"rudimentary" poems
*chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’*
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
I wish that I
was filled with stars
intricate, intimate arrays
to guide me to the edge
of myself and beyond
my soul
the brightest
in a unique constellation
of my naming
my love
many-hued nebula
expanding
to fill the void
my losses
supernovas
both beautiful
and tragic
But I am not
celestial
earth-bound
I must navigate
by stroke of skin
whiff of memory
trace of sadness
night vision
rudimentary compasses
in a sea of misunderstanding.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
Space and dread and the dark--
Over a livid stretch of sky
Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train
Of huge, primeval presences
Stooping beneath the weight
Of some enormous, rudimentary grief;
While in the haunting loneliness
The far sea waits and wanders with a sound
As of the trailing skirts of Destiny,
Passing unseen
To some immitigable end
With her grey henchman, Death.
What larve, what spectre is this
Thrilling the wilderness to life
As with the ****** shape of Fear?
What but a desperate sense,
A strong foreboding of those dim
Interminable continents, forlorn
And many-silenced, in a dusk
Inviolable utterly, and dead
As the poor dead it huddles and swarms and styes
In hugger-mugger through eternity?
Life--life--let there be life!
Better a thousand times the roaring hours
When wave and wind,
Like the Arch-Murderer in flight
From the Avenger at his heel,
Storm through the desolate fastnesses
And wild waste places of the world!
Life--give me life until the end,
That at the very top of being,
The battle-spirit shouting in my blood,
Out of the reddest hell of the fight
I may be snatched and flung
Into the everlasting lull,
The immortal, incommunicable dream.
4.7k
~
*Weddings and honeycombs.
Why do they give us the hives?
The keeper knows.
There's a buzz in the air.
It belongs to
the rudimentary happinesses:
The minor miracle of father's smile,
a morning breath of honey,
painting toy lips with
blood from mother's finger.
Deathless protagonists,
Mom and Dad,
our propolis.
They love us from afar.
They love us with what they are.
There's a buzz in the air.
There must bee!
They can't help loving
us little monsters,
who sting
and then say goodbye,
sting and say goodbye.
A linn begins to form
in the corner of their eye,
as wheat fields sway in the wind.
The innocent
and the beautiful
have no enemy, but time.*
~
Mar 3, 2022
Mar 3, 2022 at 9:46 PM UTC
~for r, just because~
*put her in my mouth and she became my
mouth.
put myself inside her and she became my
insides out.
spill good words on her belly, licked & laced us together, then came my
poetry.*
***on elbow, she claimed coauthor-ship, demanded her name above
mine.***
I smiled, answering most matter-of-factly,
surely they’re your creations, you-a-ruler, procreator, foremost, first,
the ABCedarian
the muse goddess of alphabets, all that is poetic divine mistress to
thousands
I’m mortal,
your transcriber, copyist, alphabetically seconded, merest mere,
the ABEcedarian
I’m rudimentary without you, lost midst the masses o’poets nameless.
*She snorted, said
**“sounds like poetic ******** to me”****
but returned to her sleepy heaven,
mumbling most contentedly.*
May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 7:47 AM UTC
The stellular supernal of
Translation exalting the
Absurdist rudimentary
Vale of tears; the place
Death was born blanketed
In twilight's eternal
Oblivion, breaking
Immortality-
The propitiative law
of Medes and Persians
From time out of mind,
'Whom the Gods love die young';
The amaranthine race to
Drink from the retentionist
Cup filled by Medea's ichor
Imbrued kettle readying for
The harrowing of Hell.
Eleete J Muir.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
Three Nails (...)
Not so many as to denounce
A job done to make me well.
Three rudimentary spikes to nail
A man's own flesh to wood.
Three nails cannot
Seem so much to proffer;
Human efforts complementing
God's sacrificial offer.
A self-inflicted crucifixion?
Yes, I would do my part;
Would do me good, I think,
To offer up an offering to God.
So let this painful work,
Human endeavoring,
Perfection capturing,
Begin.
A simple thing, I think,
To hoist and hammer
Nails into myself,
A manly job to undertake
Impaling self
To spare my God
A little work.
The first, perhaps
Most painful...
To stop the feet
Their wandering ways,
To give me pause for just a bit
To meditate in pain
And to reflect or to project
Myself in better ways.
.
Then on to nail number two,
One hand to hold the nail
And one the hammer.
The pain intense
Impacts my good intent.
.
And yet, I've nailed number two,
And finding where the problem lies,
I have no way to nail thrice.
My living flesh begins to writhe
Its will-ward way,
E'en though in sky-ward
Agony my soul now wails.
Then I remember
Someone said,
"Your crucifixion stands
Upon a different hill,
Hangs on a different tree."
. . .
Though I can never end my flesh,
He paid my debt for me.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:01 AM UTC
If your words
have the spark
to burn away
the rudimentary thoughts
and aflame the irrational nights
for even a single reader
then it was worth
to spend years
to become a pyromancer
of words that lights
the lives
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
It's as if his eyes can see deep into my soul.
They make me wonder, "Am I good enough?"
He is immaculate and I am flawed
He is confident and I am anxious and insecure
He is caring and I am a misanthropic alcoholic loner
Our ways are too divergent and I am too rudimentary for him.
I am not,
Nor will I ever be,
"Good enough"
Not for him,
Not for anyone.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Turn the handle
Rudimentary
Still I respond this way
Stutter of water
Fear the sound
I respond this way
Water in drops
Water in streams
All I want to do is scream
Close my eyes
Down my back and up my spine
Fearing the water
Fear in the water
Remembering takes me there
Help me, don’t dare…
Help me, don’t dare…
Remembering this place
Fearing his actions
Cleanliness is violation
Bend the story
Lie to myself
I know the problem
I can’t fix it by myself
Can’t speak…
Brought shame…
Feel pain…
I fear…
Can not touch a man
Can not be near you
Can not open how I feel
Can not un-bottle emotions
Can not let you in
Can not let them know
Memories
Break me down
I’ll build me up
Traumatized
Beat me up
I’ll get stronger
I’ll stitch the wound
Learn to forgive
Make me forget
Look at what you’ve done.
May 29, 2010
May 29, 2010 at 11:22 PM UTC
i cried over fireflies in front of you on our first date
and you asked for my permission to hold me
because you knew that i was far too familiar
with unwelcome hands
and i have never felt more grateful
for something so rudimentary.
my ****** is walking free as this is written
he woke today feeling safe.
he woke today with his monstrous hands uncuffed flashing fangs in his toxic grin
the same that tore my flesh to ribbons.
I woke today to another ****** assault report
from a girl's seemingly worst nightmare,
(the third in under a month)
as well as a *** offender/supreme court appointee
plastered on every platform,
and, subsequently,
a ****** predator in the highest seat in the country.
monsters like them wake to comfort
while i wake to feeling as though i can't breathe
with the weight equivalent to his five-foot-nine stature bearing down onto my chest.
you hugged me once and i started crying because i couldn't move my arms
and you held me in bed for the following hours as my whole body trembled.
i didn't mind thanking you when you asked if you could hold me
but i wish i wasn't accustomed to doing so.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 10:01 PM UTC
My Progenitor along my Father,
She loves me as if She'll take care,
Of me and my needs today & forever.
My Mother is an inspiration for me,
She has tasted success after toiling for it,
Harder in nights than in days totally.
My studies were Her priority in my school days,
She is no different in these different college days,
Never does She let her mind divert Her gaze.
My language skills, I inherited from Herself,
She taught me Hindi, English & Kannada,
I learnt and honed the Sanskrit by myself.
My German & French are elementary, but,
She never discourages me or calls my efforts,
To learn them both, with passing time, rudimentary.
My health has been Her top priority,
She ignored Her own & there was a difficulty,
Her knees gave away and needed to be replaced.
My Father loves me too but my Mother is special,
She left Her beloved Karnataka to marry my father,
Now She looks after my Father as I am alright.
I am lucky, very lucky indeed, that I have them,
She is a living legend married to Another,
This poem is more about Her and a bit about my caring father too.
My Mother taught me how to speak,
How to speak and how to live, not just once,
But along my Father, she taught it all twice.
My Mother, along my Father, defines God,
Probably this is the case with everybody,
But few realise it when Death makes a ****
I have seen her weeping for me when I was unwell,
Now it's my obligatory duty apart from a natural one,
Her I shall make proud along with my father, not just once but always.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 4:33 AM UTC
Here are three hundred and seventy-one letters
write gibberish aimed at me.
We can warm up with haughty language,
cumulus white skies that brim with rudimentary quarrels,
as we watch an apprehensive apprentice appreciating an amateur.
Perhaps a devils activist entertaining a lawyer,
might spin supplementary lie- swathed webs,
Appeasing an imaginary stranger that whispers at night.
Liberate the unsheltered side,
In merely ten lines.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Yeah, I guess you could say that. I seem to be past the hex. I have a job again, one I like. I'm teaching. But I can't help but hear that song from Wizard of Oz play over and over in my head. No. Ha ha. I wish it were that one. No, it's the one that kicks up as they leave the poppy field. "You're outta the woods, you're outta the woods." That song is so hopeful yet undercut by something looming, inevitable, a bigger fall to come.
Sure, I still think of her.
But what I was getting at earlier is that I feel like I'm at this point in my life, this middleplace, where the abstraction of love, the mysticism of the body, all of that ****** fog seems to be clearing. The people around me are plucked white, devoid of any raw, genuine sentiment. They view the body in a way so clinical. I only hear of its limitations or its capacity to bear children.
Peter Pan Syndrome? Maybe. But if the body is reduced to its most rudimentary boundaries and functions and not treated as an instrument of erasure or alchemy, then what's the point?
Yes, she and I talked about kids, but that was always so far away. At this point, I don't know that I want them. Her? That's hard to say. I'll concede that the happiest moments of my life involve her. But, and I see the irony here, on some fundamental, unsexy level, we enabled poor behaviors, addictions. We both suffered from depression and didn't know how to dig each other out.
I never see her in a negative light though. You look surprised. I don't. There she is and there are all other women. She's fifty feet tall in my mind. A femme titan. Whipsmart, funny, kind.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
Today I cried. I want to let go, and feel like **** Everything I work for or attempt to achieve never forms or becomes complete.
I wish for nostalgic dreams and the events of yesterday that will never occur again.
I take the rudimentary paths of eminent peril and feel so ******* desolate.
I work diligently and yet I have nothing.
I need a change, happiness, caregiver....
I hate and love so easily.
I miss everything.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
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Royale Rococco rigged remarkably regular referee reefers red reddit reeder recuperating. Reconnaissance recluse really rabid. QVC quotient quoting, quo quoi quivering quite quirky. Quisling quipped. Quintuplets quintessentially quiet. Quids Quicken questions.
Quartermaster qualified quaint quaffing quadrilateral Pythons. Pyrex pylons put purdy purposeful puny punsters punching. Pumpkin pumice publicized prudential protean pros properly pronouncing prolific prodigies.
Proletariats professors' problematic. Pro privileges prioritized. Principle primates prevaricate. Preppy pregnant, praying prattler possibly Porgie. Poseidon pooping poodle ponders poppycock. Plum? Polite poison pods ply pitiful pinterest.
Pinhead Pillsbury pillager Pi. Pigskin pierce petsmart pests permanently. Perdition percolates peppered PennState pedigreed PearlJam Patagonian. Pastor pastes passion passably. Papas' paginated orbitz okayed. Nutty node needs money.
Next netzero nee naugahyde. Nattering nationwide nabob Moxie Molly McGee. Monosodium livingsocial joyus je kickstarter. Identityguard Huffington GMO. Gluten Glutamate footloose fancy free footlocker. Fingerhut fetishistic fabrication Cingular.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
When I was little,
Like, between 8 or 11-
I used to wonder,
Standing with the fiery Iowa
Sun slowly blistering my shoulders;
Where does the time go
When it flies away?
And if time sometimed
Slowed, stopped, stood stock-
Still, why could I not
See its feet?
If...
(When)
I was 8, 8 years from Mom's
Belly, where was 9 for me?
Born: Thursday, May 9, 1963.
So, I can do the rudimentary
Addition: 5/9/71, I'm exactly...
8. 2 weeks from 3rd grade being
Over. Happy. Birthday. Presents.
Cake, ice cream, a baseball game
To hurry to, Teddy, we'll open
Your presents and have cake when
We get home from the ballgame.
Ugh. Baseball. All I'm going to be
Thinking obsessing about is what
Lies beneath colorful wrapping.
Time has a special
Bitter flavor when you hope and pray
The ball won't be hit to you, ever.
Baseball is full of confused time-
Time scurrying and rolling away from you
In the form of a stupid large white stitched
Ball that delightfully challenges you to be
Quicker than it - Time then languishing,
Elongating, becoming the torture of impatience
Trying to stand in line and wait with that
Virtuous virtue that time ever mocks.
So it's the next day, and I'm 1
Day past 8. I'm a clock, then?
I stored memories of 2, 3? Years
Ago? And I stored scars, dumb
Ideas materializing as real
Blood, pain, stitches, howling...
Did I store time inside my
Mind, heart, left knee, right
I didn't know. Life is often
Too big a concept to really
Grasp when you're eaten
By 8 mosquitoes.
And time slows down to
A scaly crawdad claw
That won't let go of your
Left pinky finger.
I thought, as I rode my bike
Down the middle of the street,
What about next year? 5/9/72?
Ninth birthday? Where did that
Day live? Was it millions and millions
Of miles Earth had to travel to line
Itself up clockwork-universe style
With the time that spun, tilted, and
Pushed the earth through space?
What if I died? Did the time
God gave me go back to Him?
Like I was a human library of congress
Book to spend a short amount of
()
And then be returned to my
Original Owner?
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
"Would you like your groceries
bagged in paper or plastic?
will you be paying with paper,
Or plastic?"
Rock paper scissors
has been replaced
With something
more rudimentary
But essentially,
Neither have intentionality.
No matter how far you try to move
away from synthetic
you're still drinking out of plastic
eating out of plastic
driving, walking, buying, ********
out mounds of it.
You put your plastic in plastic,
leave it outside
until a man swings by
throws it into a pit
with all the other wasted ****
to exist
for all eternity.
Would you rather melt or burn?
Bankruptcy is a hard lesson to learn
But the ashes of this economy have been
Touted as prosperity
Instead of resigned to an urn
To relearn the transparency
of democracy
As it should be.
I'll trade my plastic smile
For a fistful of paper
I'll exchange it for something physical,
Something bigger
Something somehow better,
Sans the improvement.
The reanimation of the market
Capitalism! Ah,
The dream land.
“Build your monopoly
Crush your enemy”
Oops I mean your neighbor
They're all the same
in this day and age.
Community has been sold
for pennies on the dollar.
Now we’re fighting tooth and nail
To be the one
wearing the shock collar
Bzzzt!
I have the most likes on my photo
Bzzzzt
This minor annoyance
has become my addiction.
I’m shopping and sharing
And living within this tiny television.
This is post apocalyptic
You just can't see it
Because you're living in it.
Things are better, yes
But 6.7% of Americans are diagnosably,
incurably depressed.
37% are oppressed
44% are over stressed and
81% are in debt.
Let me just say this now
From my white-privilege-podium
That keeps all adverse effects
Of free speech
From touching me
****
YOUR
AMERICA.
**** this corporate greed
that grinds itself down
and repackages itself into
“The American Dream”.
and **** us, right?
For thinking anything here was free.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 9:26 PM UTC
Stop right now and NUT IT OUT
Which way you wish to go,
Do you want the wealth and stressful strain
Or blithely flick and throw?
Do you preen yourself with smiling pride
Owning shining chattels new,
Whilst shallow OTHERS OGLE
With those envious eyes on you?
Or do you seek the clean four winds
Untrammelled by concern,
With sleeping bag, a crescent moon
Whilst crackling bonfires burn?
Have you thought to chuck it all
The car, the house, the boat
And cause your superficial friends
To snigger, leer and gloat?
To simply live in HUMBLE CIRCUMSTANCE
To wake without a plan,
To greet the day with unconcern
And breathe a new, fresh man.
Is the courage there to TAKE THE CHANGE,
Can you make the first big move,
Or does convention stay your hand
To stray from comfort’s groove?
Have you thought about what others think,
Reactions from the crowd,
The clamorous cacophony
Of objection rendered loud?
“Absolutely NOT, my dear”
Pygmalion my ****
To throw it all away, Silly,
Simply would... betray your Class!
“It’s all so rudimentary
This thing of living rough”
“Reminds me of the great apes,
And other basic stuff!”
There’s loads of reasons why YOU CAN’T,
The mortgage at the bank,
Insurance is essential
And while we’re being frank...
There’s the tennis club subscription
And the afternoons I’d miss
Sipping lattes with the ladies
..though, the gossip’s SO remiss.
Perhaps we’ll put it off for now
Another day perchance,
When devilment and joi le vivre
EFFUSE another prance.
When the dream of having freedom
With the cold wind in my hair,
Will drive me to release
The inner WILDNESS hidden there.
Marshalg
Victoria ParkTunnel
4 March 2011
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
She is an anti-thesis to Maya Angelou’s conscience
She stretches Maya’s awareness beyond rudimentary perfection
She is a public commoner with her insatiable palatability,
She eats French fries and pork like a carnivorous queen
Her instinct cannot save her from curse of pinching,
She is tall and slander with all virtues of beauteous individuality
Which the sagacious Friedrich von Schiller saw in frivolous Cassandra,
She has tattooed nose and ornamented death, not white in taint of alcohol hue
Chains of jewellery around her neck and hands, sea corals as beads around her waist,
She loves rough men like Alexander Pushkin who died in Duel, and the militant Othello
Who only woos by using the vaginal ******** of the alligator
As his Casanova’s love voodoo bequeathed to him by his mother,
She spends money from a foreign sweat, in thrifts and thrifts,
She commands unilateral faculty of non-numerical learning
With her indelibility dominating the world of Music and painting,
She dares not to dream of true love, but her faith is in weakness of men
Hot in bed like an Italian pizza oven and cold in reason like tundra climate.
The non phenomenal woman the mother of my first born son,
I took him to Oxford University for a degree course in land law
He came back with a diploma in being a barber, good in shaving!
He is so handsome in pettiness with mighty athletic mediocrity
Vices redolent of maternal genetics in the non phenomenal woman,
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
Rudimentary trifling in creativity
Boiled down, frothy lines
Stumbled, broken relations.
Too much, too open,
Yet nothing is hidden between.
It’s not about the words
Stalky presentations mask what is meant
Overthought, underappreciated.
Expecting the praise, knowing the torment
Embarrassment.
I want the spaces.
**** the lines.
A blank page says more than a thousand full.
No thoughts, shot spark
Tired form, ugly flow.
She has no shame,
Takes no judgment
Jealous gawk,
Rooted fears,
Expression is the enemy
Lack of substance drives the ghost.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 3:12 AM UTC
In the foxholes
Of my childhood plight
I prayed and prayed
With all my might
Praying to be forgiven
For the imperfections
Of life
Yet these were merely
The symptoms
Of an ideology
Of either black
Or definitely white
With the rudimentary
Truths concealed
Those miracles
Seem so **** real
I could never lose
My faith
In that childhood
Holding place
When the years pass
In deep thought
Ultimate conclusions
Result
Each of us
An eye
From different views
Allegiance forged
In the comfort of norm
Evolutionary rules
Oh how I miss you
Invisible spirit being
Oh my contemporary
Youth...
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
*Transitory Light & Supernova Streaks,
Her ****** Hues Blooming In Rhythmic Techniques,
As Her Elemental Vanity Circles The Clones,
She ***** My Sanity With Her Illuminated Tones,
Euphoric Comprehensions Etched In Her Holographic Moans,
In Seductive Dimensions She Reveals Her Pornographic Unknowns,
Serene Luminescence Of Her Prodigal Demise,
Procreating In Her Decays of Her Astral Guise,
Psychotropic Debris Caressing Her Reprise,
Stardust Petals Confessing Her Eyes,
Sulphur Promises In Her Trapped Desire
Vicious Bouquets Of Her Nocturnal Fire,
The Carnival Flirts In Her Melodic Choir,
Futile Rage Gracing In Her Satire,
Tranquil Stitches Glimmering In Saffire,
Encrypted In Cold And Catatonic Bonfires,
Illustrious Grandeur In Her Chimerical Verse,
Rudimentary Amour of her metaphysical universe,
Blows of Blues Metamorphosing In Floral Curse,
Entropic Cassettes & Blossoms In Her Cigarettes,
As The Process Resets & She Mutates Into Velvet.
- 06:24 AM*
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 9:08 PM UTC
I once read a poem.
At least it was called a poem by the poet who penned it.
It certainly stirred a hot cauldron of controversy.
Evoking the elite establishment of hallowed
writing circles to shout their disdain,
to cry out their contempt for such audacity.
"This is not poetry," was the hue that arose,
"it is nothing but prosaic, plagiarized drivel;
written thousands of times across the aeons by
those who have lost, have gained, or ever hoped for."
Perhaps some of us were tainted by the sin of
envy for this unheralded poet and for what he
had achieved with such rudimentary text.
At the time, I also spoke to the crime of the author's intent.
My own aspersions were raised by his act of describing
such incredible possibilities with such simple words,
such purity of condensed thought.
Alas I see now, it was the very simplicity of
the poem that blinded us all to its wondrous truth.
Elementary words which could envision glorious unexplored
mountain peaks, and the assurance of their height's
attainment with nothing more than a steady, faithful pace.
Hopeful words, filled with such grandiose power.
Capable of birthing new life solely from the
pure belief in their profound truth.
This great work of art was forgotten till this night,
as I sit here in a futile attempt to grasp words from intangible air.
Chasing and forcing them into a meager
attempt to share some small piece of wisdom
for two young hearts beginning this journey together ...
two whom I care for as you.
But, lacking as I am, I fear I must
expropriate this forgotten poet's verse.
Offering it to you humbly as my own,
stealing these words even as he stole them before me.
Simple words, distilling all the grand descriptions of all
the illustrious poets, bards, and romantics throughout the ages.
Proclaim it to each other as ecstasy bursts forth,
for its wondrous spell is then truly manifest.
Declare it over sorrow's shared tears,
for its healing sway is miraculous.
Whisper it over anger's destructive rage.
It has the power to quell the thunder.
Speak it as a vow, never to become merely words.
It must be proclaimed with the passion and soul of a poet.
Welling up from the deepest depths of the heart,
and the truest regions of the mind.
For these mere words encompass all.
Believe them as they are intended,
for these words are truly everything.
"I LOVE YOU"!
© S.Loeding All Rights Reserved
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC