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"rumination" poems
"While I sit at the door Sick to gaze within Mine eye weepeth sore For sorrow and sin: As a tree my sin stands To darken all lands; Death is the fruit it bore. "How have Eden bowers grown Without Adam to bend them! How have Eden flowers blown Squandering their sweet breath Without me to tend them! The Tree of Life was ours, Tree twelvefold-fruited, Most lofty tree that flowers, Most deeply rooted: I chose the tree of death. "Hadst thou but said me nay, Adam, my brother, I might have pined away; I, but none other: God might have let thee stay Safe in our garden, By putting me away Beyond all pardon. "I, Eve, sad mother Of all who must live, I, not another, Plucked bitterest fruit to give My friend, husband, lover;-- O wanton eyes, run over; Who but I should grieve?-- Cain hath slain his brother: Of all who must die mother, Miserable Eve!" Thus she sat weeping, Thus Eve our mother, Where one lay sleeping Slain by his brother. Greatest and least Each piteous beast To hear her voice Forgot his joys And set aside his feast. The mouse paused in his walk And dropped his wheaten stalk; Grave cattle wagged their heads In rumination; The eagle gave a cry From his cloud station; Larks on thyme beds Forbore to mount or sing; Bees drooped upon the wing; The raven perched on high Forgot his ration; The conies in their rock, A feeble nation, Quaked sympathetical; The mocking-bird left off to mock; Huge camels knelt as if In deprecation; The kind hart's tears were falling; Chattered the wistful stork; Dove-voices with a dying fall Cooed desolation Answering grief by grief. Only the serpent in the dust Wriggling and crawling, Grinned an evil grin and ****** His tongue out with its fork.
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Eve
"While I sit at the door Sick to gaze within Mine eye weepeth sore For sorrow and sin: As a tree my sin stands To darken all lands; Death is the fruit it bore. "How have Eden bowers grown Without Adam to bend them! How have Eden flowers blown Squandering their sweet breath Without me to tend them! The Tree of Life was ours, Tree twelvefold-fruited, Most lofty tree that flowers, Most deeply rooted: I chose the tree of death. "Hadst thou but said me nay, Adam, my brother, I might have pined away; I, but none other: God might have let thee stay Safe in our garden, By putting me away Beyond all pardon. "I, Eve, sad mother Of all who must live, I, not another, Plucked bitterest fruit to give My friend, husband, lover;-- O wanton eyes, run over; Who but I should grieve?-- Cain hath slain his brother: Of all who must die mother, Miserable Eve!" Thus she sat weeping, Thus Eve our mother, Where one lay sleeping Slain by his brother. Greatest and least Each piteous beast To hear her voice Forgot his joys And set aside his feast. The mouse paused in his walk And dropped his wheaten stalk; Grave cattle wagged their heads In rumination; The eagle gave a cry From his cloud station; Larks on thyme beds Forbore to mount or sing; Bees drooped upon the wing; The raven perched on high Forgot his ration; The conies in their rock, A feeble nation, Quaked sympathetical; The mocking-bird left off to mock; Huge camels knelt as if In deprecation; The kind hart's tears were falling; Chattered the wistful stork; Dove-voices with a dying fall Cooed desolation Answering grief by grief. Only the serpent in the dust Wriggling and crawling, Grinned an evil grin and ****** His tongue out with its fork.
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70
voices blend, a buzzing murmur steam swirls, mocha wafts caffeinated atmosphere java fog looms above steam swirls, mocha wafts music caresses lightly the ambience caffeinated atmosphere lively line of addicts music caresses lightly the ambience softly, I fall into clouded thought lively line of addicts contrast my peaceful bliss softly, I fall into clouded thought pen the pensive rumination contrast my peaceful bliss busy baristas hollering orders pen the pensive rumination inspiration in café population busy baristas hollering orders while I ponder life's purpose inspiration in café population doodle, draw, and dream while I ponder life's purpose I sigh, my mind screams doodle, draw, and dream let it out, let me be I sigh, my mind screams voices blend, a buzzing murmur
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May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
coffeeshop meditation
what shade has come over me to leave such a trail of steel, the thing i live is a run-away train. i feel so obliged to follow it, dragging me, kicking and screaming, didn't i once engineer this life gone insane. pulled along behind, face hid in forearms, ka-knock-knock-knocking my head on every railway tie. what shade is this life that has split bean's brain? by the wrist i am chained to this run-away train, with traits of a hell-hound out of control, nothing to push to stop from being pulled. bound to lose faith at the very least, though risk of life and limb be the final price. what shade is this film that i have cast myself in, what shade is this play that won't go away. © 2005
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Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
Run Away Train (rumination)
i have been swallowed by my own reflection; bones protrude through pallid thin skin, organs caving in my stomach hoards a swarm of bees, buzzing through the empty cavern that is my translucent flesh. i am a ravenous dog teeth bearing, devouring only water and air i purge myself clean, spill out empty calories and irrational rumination, skeleton hanging out of a hollow casket, appetite smaller than my waist. i am freezing cold, lanugo littering my body, wanting to throw myself in a fire, to feel the warmth that others feel. i am a void - this body is not my own.
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Mar 17, 2021
Mar 17, 2021 at 10:16 PM UTC
atrophy
Chum floats the pool encircled by sharks and piranha a pity, nature's fool as fearful teeth do their work. Could they be as bad as I? Apex predator, Invasive species where it means to die as a means to live. Growth from a spineless cherub to a spiteful formless entity possessing a cunning golden scarab controlling wheels of fortune. Slaves to our own demands aren't we antagonists to someone else? With machinations of wicked plans to justify righteous intentions. Hypocrites line the tank tapping their fingers in rumination Abandoning morals, faces left blank. I am not your foil, I am a mirror.
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Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
Apex Predators
I pulled back the thicket Brambles and thorns Bordering my mind Inch by inch To let you slip inside Hi I hope you don't mind The pestilent storm of neuroses The angry winds whipping around Eroding my cognition (They all say I ought to stop overthinking They don't know the half of it) Pardon the mess The litter of apprehensions Flotsam and jetsam of rumination Tangles of tangents Smog of chimeric thoughts Sticky rambles festering in the corner Acidic drizzle Of obstinate wayward tunes Insecurity and fear Eating into the pillars and foundations If you don't mind terribly The clatter of sleet The noisome fumes The skittering vermin The sheer clutter That would make packrats shake their heads If you don't mind At all Would you stay?
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Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
Housekeeping
her foot never fully touched the ground, remaining half afloat in the air-- stuck in the clouded mist of her anxious mind, she could not grasp the full weight of reality her dance too tentative to be considered one of grace, she treaded carefully with each step, although, she knew this all with a great familiarity-- a constant state of limbo and disarray, out of touch with sight and mind, thoughtless rumination all gather to combine into this displacement she leaps with hope and faith, but unable to press her foot along the earth she glides over the dust and ruin, seeking to avoid rather than settle-- she survives without living
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May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 10:22 PM UTC
She Survives Without Living
Those words created a translucent fog on my vision Against which I would judge every misty morning from that moment on It was warm, but the robins wouldn't play their song If only I could have known then Basking in your radiation, I felt simple Contained within a bottle of lemon juice Sewn together with white wash threads upon the presentation table And I felt whole A lack of lacking that filled my filling Satisfying the rumination, you could never trip Haven't lied before, so my thought were undeniable Still I remained liable When I was made of sand and toothpicks Simply molded by circumstance I was supposed to stand on my own feet Not wobble upon your stilts You told me that from the start But all I wanted was your heart And all you wanted was my words For temporary fulfillment If only I had known then When did I realize Unfortunately, I don't know But the edges of my cloud were still trimmed at your feet So that you might reflect upon your selfishness and realize I was still there I try not to disappear As much as I am able Since once upon a time I shall have the potion of immortal unity That only lasts as long as we might But it would be enough Not for you But for me
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Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 4:56 PM UTC
Love Potion
Coyote’s mournful howl echoed in the new moon’s enchanting sultry ether; breathing the living harmony of the wilderness rhythm He seemed to sense a soul reincarnation       within a pervasive spirit light       an oft misunderstood       common thread shared       this hallowed land’s night An uncommon Zen stirring from within,               stifling apathy .., . . . of rumble deep beneath       a dormant volcano reawakening ;       that which lies undiscovered       just before the ruptured moment ..,       liberation of release ―       dust and ashes taking flight Through open window              insomnia churns                           fifty shades of blue ..,       cast in shadowed hues of broken silence Coyote stirred the stillness       with a hauntingly familiar cry       reading the ridge-top echoes       like the book of my mind " YIP YIP   A ―W O O H !!! " . . . the somber plea For it is in these final hours chosen chore       the recurring torn       these chains and things Coyote was going there ―       to stand these watermark crossroads       this hour of need Accepting brother has always been lonely       sometimes anything       means something - - and so it goes .., Coyote communes in pulse       from ancient realms       this sacred blood ..,                 Om          the lost chord       wounded healers , . . . one mutual spirit       runs marrow deep       where dogs run free The moan of doves whisper to the impending dawn . . . always known these days       too soon do come and gone What once was a life well lived ,       s l o w l y     e v a n e s c i n g       like the summer river’s flow some say ..." you never miss the water       'til the well runs dry " . . . regrets a waste of time - - Rumination, a loathsome silent reverie       a taunting unsolved koan       an unplanned oxymoron ,         beget of a deafening silence . . . dust sleeps with indifference       veiling a beautiful handmade       unstrung guitar       muted - - abandoned,       tone poems, unsung and so "re-begins" the task ...       come what may rise up       into the dark star's light ... Coyote was going there - -       a dawning metamorphosis       under another nebulous sky . . . refreshed by Luna's potent alchemy bestrewn       in her spellbinding lambent moonlight elixir of life ... harlon rivers  ... 5. 21. 2015
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Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
Coyote was going there
Coyote’s mournful howl echoed in the new moon’s enchanting sultry ether; breathing the living harmony of the wilderness rhythm He seemed to sense a soul reincarnation       within a pervasive spirit light       an oft misunderstood       common thread shared       this hallowed land’s night An uncommon Zen stirring from within,               stifling apathy .., . . . of rumble deep beneath       a dormant volcano reawakening ;       that which lies undiscovered       just before the ruptured moment ..,       liberation of release ―       dust and ashes taking flight Through open window              insomnia churns                           fifty shades of blue ..,       cast in shadowed hues of broken silence Coyote stirred the stillness       with a hauntingly familiar cry       reading the ridge-top echoes       like the book of my mind " YIP YIP   A ―W O O H !!! " . . . the somber plea For it is in these final hours chosen chore       the recurring torn       these chains and things Coyote was going there ―       to stand these watermark crossroads       this hour of need Accepting brother has always been lonely       sometimes anything       means something - - and so it goes .., Coyote communes in pulse       from ancient realms       this sacred blood ..,                 Om          the lost chord       wounded healers , . . . one mutual spirit       runs marrow deep       where dogs run free The moan of doves whisper to the impending dawn . . . always known these days       too soon do come and gone What once was a life well lived ,       s l o w l y     e v a n e s c i n g       like the summer river’s flow some say ..." you never miss the water       'til the well runs dry " . . . regrets a waste of time - - Rumination, a loathsome silent reverie       a taunting unsolved koan       an unplanned oxymoron ,         beget of a deafening silence . . . dust sleeps with indifference       veiling a beautiful handmade       unstrung guitar       muted - - abandoned,       tone poems, unsung and so "re-begins" the task ...       come what may rise up       into the dark star's light ... Coyote was going there - -       a dawning metamorphosis       under another nebulous sky . . . refreshed by Luna's potent alchemy bestrewn       in her spellbinding lambent moonlight elixir of life ... harlon rivers  ... 5. 21. 2015
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70
God **** you to hell. You smolder inside my chest Crying like an abandoned puppy, Even my blood wants to get away from you. You claim everything's yours, yours To feel for, like a blind man, stumbling, You are an emotional wreck. You Brazen bull, I never cease to hear The screams of agony that you burn. It's so bad I could even smell the crisp Of human flesh. It empties me of all hunger. The air burns wherever I let it, but that Always beats your burn, that is like the iron At the center of the Earth. I hate you. You burn. You burn my love notes, My apologies, you burn my hatred, My love, my time. You burn my dreams. You are their crematorium. And I hate you For forcing me around you No matter how much I want you out. I hate you, And I hate you even more For making me forget why, My rumination seeping out Replaced by "Fine. Let's see how you do on your own."
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Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 7:31 PM UTC
The brazen heart
The ranch-bound bovines, in dehydration, yet wary of Kool-aid, declined to drink. They grazed in wonder, cowed rumination: where does “beef” come from?  A herd tends to think of pasturage, water, and basic needs. Ranch-hands assured them all was in order; privileged guests enjoy the finest  feeds. Cows, content on this side of the border try Buddhism, yoga – or simply gaze… though things in the distance loomed ominous (those lots at the edge of the well-hoofed ways) – and a stench wafted into their consciousness. Yet calves frolicked on while the bulls mounted heifers – dreamed vegan dreams as they nibbled grasses some earned doctorates, others went clubbing; all loosed sustainable methane gases. Soothing their calves with fables and stories where cows are the measure of pastured life they deflected the gist of the young ones’ queries, affirming that Truth means avoidance of strife. “It’s best to just graze. Don’t ask questions dear. We’re on this planet without any clue. We evolved. From just what is a little unclear – but Cow Science has proved that it’s true.”
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Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
When Cows Come Home
Into the masquerade Of her unyielding dream, I see her flash into ambiguity. A vestige of fluorescent Transcendental light particles Rising into the zenith, Through a liquescent portal, Into the reminiscence Of her fanciful bloom. I meander through the enigmatic Labyrinth of her Never-ending rumination. Through the postern door, Into a frolic of festivity; A jamboree of her Effervescent frivolity. A sudden vision Of our exuberant youth, The romantic tryst by the fountain. Our souls interlaced, weaving in the wind As we gaze at her fragrant, Celestial moon. The ambience of her earthly silence Conjures the emergence of a stairway Into her intuitive star. Our ephemeral dalliance, In an evaporating mirage Of unrelenting fortitude, Of what was once forgotten. I take my enamoured bow, With ardent strings of burning light And fire fervently to seek Her euphonious heart.
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May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 4:43 PM UTC
Ardent Strings of Burning Light
Well well well sailor Tucked the gun back into your pants Panting all overcome With obsessive you don't know what Here I am the future mermaid Isn't it where the drowned go if heaven spits them out? Don't know if they'd accept. Cheers to you frightened Never a complete silence in the open sea Sing yourself a song of solitude Next time you wish to put me back in place Where you belong With your fear of stupidity. Or maybe... Maybe I won't leave Yes, I probably won't I tried once or twice before. Alter ego is not for me to choose My doppelgänger gangsta crazy beach. So please, if you decide to have a snack Out of my good intentions May I suggest pickling? So it may last you through lifetime Of self imposed misery. Add lemon so it's not too fishy And salt generously with your f...ng tears
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May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
Rumination a of a mermaid
My thoughts are merely a tangle of non-conformant chemicals in an ultra-responsive setting; echoes of scarcely delayed feelings, millimetrically placed and ready to be felt; remnants of cromagnon desires, keeping me occupied, unassuming and tame, while life rolls on silently, reflexively and impressively, with all its humiliating nerve. Rumination is for cows, guppies, and humans alike, and saffrons, sapphires and the snow all reason in their own way, no less conscious than our total unconsciousness. Like a rock or plant, man is authoritatively ignorant of his ignorance, and in his metaphysical realism lives and loves and dies, without a clue that he never lived, never loved and was perpetually dead. Thought’s true thought is to block awareness by darkening the place where true awareness lies. We think therefore we think: to god (I mean exact-Nature) no other valid reason exists. We conveniently overrate rationality in self-serving cycles of chronic urgency and folly, leaving us continually stuck to our cyclic fate. Life is Nature’s grunt or roar (whatever and the same) all just a sound, faint or not. We are unsubstantial and chimerical animals by excellence, and in the circle inside the box we live in, our fancy appears really real.   As a feeling awaits its chemical fate, in the millimetric second that lingers, whole worlds are imagined, and our universe and all is perceived: violence, joy, depression, hope, and unbearable pain are unleashed, cities are wanted, planned and assembled, while man, impeccably and in turns, plays god, king and beggar, and true lives, true loves and true deities are born. As man progresses (i.e. transgresses his own nature) and as he overcomes thought, word and feeling, he ceases to be restrictively alive: he is released, he is now free. Thought stands alongside feeling, without communication nor vibration, and gradually and painfully amalgamate into a new corrosive mix, directly eating into spirit, flesh, and understanding, until our wholeness wholly disintegrates.   The world as we know it folds upon itself,  layer by layer, in an inner spectacle of perfect annihilation and renewal. The chasm separating man from himself contracts (eventually to nil) and man plunges from the edge of this last plank (4). As he falls, in mid-flight, the ultimate metamorphosis occurs, and an übermensch is born.
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May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
Awareness (level 5 of 7)
My thoughts are merely a tangle of non-conformant chemicals in an ultra-responsive setting; echoes of scarcely delayed feelings, millimetrically placed and ready to be felt; remnants of cromagnon desires, keeping me occupied, unassuming and tame, while life rolls on silently, reflexively and impressively, with all its humiliating nerve. Rumination is for cows, guppies, and humans alike, and saffrons, sapphires and the snow all reason in their own way, no less conscious than our total unconsciousness. Like a rock or plant, man is authoritatively ignorant of his ignorance, and in his metaphysical realism lives and loves and dies, without a clue that he never lived, never loved and was perpetually dead. Thought’s true thought is to block awareness by darkening the place where true awareness lies. We think therefore we think: to god (I mean exact-Nature) no other valid reason exists. We conveniently overrate rationality in self-serving cycles of chronic urgency and folly, leaving us continually stuck to our cyclic fate. Life is Nature’s grunt or roar (whatever and the same) all just a sound, faint or not. We are unsubstantial and chimerical animals by excellence, and in the circle inside the box we live in, our fancy appears really real.   As a feeling awaits its chemical fate, in the millimetric second that lingers, whole worlds are imagined, and our universe and all is perceived: violence, joy, depression, hope, and unbearable pain are unleashed, cities are wanted, planned and assembled, while man, impeccably and in turns, plays god, king and beggar, and true lives, true loves and true deities are born. As man progresses (i.e. transgresses his own nature) and as he overcomes thought, word and feeling, he ceases to be restrictively alive: he is released, he is now free. Thought stands alongside feeling, without communication nor vibration, and gradually and painfully amalgamate into a new corrosive mix, directly eating into spirit, flesh, and understanding, until our wholeness wholly disintegrates.   The world as we know it folds upon itself,  layer by layer, in an inner spectacle of perfect annihilation and renewal. The chasm separating man from himself contracts (eventually to nil) and man plunges from the edge of this last plank (4). As he falls, in mid-flight, the ultimate metamorphosis occurs, and an übermensch is born.
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48
Rumination expands through the personification of strands, through exposure to vociferous souls Prismatic expulsion Blinding to the eyes, but in this darkness I achieve true sight My eyes parallel to the universe I watch the seams closely Fixated I am the watcher of all that is sacred
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Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 8:49 AM UTC
Seamstress
This temple of sacrifice feeds sorrow aplenty, To nurture its agonizing corruption. It envelops your mind, Breeds conformity, and peril unfolds. The hourglass is broken, the sand was lost to conformity, Becoming nothing more than a speck of dust in the rubble On a sidewalk that leads the fool to paradise. There he dwells with hopelessness, Still waiting for the answer that he didn't hear. The chilling sound of crushing metal was quite loud when the car radio shut off.
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Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 2:47 PM UTC
III: Rumination
I am an honorific supposition Relieving vowed perdition Of narrow corridors Sedition pounded Flounders madly Seeking loudly A righteous chore While resolving disputed dignity, I know eight faces: Soft Admiration Rowdy Persuasion Mighty Resolution Orphaned Confusion Delighted Fixation Grand Separation Sly Rumination and a frequent categorical shuffling intellect
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Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
Rain Hat
As evolution jumped from eon to eon, the foundational hunger to remain surpassed all bounds this great celestial has ever witnessed in its cosmic disturbance. How must Mars and Jupiter, these stars in the sky view the deep blue that flooded the desolate, a clump of collected debris basking in the ultraviolet, unable to resist the presence of life, ever-so unwanted and needless to exist? For our neighbors in the sky, glancing our way in their soulless façade, they gossip to their peers about the news over here, the autumnal shift from emerald to bronze, willows who wept in the heat of summer days, dandelions dotting the ridges of a rolling hillside, at times dipping their toes in the whispering waters of a backyard creek caressing the moss atop smooth and shimmering stones. From nothing you surged as entropy evermore, and from everything you share your entities, the very body you call your own, the breath you maintain in this cyclical palindrome; as mere extensions of the singularity’s core, you find yourself in this position of awe, gazing at the consequences never meant to be seen. How fortunate we are to find ourselves here in a sea of tumultuous chaos, conscious and ever-so present in the discovery of knowledge. To look to the past through a tubular lens and remain unknowing of time’s present state, the physical probabilities of potentials unforeseen bending the rays of time to juxtapose new and old; reality remains a pervasive illusion evading the grasps of human cognition. Our consciousness supersedes the premise of us all, but our curiosity quivers in the breath of the meaningless; how could something so rare and inconceivable surmount to nothing more than the imminent emergence of an empty abyss? We must never misjudge the reign of the cosmos, lose all hope that nothing awaits -- this I will not believe.   From nothing I surged as entropy evermore, and from everything I share my entities, the very body I call my own, the breath I maintain in this cyclical palindrome; as mere extensions of the singularity’s core, I find myself in this position of awe, gazing at the consequences never meant to be seen.
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Mar 6, 2024
Mar 6, 2024 at 3:22 AM UTC
A rumination on the premise of us all.
As evolution jumped from eon to eon, the foundational hunger to remain surpassed all bounds this great celestial has ever witnessed in its cosmic disturbance. How must Mars and Jupiter, these stars in the sky view the deep blue that flooded the desolate, a clump of collected debris basking in the ultraviolet, unable to resist the presence of life, ever-so unwanted and needless to exist? For our neighbors in the sky, glancing our way in their soulless façade, they gossip to their peers about the news over here, the autumnal shift from emerald to bronze, willows who wept in the heat of summer days, dandelions dotting the ridges of a rolling hillside, at times dipping their toes in the whispering waters of a backyard creek caressing the moss atop smooth and shimmering stones. From nothing you surged as entropy evermore, and from everything you share your entities, the very body you call your own, the breath you maintain in this cyclical palindrome; as mere extensions of the singularity’s core, you find yourself in this position of awe, gazing at the consequences never meant to be seen. How fortunate we are to find ourselves here in a sea of tumultuous chaos, conscious and ever-so present in the discovery of knowledge. To look to the past through a tubular lens and remain unknowing of time’s present state, the physical probabilities of potentials unforeseen bending the rays of time to juxtapose new and old; reality remains a pervasive illusion evading the grasps of human cognition. Our consciousness supersedes the premise of us all, but our curiosity quivers in the breath of the meaningless; how could something so rare and inconceivable surmount to nothing more than the imminent emergence of an empty abyss? We must never misjudge the reign of the cosmos, lose all hope that nothing awaits -- this I will not believe.   From nothing I surged as entropy evermore, and from everything I share my entities, the very body I call my own, the breath I maintain in this cyclical palindrome; as mere extensions of the singularity’s core, I find myself in this position of awe, gazing at the consequences never meant to be seen.
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48
After taking a second look, I have come to the conclusion that stargazing is overrated. And after much consideration, reflection, and even rumination, I am left with the notion that whatever people think that makes them happy, isn't really what makes them happy. If I found a door that opened to anywhere, I would step through it.
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Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
"...And Grace."
I fall Into Rumination The thoughts are constant Buzzing of words Stinging of fears I fall Away from here I am gone Into Repetition The whispers are present Volume of shouts Burning of calls I fall I fall I land Into Rumination
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Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
Rumination
the thing about love that seldom finds its way into conversation is the peril it carries. you surrender fragments of yourself..no, the entirety of yourself into another’s hands, praying they cradle it with reverence. yet what transpires when your devotion becomes suffocating, when the sheer intensity of your affection drowns them until escape feels like survival? they run. and you remain amidst the wreckage, gathering fractured remnants, attempting to reconstruct a semblance of wholeness. you spiral into relentless rumination.. dissecting every misstep, questioning whether it was you, whether they’ll ever return. and the cruelty of it all lies in the conviction since i believed with marrow-deep certainty that the two of us got it right this time around. they said the first fracture cleaves the hardest, and they were not wrong. i wrestle with the storm until my hands are empty; in an instant a cosmos i trusted unspooled into silence. my emotions orbit without chart or tether, a scatter of constellations asking the same questions: do you still trace my name in the dark? do you love me in the quiet spaces between breaths? would you return to salvage what we built? i yearn to know. my loving was always meant to be a refuge. a delicate harbor where you could unfurl into your truest form, not a rope to bind or a tide to drown you. it was offered to you for shelter from the world’s cruelties as a small, pure architecture of safety but never as something to drive you away. i hope in time you will see it as such. even if you never do, i can’t fault you for that. just carry this with you like a quiet ember: my love remains and i ache for the day you remember what we once built together.
0
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 1:31 AM UTC
constellations we cannot unsee
the thing about love that seldom finds its way into conversation is the peril it carries. you surrender fragments of yourself..no, the entirety of yourself into another’s hands, praying they cradle it with reverence. yet what transpires when your devotion becomes suffocating, when the sheer intensity of your affection drowns them until escape feels like survival? they run. and you remain amidst the wreckage, gathering fractured remnants, attempting to reconstruct a semblance of wholeness. you spiral into relentless rumination.. dissecting every misstep, questioning whether it was you, whether they’ll ever return. and the cruelty of it all lies in the conviction since i believed with marrow-deep certainty that the two of us got it right this time around. they said the first fracture cleaves the hardest, and they were not wrong. i wrestle with the storm until my hands are empty; in an instant a cosmos i trusted unspooled into silence. my emotions orbit without chart or tether, a scatter of constellations asking the same questions: do you still trace my name in the dark? do you love me in the quiet spaces between breaths? would you return to salvage what we built? i yearn to know. my loving was always meant to be a refuge. a delicate harbor where you could unfurl into your truest form, not a rope to bind or a tide to drown you. it was offered to you for shelter from the world’s cruelties as a small, pure architecture of safety but never as something to drive you away. i hope in time you will see it as such. even if you never do, i can’t fault you for that. just carry this with you like a quiet ember: my love remains and i ache for the day you remember what we once built together.
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6
There isn't much sky in this pallid, stale cocoon no greens nor greys, no electric branches searing fragile, barren walls. But the heady, sagging scent of moisture suggests a storm--                                                                                            yes, there was once me: a turbid bloom, an opportunist exhausting avidity in one overarching spill. As I rolled through your gutters, flippant and bleeding into everything, you rose with the dryness of the day and spoke of your immurement, the feebleness of my mold and mildew.
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Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
"Rumination"