? I mean

like love is a **** thing that hurts like hell

but ppl go through it bc they hope that it'll make them really happy for the rest of their life

but I've been realizing lately that while love is the answer to happiness, that love is not at all necessarily for another person

but rather love for your own life and the world in general

this sounds totally fake and cheesy but

like I realized the other day this is the first time in like 3 years that I've been without a girlfriend and I'm having to regain my independence and love for the little things in my life

like my friends and good food and literally just the thought of taking a walk before the sun comes up

and skype calls with ppl who I really enjoy with my window open and the lights off and forgetting that it's not summer

and not having to tell someone "I'll brb I have to go eat dinner I'm sorry I'm so sorry I'll be back soon"

and falling asleep whenever I want

and waking up without wanting to throw up

it makes you realize "what the **** was I doing"

and then another part of you answers the question.

"being in love, *******"

"forgetting to love yourself"

"thinking, someone else will love me. I don't have to love myself"

I don't know what I thought a relationship was supposed to be before now but it was so wrong

that was toxic, and I am so much better off loving myself than loving her
05.02.16
10:18 pm
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2015
.
I once was young on shores of pond,
Deep in clump grasses mossy, longed
By seasons that turned shining winds,
Older than years etched into tree rings,
I played at song in the rushes of marsh,
Danced to moon from my bedroom loft
And in the theaters of starlight shadow,
Wrote my fables after sleeping narrows,
Dreamed dreams as young boy should,
Rethinking Sophocles in hemlock wood
I named the flowers wildest within sun,
Built forts from the forest floors of ruin,
Burned in rashes of ivy, itching poison,
Swam by water snakes in mucky unison
Spring was tireless as nettles and bees,
A wide river glided into the seven seas,
Pond was lake and oceans uncharted,
Skies rolling thunder after lightenings
More gold than lots' aspirations prised,
All showers flamed, Promethean fires.
Nigel Morgan Mar 2014
This is a place that brings out the best in people, she said with confidence born of practice in convening such gatherings. It is a place apart, he thought, certainly. It was difficult not to look out of the window where the unleafed trees swayed and swayed in the wind. He had felt very solitary all day. Throughout his journey here he’d been on another journey, a little in the past, and its images had enveloped him. He had often returned to a moment during a stop on that journey in the beautiful gardens of Hestercombe where, in the seclusion of a tall shrubbery she had suddenly turned to him and kissed him with a need and a passion that was beyond anything he had ever known. And it had coloured everything that came to pass ever after.

Later, when he had brought her to this place apart they had lain on the spring grass amongst the daisies and read poetry about the river not half a mile away in the valley below them. It was all and more than he could ever have imagined.

But now there was the business of creativity to attend to, that relentless business of finding the right tone and subject for the reading public. He was amongst writers, people for whom words dominated thoughts and generated incomes and reputation. There was a confidence here, not only in those directing this seminar, but in the participants. It was written all over their body language and the way they dressed. The casual jacket, the well-cut blue jeans, the open-necked (but striped) shirt, a lot of black, bright tights (there was a striking turquoise set against a short black dress printed with white hearts), the women’s clothes mostly loose, the men’s clothes tighter fitting and more confining. And those all-important accessories, the bags, the tablets, the so-large diaries and notebooks, a bewilderment of scarves servings as emblems of their colourful selves. He had worn a simple black suit and dark green shirt and felt in such colourful company suitably anonymous.

Introductions were unnecessary (as everybody seemed to know everyone else) but the unnecessarily long CVs where prizes and awards, publishers and broadcast work, current projects and commissions were rolled out, variously. He was thankful that he was introduced as a new voice, a discovery from last summer’s festival and was here because his work embraced other creative journeys than those with words. He was here to share with these confident and successful writers a different viewpoint on the creative process where things rather than abstractions led narrative.

Although the directors of this seminar had their own agenda it was suggested that the assembled company might begin with an open discussion about the writing life. It was proposed that we should share not so much our own experiences at first, but what we considered was a necessary state from which to write. Inevitably and rightly this led to the role of reading, the necessity of reading, but reading in the new climate of the media storm, the instant access through technology, the over-saturation and stimulation of culture, the back-slapping banality of social media. Personal contact with one’s audience through readings and talks was a lively issue. The assembled were all proven writers, they all knew how to do it, but the publishing world and the media were changing the goal posts, rethinking the playing field and the game itself. There was a distinct feeling of unease about personal and financial futures. Just how does one sustain the creative way of things after the third book when the landscapes of literature seemed to change as for a traveller watching the scenery from a railway carriage? The romance of writing was being undermined and some writers felt soiled by the demand for public visibility. Some wanted to write books and be left in peace to do it.

Throughout all this open-ended discussion he had stayed silent, observing, word gathering, filling pages of his notebook with word-bites from these wordsmiths.  It was interesting how the assembled represented several common styles within new writing: poetry, but not as we know it poetry, the performance stuff; science fiction (those taking part were careful to use the Attwood distinction of possible SF and completely impossible SF); new nature was in attendance; fiction-verité, the stuff of raw truth and seemingly possible lives; the fictional biography was popular, regarded as a useful fall-back (there’s usually one hiding amongst most authors’ oeuvres); teenage fiction seemed a flourishing and free from angst genre (I don’t think very hard about what I write, said a 20-something with a four book contract, I read what’s out there already, and search the internet ).  

This definitely wasn’t in any sense of the word an academic seminar. Aesthetics and technical jargon were gently ridiculed by the directors who had had plenty of practice in sending up the stuff of creative writing courses. Hanif Kureishi’s recent declarations on such university degrees being ‘a waste of time’ were largely welcomed, though there was some defence evident (probably from those who had benefitted from such programmed and often supportive study).

Talk generally, not personally was the message. What are the general observations we can gather? You’re out there working in this volatile world of the written word, where are we at, and where are we going? Is there a developing vision? It was time to get off the fence, he thought, and bring something to bear on the discussion, which he could tell was reaching a necessary conclusion – time for a break. He suggested we might be mindful of those books and writing in any medium, which had and did enrich us. Imagine, he said, you’re about to leave home for this seminar and before the taxi arrives to take you to the railway station you have 3 minutes to find a book (and maybe it is of your own making) that you hold like you hold in your heart the imagined life of a dear friend you seldom if ever see. What comes into your mind right this minute? This book you choose you’ll hide from us all. You’ll put it at the bottom of the bag. It’s a secret word-gift, wherever it came from. It’s not there to impress us but to keep its owner warm at night when sleep is difficult (as he admitted he did not sleep well the previous night). I see writers, he said, as part of a community of the imagination, and this community through our various abilities and experiences fashions word-gifts. We do the best we can to make them well and good, to have a reality albeit an imagined reality, and if we think of our work as gifts containing the lives and experiences of even partially imagined others, no matter what we craft will have a right quality and purpose, and maybe a true presence.
Atlee English Oct 2011
Sorry, I'm not here right now.

My head is clear in the clouds
Rethinking how I hear all the sounds
Letting the beat pound, pound me down into the ground
6 feet under.
Sand turning to diamonds from the heat of my soul.
Buried in addiction, hopefully my seeds will grow.

All this pain can I use it?
Man **** this life, lets make some music.
Tea Feb 2012
Set me on fire


Insanity is what ran through me
Intensity plunging into me
Breathing is not wheezing but coming easily
Tingling reawakening
Space vacating me
I’m a vortex of for ever waiting
Playing on words, hoping to be heard
Spinning on this earth that is worth…
Nothing? Something? Maybe
Say to me the words that send guilt
Through sensations I have yet to word
Liking is a fighting, loving is despising
Wanting to be curious, how could I not with the words of his
Blister me with sincerity
Sending burning regret through every vain
Every way, in each new light
I fight and twist new perspective
To yell at me, to say to me everything is all right
And believe its true.
That me and you collided for some kind of real
Reeling going wild
My heart beats with the laughter of a child
Happiness is your contagious energy
I take it in and let it live in me
Your sweet scenic imagery
Watercolor paintings reflecting back at me
Beauty is something new and founding
Whirl pool of commonalities
Blasphemies of morals and value
But I cant help how my happiness swells
How you a smile into me
Chilling water not nearly as refreshing
Retesting, rethinking my boundaries
Seeing new towers, higher mountains and walls
Longer tunnels and halls
To walk, climb and crawl
How far the journey to a wanting place
To a unsure space in any case I hope your happy
That my presence is half as enchanting
Because your words they leave me panting
How can I not, with no words forgot?
Blister me with guilt’s hot iron
Set me on fire.
Or should we not?
I forgot the binding power of
A forever real friend ship
Set my ship on fire
And drown all hopes and desires
Katie Mac May 2013
Sense comes at the most senseless times and
wonder comes when the world is dull.
Neurotic, I stumble into the calm
and sunlight unfolds in the throes of depression.

My life is an ill-timed spectacle; my big top is freshly painted and moth-eaten.

Come one, come all to see my brilliant downfall
at my own hands. Can one girl have devised so masterful
an undermining? I think not, patrons young and old.

I am listless when it counts the most
and engrossed in the extraneous.
Trust me, I'm a master of these believings and disbelievings.

I can tame tigers and yet the pests undo me.
Beetle-brained, I guess you could say.
There I go again.

Undoing and redoing, rethinking, unthinking and linking all these meaningless experiences in a chain of being that takes the guise of sense but bends into a pattern without purpose and a gobbledygook message spelling out the things I've already read a thousand times but can't seem to memorize.
My brain is a storm of confession and repression and a sense of self that is in fact the lack of.
Does any of this make sense to you? This absurd gestation between bright and blue?
And all the nonsense in between that braids the random with the fated?
Now you're probably irritated at my own madness; darling, you're not the first that has cursed me.
Nor will you be the last. I've heard this lecture; I've taken this class.
It's the one that tells you everything is sense
and there's a great symbol
and when you die you'll receive recompense for all those little goods you did.
Aesop promised, didn't he?
Well grow up, because there is nothing beyond for me.
And I'll die knowing that at least I could see how ridiculous we humans can be,
searching to name the stars and the rocks beneath our feet.
It doesn't matter; perhaps you're better off naming the worms that will soon eat
both you and me.
Life is does not fit in some neat box of god and good and bad and right.
In fact, the only thing that is sure is the day and the night and ultimately
the loss of our fight for the eternal and the immortal.
No one will read this, the writings of some girl who curls inside herself when the world comes knocking.
There is nothing that will not rot
and we ought not try to fight that.
The pearly gates are the crumbling stones in your backyard;
god is yourself and I know this may be hard for you to realize
but stop clinging to these comforting lies because
I'm not a fated poet, and I'm not meant for words
we just happened to meet one day
and realize we both were a little absurd.
Tashea Young Oct 2016
Do you seek me Efficienctly?
Do you love me, truely?
Am I your Identity?
Can you hear and feel me?
Am I your Pursuit?
Is it Evident in your Fruit?
Or are you just a *******
Exchanging your body, your talents and gifts for worldly loot.
Are you on the right path taking the right route?

Dont be a Lukewarm Christian
But be Mindful and vigilant,
Pay Attention!
Be on A misson.
Be A Testimony, A living Witness.
Be about Your Father's Businesses.
Dont Be A Lukewarm Christian.
See This was my learning experience from where I have been.
Forgetting that I was born into sin.
So I went to taste its evil bliss very now and again.
Like my pores on my skin,
I open myself up and let it come in.
Sin became like fake friend.
Distracting me from The real focus which was keeping my mind stayed on him.
Sin was Like friction and separated me from God like division.

Although I prayed, "Lord Crucify my flesh
Because I know Im a wretched mess
And You deserve praises of Gratitude nothing less than my very best.
I'm Tired of being a damsel in distress.
Distraught with feelings of being oppressed.
Drowning in pools of Sorrows and seeing  my unworthyness.
Ive sinned.
I'm not right within.
I must verbalize with my mouth and thru my heart I Confess.
How did I became such a wretched mess?
Father I am Down right guilty.
And now Feeling stupid, and filthy.
Ugly, replusive and Grotesque.
Ashamed that became such a wretched mess."
The Fire of Anger Is Raging.
But I heard his voice say, "But My love is never failing or unchanging."
So Now I'm distorted.
Crying, drooling, and  I think I even snorted.
Thinking about all the visions you had planned for me, aborted.
You gave me love Grace and mercy but I gave nothing in return, You felt shorted.
Didn't even realized That our realtionship was being compromised.
I became unsightly hideous.
In this I became Furious,
Mad at the world because I let Lust come between us.
No peace no quite all I do is fuss and fuss.
I claimed to died to my self so in you i have been reborn.
But apart of me is still sinful, angry, beat down, *******, broken and torn.
My Heart is shatter and selfishly I mourn,
Even though I never thought that It was I who left you brutally scorned.
Was I ever real or was It just an act on staged being Performed.
Cuz Im feeling Conviction from the spirit Tell Me I was just A Christian being Lukewarm.
On a daily, crying faithfully asked people just to pray for me.
Walking through life Shamefully
When I should be Praise The Most High Thankfully.
Talking And thinking Mentally
Ultimately, will he always wait for me?
Consciously Rethinking will I ever make it to eternity?
I just cant see Myself being worthy.
Am I truely walking Accordingly?
Am I really seeking his word so it can transfrom me?
Is my life a Prouduct of me worshiping thee?
After all the pain and the suffering.
After All that you went thru just to Sacrifice your only begotten son for our covering.
Just that thought alone left my mind blundering,
Staring and Sitting in deep thought Wondering.............
Am I causing myself spiritual harm?
Because I put on my fake smile and throw in my charm.
Am I Christian Thats Lukewarm.?"
If you so Wake up and Stop hitting the Snooze button on the Alarm.
If this sounds like you, you have been warned!
Sarah Ellis Feb 2011
Her hands were small, pruned,
looked clammy, very cold perhaps
with purple seeping up through
her tiny nails.

She twisted the ring on her left third finger
round and round, deftly,
as if she had been doing it for years.
The small diamond awoke in the dim light,
like a beady eye from a dark forest.

What she rethinking everything?

She looked up suddenly,
pulled ******* the brake cord yelling
"Stop!"
and flew out into the night the second the bus
came to a pause.
Majid Sep 2017
Her pillow covering all of my face
Suffocation

Tears suffocating me
Won’t let me breathe
Her pillow covering all of my face
The more she tries to pull me out the more I sink into a worse place
How everything started to get so morose in some robust planet in space
Where I always took my time to enjoy my one and only grace
Her pillow covering all of my face
Inhaling her tears from last night’s race
Enjoy the silence of our heartbeats

Pace
Will it get better by any chance?
Or any change?
Will we be able to embrace?
Her pillow covering all of my face

Watch her shut down my full-of-blood face in one glance
The sacred geometry of chance
Watch her draw in silver then lick her sorrow as it turns red
When my veins eventually got the chance to meet their soul mates
When I got the chance to finally appreciate
Appreciate; the ray that is running towards me screaming love when we both know it’s full of hate

Her pillow covering all of my face

Never thought she’d be hiding from me the key to my fancy world’s gate
Inhaling her tears
And I’ve always enjoyed shutting her mouth
Anticipating her suffocating innocent screams
Then with one glance she was able to read my mind
She knew it
Knew well
That If I died today
Lots of aliens would be at my funeral
And she’d tell them about the joyful memories she shared with me

You know what *****?
Read it all over again
Read it all over again with some serenity
Read it with some dignity

Sweaty rusty bed sheets covering her chopped body
Fifty stitches all over her skin
But her wide bright eyes will fix the whole picture and make it full of mildness and flaccidity

Tranquility

Then her screams again teasing my ears starting up the electricity
Running through my veins getting me thirsty craving for more intensity
And if I could
I’d replace my ink with her blood
Because I needed my papers to bloom
Turn it into a meadow on the shape of her eyes
All of a sudden
Woke up with nothing to look at other than the bathroom tiles

Nausea, revulsion, disgust and repugnance

Nothing to shorten the distance
Until my eyes started screaming for more of my addictive substance
One shot
Got me into watching a huge fight between romance and brilliance
Smudge my face with her blood and tears
While all what were flashing before my eyes are the past four years
Cutting my head open anticipating the brainwash
Until something got me to calm down and bear
A cup of our old cold drink
Pouring it inside her lungs to drink it happily
Then after I was done she smiled then spoke through my mind
That gave me a new brain and a new key that I should’ve tried
Went fine until I found the huge gate with no lock in it
The bus stop that I wouldn’t want to leave
My tears won’t
How will I make it when I can get it all in one night
Even if I could hold it in for one month?
I’d blast myself to keep my veins full of that drug
To keep my life full of that love
To save me from her devil
A maniac if you looked at it from a different aspect

A sick puppy stabbed in the face with a flower*

A sign of loneliness strikes again
But I forgot my shoes at the mountain while rethinking my future
Dreams versus nightmares
And the winner was her
Orange and grey, all I can remember
A beautiful abounded house
I’d lick her fear within a second
Eat her up then ***** all of my internal organs
Building a wonderful cycle of admired calmness
White dress
Warm cheeks
Feeding the sad freak
Hiding in the very first place that people will find love at
Angel
Everlasting one
Holder
Power
The arbitrator behind all my happiness
Dances for a while and then disappears again
Light and awareness
She’s the aliveness and energy controlling every apparent motion inside me and all motion in my mind’s motion and all mind is her mind
And all my thoughts and actions are licensed by her
Empowered out of me and returned to her
She’s the correct consciousness of my mind
Everything I see
Hear
Do or know is enabled out of me
It is my mind and my being in use
To end up falling from the furthest planet into the lowest ground
To end up where I can never be found
With her pillow covering all of my face
Curing my crippled soul
It's been a little while since I decided
since I started telling everyone who asked
since I posted it in every corner
since I declared my major.

But what if I don't want to be a teacher?
What if I go off to college,
and I suddenly have the courage to do
what I didn't want to do before?

I'm afraid that it won't work
afraid I can't make it work
afraid to let go and fall
because what if it falls through?

All I want to do is music,
and yes,
I'm minoring in music
and honestly
I could be a teacher
but I'm rethinking that.

I know I don't have to go with the career
that matches my major,
and that I could finish out a teacher's license
and then go on to music.

But I could be so much more prepared!
There's so much more I could do
if I majored in Songwriting, Music Performance, or Worship Ministries.
What should I do?

What can I do?
I can take generic classes now,
ones that can count for any major,
and choose later.

But how long can I wait?
I'll just have to be patient
and wait for His guidance
because He knows what I should do.
What do you think I should do?

— The End —