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"sameness" poems
The flame in my flesh burns tor like Above conventions of average humanity, Propelled to hatred of their opposite By the pristine charm in the streaks of culture, Their Florence comes from the glory of orthodoxities In the time long fibres of religious pockets, Islam, Christian, Hinduism and all that steadily And firmly in piety aver perfection of Godliness, Forgetting the flame of same *** with oral spice In the God made flesh of the dear lesbian daughter, Spell binding the equivalent in blossoms of the gay, Provoking hatred from the threatened heterosexists, But the oral *** of a lesbian is an apex of human pleasure Surpassing all on earth and in heaven, as no human barricade Of whatsoever caliber will cull lesbian’s feelings From the glorious power in the genitals on kiss of lips, As the tongue of the chic wag from side to other Touching fountains of ****** glory in cement of sameness Throwing threats of law and black order to dustbins And trash yards of anachronisms as the power of LGBT Engulfs the young world into in its protégé, Shamelessly tethered on the sensual tentacles Of maximum gusto in the ***** of oral *** with a dear ‘less’ In tune with all rhythms of the times Remaining strange to the conservatives, Ever seeking pleasure from where pain hails Living gloomy life on a brink of melancholia, Worry not lesbian daughter you are powerful, In one away or so, rise up and walk tall You have power in your oral *** Oral *** Oral *** Oral *** of a lesbian!
0
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
alexander-k-opicho
TOP LESBIAN'S ODE TO ORAL ***
The flame in my flesh burns tor like Above conventions of average humanity, Propelled to hatred of their opposite By the pristine charm in the streaks of culture, Their Florence comes from the glory of orthodoxities In the time long fibres of religious pockets, Islam, Christian, Hinduism and all that steadily And firmly in piety aver perfection of Godliness, Forgetting the flame of same *** with oral spice In the God made flesh of the dear lesbian daughter, Spell binding the equivalent in blossoms of the gay, Provoking hatred from the threatened heterosexists, But the oral *** of a lesbian is an apex of human pleasure Surpassing all on earth and in heaven, as no human barricade Of whatsoever caliber will cull lesbian’s feelings From the glorious power in the genitals on kiss of lips, As the tongue of the chic wag from side to other Touching fountains of ****** glory in cement of sameness Throwing threats of law and black order to dustbins And trash yards of anachronisms as the power of LGBT Engulfs the young world into in its protégé, Shamelessly tethered on the sensual tentacles Of maximum gusto in the ***** of oral *** with a dear ‘less’ In tune with all rhythms of the times Remaining strange to the conservatives, Ever seeking pleasure from where pain hails Living gloomy life on a brink of melancholia, Worry not lesbian daughter you are powerful, In one away or so, rise up and walk tall You have power in your oral *** Oral *** Oral *** Oral *** of a lesbian!
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31
Some would have You to believe that      Love is blind Love isn’t blind        At all Love sees every         Color Love does not require Sameness to love            Love sees every shade And every relishes         In each one Love seeks to understand And give freedom of     Expression to every       Brilliant color      Love has perfect              Vision That sees and celebrate           Every color            Like love          I see color        And it is indeed              Beautiful                    Love in color               It’ll      Change your life
0
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
Edmond1000
Love isn’t blind
Some would have You to believe that      Love is blind Love isn’t blind        At all Love sees every         Color Love does not require Sameness to love            Love sees every shade And every relishes         In each one Love seeks to understand And give freedom of     Expression to every       Brilliant color      Love has perfect              Vision That sees and celebrate           Every color            Like love          I see color        And it is indeed              Beautiful                    Love in color               It’ll      Change your life
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27
I fear the ocean. Fear the lack of life Fear the unknown sameness below Fear for myself, you see I've Given up on having company I'll sail alone for a while But I'll need water sometime Even though there's water for miles. Someone come aboard then. It's awfully lonely here. It's hard to sail alone you see And I haven't gotten over my fear, Fear of sinking some day Fear of waking up dead. When the ocean finally swallows me And overtakes the resistance in my head. Until then I'll resist. I'll hold out for my crew. Someday we'll sail together. Just.... Me and you. Yes we'll set sail for places That we've never seen before. So come aboard my friend, There's life on that distant shore.
0
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
SantaFlaws
The Ocean Fear
I fear the ocean. Fear the lack of life Fear the unknown sameness below Fear for myself, you see I've Given up on having company I'll sail alone for a while But I'll need water sometime Even though there's water for miles. Someone come aboard then. It's awfully lonely here. It's hard to sail alone you see And I haven't gotten over my fear, Fear of sinking some day Fear of waking up dead. When the ocean finally swallows me And overtakes the resistance in my head. Until then I'll resist. I'll hold out for my crew. Someday we'll sail together. Just.... Me and you. Yes we'll set sail for places That we've never seen before. So come aboard my friend, There's life on that distant shore.
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24
it was the Cubist who created the space and color that everywhere today assails our eyes in    uniform architecture and monotonous design; the various branches of modern art through tedious & exhaustive experiment      & research creating a massive cultural sinkhole whose banal discoveries unveil for all the sameness of form, line and color; Quote from Gorky's 'Camouflage', 1942: I like the heat; the tenderness; the edible; the lusciousness; the song of a single person in a bathtub full of water.                            I like Ucello, Grunewald, Ingres, the drawings and sketches for paintings    of Seurat and that man Pablo Picasso;                I measure all things by weight.                In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series,                26 June 1942 I love Mougouch, Gorky's wife.                What about papa Cézanne; I like the wheat fields, the plow, the apricots, those flirts of the sun.    And bread above all. My lever is the purple; About 194 feet away from our house in Armenia on the road to the spring my father had a little garden with a few apple trees which had retired                              from giving fruit; this garden was identified as the _'Garden of Wish Fulfillment'_ often I had seen my mother and the other village women exposing their naked bosoms, taking the soft, dependable ******* in their hands & rubbing them on the rocks; above all this standing an enormous tree all bleached under the sun, rain & cold,  deprived of leaves. This was the Holy Tree [quoted in 1942] In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series, 26 June 1942 I don't like that word 'finished'.     When something is finished, that means it's dead, doesn't it? I believe in everlastingness; I never finish a painting –   I just stop working on it for a while. I like painting because it's something I can never come to the end of; sometimes I paint a picture, then I paint it all out.    Sometimes I'm working on fifteen or twenty pictures at the same time; I do that       b/c I want to – b/c I change my    mind so often; The thing to do is      always to keep starting to paint;      never finishing the painting [quoted in 1948]
0
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 4:39 PM UTC
johnny-noiπ
Արշիլ Գորկին, տանիքի այծերը
it was the Cubist who created the space and color that everywhere today assails our eyes in    uniform architecture and monotonous design; the various branches of modern art through tedious & exhaustive experiment      & research creating a massive cultural sinkhole whose banal discoveries unveil for all the sameness of form, line and color; Quote from Gorky's 'Camouflage', 1942: I like the heat; the tenderness; the edible; the lusciousness; the song of a single person in a bathtub full of water.                            I like Ucello, Grunewald, Ingres, the drawings and sketches for paintings    of Seurat and that man Pablo Picasso;                I measure all things by weight.                In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series,                26 June 1942 I love Mougouch, Gorky's wife.                What about papa Cézanne; I like the wheat fields, the plow, the apricots, those flirts of the sun.    And bread above all. My lever is the purple; About 194 feet away from our house in Armenia on the road to the spring my father had a little garden with a few apple trees which had retired                              from giving fruit; this garden was identified as the _'Garden of Wish Fulfillment'_ often I had seen my mother and the other village women exposing their naked bosoms, taking the soft, dependable ******* in their hands & rubbing them on the rocks; above all this standing an enormous tree all bleached under the sun, rain & cold,  deprived of leaves. This was the Holy Tree [quoted in 1942] In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series, 26 June 1942 I don't like that word 'finished'.     When something is finished, that means it's dead, doesn't it? I believe in everlastingness; I never finish a painting –   I just stop working on it for a while. I like painting because it's something I can never come to the end of; sometimes I paint a picture, then I paint it all out.    Sometimes I'm working on fifteen or twenty pictures at the same time; I do that       b/c I want to – b/c I change my    mind so often; The thing to do is      always to keep starting to paint;      never finishing the painting [quoted in 1948]
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52
if words are food for the mind, then here is a glimpse of mine if words are drugs for the brain, then here is why i'm so pained. abandoned, abhorrent abnormal, absent abstract, abuse addicted, anxious betray, bitterly blank, blasphemy bloodless, breakdown breathless, brutal captive, casually catastrophe, cautiously change, cigarettes crucial, clueless damaged, dangerous deadly, disastrous disheartened, disconcerting dramatic, dreading eager, eccentric ecstasy, eerie effete, effortless embittered, excess faded, failure faintly, fallacy faltering, fatally fearfully, finally garbage, gawky gibberish, gloomy gone, goodbye graphic, gratify hallucinate, harshly hazy, heartless hectic, helpless hesitant, hit-and-miss idiotic, idly ignorant, intimacy illogical, imaginative infatuated, intoxicated jealousy, jittery journey, journal joylessly, judicial junk, juvenile keen, killing knavish, knocking knockout, knotty knowingly, knowledge laborious, lacking lame, languishing lifeless, literature lovelorn, lugubrious madness, maintenance make-believe, malaise mean, melancholic mellow, melodramatic naff, naivety nameless, naturally nauseous, nebulous neglected, nervous oasis, objectionable obliged, obliterate oblivion, obscurity obsolete, one-and-only pacifist, pained pale, panicky paradise, paralyze passionately, passively raging, ranting rationalize, raving realistic, reasonable rebellious, reckless saboteur, sadness sake, sameness sanity, satisfactory scar, steady taint, tangled tasteless, tearful telling, temperamental terror, theoretical unaffected, uncanny uncommon, unconsciously undesirable, uneasy unfortunate, untidy vaguely, vanish vanity, vanquish versatile, vicious violence, voracious waiting, waking walkout, wanting wasteful, weary withering, wrecking if words are food for the mind, then you've seen a glimpse of mine if words are drugs for the brain, then no wonder i'm so pained. -djs
0
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
djs
a glimpse of my mind
if words are food for the mind, then here is a glimpse of mine if words are drugs for the brain, then here is why i'm so pained. abandoned, abhorrent abnormal, absent abstract, abuse addicted, anxious betray, bitterly blank, blasphemy bloodless, breakdown breathless, brutal captive, casually catastrophe, cautiously change, cigarettes crucial, clueless damaged, dangerous deadly, disastrous disheartened, disconcerting dramatic, dreading eager, eccentric ecstasy, eerie effete, effortless embittered, excess faded, failure faintly, fallacy faltering, fatally fearfully, finally garbage, gawky gibberish, gloomy gone, goodbye graphic, gratify hallucinate, harshly hazy, heartless hectic, helpless hesitant, hit-and-miss idiotic, idly ignorant, intimacy illogical, imaginative infatuated, intoxicated jealousy, jittery journey, journal joylessly, judicial junk, juvenile keen, killing knavish, knocking knockout, knotty knowingly, knowledge laborious, lacking lame, languishing lifeless, literature lovelorn, lugubrious madness, maintenance make-believe, malaise mean, melancholic mellow, melodramatic naff, naivety nameless, naturally nauseous, nebulous neglected, nervous oasis, objectionable obliged, obliterate oblivion, obscurity obsolete, one-and-only pacifist, pained pale, panicky paradise, paralyze passionately, passively raging, ranting rationalize, raving realistic, reasonable rebellious, reckless saboteur, sadness sake, sameness sanity, satisfactory scar, steady taint, tangled tasteless, tearful telling, temperamental terror, theoretical unaffected, uncanny uncommon, unconsciously undesirable, uneasy unfortunate, untidy vaguely, vanish vanity, vanquish versatile, vicious violence, voracious waiting, waking walkout, wanting wasteful, weary withering, wrecking if words are food for the mind, then you've seen a glimpse of mine if words are drugs for the brain, then no wonder i'm so pained. -djs
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97
The wind whispered his name. He lingered, but he did not listen. The sun shone it's bright face Warmly upon his disgrace And made his skin to glisten. Bright leaves spun and danced Taking every momentary chance To entertain a sullen passerby Who never did lift his eye. He was not destined to know Because he missed the show. He didn't hear the music of birds, The crickets all went unheard. The sun might have been dim; Rainbows were unseen by him. He took no joy in a warm breeze Unless it made him sneeze. No human could catch his eye, He was aware of no passersby. There was no color to his sorrow No yesterday or tomorrow, Just the sameness painted gray That he lived in every day. The artist that is every day life Painted his world with palette knife And every kind of artful brush But could not interrupt the hush Of he who looked but did not see Anything real in his reality; His discourse with the world Had become a sad soliloquy He created his own catastrophe Sculpting his world without mastery. His sins bore him sorely down Bent over nearly to the ground. A painful stoop to his shoulder He rested on a nearby boulder. Replaying his dreadful history He vowed to keep it a mystery. He would refuse to bear witness Certain there was no forgiveness. He felt he was no better than sod, Was a disappointment to God, And in all there was in creation. He was unworthy of salvation.
0
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
brent-kincaid
AMBLER
The wind whispered his name. He lingered, but he did not listen. The sun shone it's bright face Warmly upon his disgrace And made his skin to glisten. Bright leaves spun and danced Taking every momentary chance To entertain a sullen passerby Who never did lift his eye. He was not destined to know Because he missed the show. He didn't hear the music of birds, The crickets all went unheard. The sun might have been dim; Rainbows were unseen by him. He took no joy in a warm breeze Unless it made him sneeze. No human could catch his eye, He was aware of no passersby. There was no color to his sorrow No yesterday or tomorrow, Just the sameness painted gray That he lived in every day. The artist that is every day life Painted his world with palette knife And every kind of artful brush But could not interrupt the hush Of he who looked but did not see Anything real in his reality; His discourse with the world Had become a sad soliloquy He created his own catastrophe Sculpting his world without mastery. His sins bore him sorely down Bent over nearly to the ground. A painful stoop to his shoulder He rested on a nearby boulder. Replaying his dreadful history He vowed to keep it a mystery. He would refuse to bear witness Certain there was no forgiveness. He felt he was no better than sod, Was a disappointment to God, And in all there was in creation. He was unworthy of salvation.
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45
Shut away with words for company A mother pushes along a street her baby I push along a page my sentence and wonder at the sameness in sacrifices
0
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC
nivek
Sacrifices.
Shut away with words for company A mother pushes along a street her baby I push along a page my sentence and wonder at the sameness in sacrifices
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4
True warmth runs deep, in the web of your reds and your blues, wrapping and running over every inch of you. Ninety eight and a fraction of degrees seeping hot through the intricate map of your bones and tissue. Every inch bounded in webs and ebbs of flowing colors, an endless river to forever be submerged. How strange is it that the heart resides in a cage? Protected, beating, behind marrow bars. Cells in its cell, fighting and beating in protest to your gentle decay. Such a display resides within us all, all blood a testament to the sameness of us. And if I've captivated you for a moment, might I ask how different are we? How my blood runs different than yours? Though our bodies tell different stories, the blood is no different. When you slay them where they stand, the blood that flows and the tears that fall have no title or rank. We all bleed the same.
0
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 12:42 PM UTC
ssarahaddams
blood type: equal
True warmth runs deep, in the web of your reds and your blues, wrapping and running over every inch of you. Ninety eight and a fraction of degrees seeping hot through the intricate map of your bones and tissue. Every inch bounded in webs and ebbs of flowing colors, an endless river to forever be submerged. How strange is it that the heart resides in a cage? Protected, beating, behind marrow bars. Cells in its cell, fighting and beating in protest to your gentle decay. Such a display resides within us all, all blood a testament to the sameness of us. And if I've captivated you for a moment, might I ask how different are we? How my blood runs different than yours? Though our bodies tell different stories, the blood is no different. When you slay them where they stand, the blood that flows and the tears that fall have no title or rank. We all bleed the same.
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22
Like drinking water out of mason jars Like reading through fake plastic glass Like dressing in your grandparents bolts of fabric Like holding an unfiltered cigarette Or even better a wooden pipe… Smoke swelling in closed mouths And nostrils blowing in sailboat clouds Down to the next not- Starbucks To sit on a velvet couch with Coral painted nails and a chai in hand... You all can be like this. With no workout clothes and With at least two piercings in your nose You all are like this soon enough. Who gave you the idea to pick up the Ukulele anyway? Who gave you the idea to shave one quarter Of your head? We all did. We all are a Fleet of individual sameness, A want to stand out from the Cookie- cutter looks, But now we’re all cupcakes With the same story but with Different hooks For hands, snagging the rest Of us along. With your identical twin lipstick And Birkenstock feet. The lack of shock we absorb Gets lonely and depressing. So lets all move to Montreal And French kiss and knit And maybe real soon the Croissants will go stale And it’ll be cool to live In Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.
0
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
r-e-sadowski
To Be Like You is...
Like drinking water out of mason jars Like reading through fake plastic glass Like dressing in your grandparents bolts of fabric Like holding an unfiltered cigarette Or even better a wooden pipe… Smoke swelling in closed mouths And nostrils blowing in sailboat clouds Down to the next not- Starbucks To sit on a velvet couch with Coral painted nails and a chai in hand... You all can be like this. With no workout clothes and With at least two piercings in your nose You all are like this soon enough. Who gave you the idea to pick up the Ukulele anyway? Who gave you the idea to shave one quarter Of your head? We all did. We all are a Fleet of individual sameness, A want to stand out from the Cookie- cutter looks, But now we’re all cupcakes With the same story but with Different hooks For hands, snagging the rest Of us along. With your identical twin lipstick And Birkenstock feet. The lack of shock we absorb Gets lonely and depressing. So lets all move to Montreal And French kiss and knit And maybe real soon the Croissants will go stale And it’ll be cool to live In Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.
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37
Born of a binary, black/white, white/ black. Cultured by silence, a blank slate, but no more tears. Time isn't real. They speak, they say, tell me there's nothing wrong with me; standing in the kitchen with my grandmother telling me there is nothing DIFFERENT about you. Strive to conform. Sameness is a casualty. **I DON'T GIVE A **** about conservatives . "Humanists" avoiding their toxic misogynistic tendencies, old friends enlisted voluntarily perpetuating a system of violence and suffering, others are bluffing, don't say **** walk eggshells, I must be a tiger loose from the cage, and they're waiting to see who becomes the canary in my coal mine. Rhyming by incident, but I hate this **** & I'm not all right. Women can participate in their own oppression, minorities can be racist, we're all raised in a ditch; Patriarchy, capitalism, class values, botched messages, "color blindness", etc. etc. etc. **** everyone, and don't treat me like I'm better or I should know better, or I have to be "perfect" if I want to be "different". Raised in a ditch. Cultured by racism and depression. I think of suicide like a novelty until I don't . . . Everything turns grey and reads like sloganeering. Waiting for the past to manifest as a trauma. Waiting for the past to make sense. Waiting.
0
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
austin-heath
"Raised in a Ditch."
Born of a binary, black/white, white/ black. Cultured by silence, a blank slate, but no more tears. Time isn't real. They speak, they say, tell me there's nothing wrong with me; standing in the kitchen with my grandmother telling me there is nothing DIFFERENT about you. Strive to conform. Sameness is a casualty. **I DON'T GIVE A **** about conservatives . "Humanists" avoiding their toxic misogynistic tendencies, old friends enlisted voluntarily perpetuating a system of violence and suffering, others are bluffing, don't say **** walk eggshells, I must be a tiger loose from the cage, and they're waiting to see who becomes the canary in my coal mine. Rhyming by incident, but I hate this **** & I'm not all right. Women can participate in their own oppression, minorities can be racist, we're all raised in a ditch; Patriarchy, capitalism, class values, botched messages, "color blindness", etc. etc. etc. **** everyone, and don't treat me like I'm better or I should know better, or I have to be "perfect" if I want to be "different". Raised in a ditch. Cultured by racism and depression. I think of suicide like a novelty until I don't . . . Everything turns grey and reads like sloganeering. Waiting for the past to manifest as a trauma. Waiting for the past to make sense. Waiting.
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48
as the sitting model for a father I am actual sameness / groin goes thumbtack repetition is not doom not to plant not to animal life whether gang sign or godspeak it means my child imagined
0
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
barton-d-smock
further on in the brotherhood of my attractions
as the sitting model for a father I am actual sameness / groin goes thumbtack repetition is not doom not to plant not to animal life whether gang sign or godspeak it means my child imagined
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12
Boredom is sameness. A note held to talents end will be just noise.
0
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
SomeoneNew
A Haiku About Why You Should Sleep With Me
Boredom is sameness. A note held to talents end will be just noise.
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3
life is an endless stream of blue jean clad millions following the wave of others adorned the same iconic way the american idolatry of blue jeans of classic of sameness of belonging the blue denim ocean crashes on the edges of the cliff of what they don't understand
0
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
autumn-whipple
Blue Jeans
life is an endless stream of blue jean clad millions following the wave of others adorned the same iconic way the american idolatry of blue jeans of classic of sameness of belonging the blue denim ocean crashes on the edges of the cliff of what they don't understand
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18
first glance beast out of the darkness frozen in time majestic seahorse carrying Aphrodite grace rising effortlessly abysses grip released with ease wielding her magic over moon goddess while she imagines the first eclipse illuminated ring circling shades of darkness dominating the sky goddess Selene rests her motion etching love in eyes through lasting heartbeats reflecting the rings true brilliance setting the sky on fire being one in the sameness
0
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 3:51 PM UTC
Sadtra
Aphrodite and Selene
first glance beast out of the darkness frozen in time majestic seahorse carrying Aphrodite grace rising effortlessly abysses grip released with ease wielding her magic over moon goddess while she imagines the first eclipse illuminated ring circling shades of darkness dominating the sky goddess Selene rests her motion etching love in eyes through lasting heartbeats reflecting the rings true brilliance setting the sky on fire being one in the sameness
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20
For now there is only ocean And skies The possessing blue expanse of it all One beautiful unending sameness Contently captivated. Tomorrow sitting on the horizon Swallowed by the sunset Yesterday a world away For now there is only stars And this body entirely Dipping and weaving her way Through darkness unguided
0
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC
MoonNectar
Sea blue sailing
For now there is only ocean And skies The possessing blue expanse of it all One beautiful unending sameness Contently captivated. Tomorrow sitting on the horizon Swallowed by the sunset Yesterday a world away For now there is only stars And this body entirely Dipping and weaving her way Through darkness unguided
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12
We pass on our memories to generations to come Will we pass on all of our failures, along with triumphs? Or will we be the omniscient evaluators to filter out pain? People's victories and defeats spon individuality The only "sameness" in our lives is that we are all humans Colorful and beautiful in our smiles and well earned scars We are "The Givers" of our lives to future generations Don't hold back! Don't revise. Don't disguise wounds. Be "The Giver" of the Truth. Be "The Giver" of your life. Celebrate you.
0
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
chuck-1
We are "The Givers"
We pass on our memories to generations to come Will we pass on all of our failures, along with triumphs? Or will we be the omniscient evaluators to filter out pain? People's victories and defeats spon individuality The only "sameness" in our lives is that we are all humans Colorful and beautiful in our smiles and well earned scars We are "The Givers" of our lives to future generations Don't hold back! Don't revise. Don't disguise wounds. Be "The Giver" of the Truth. Be "The Giver" of your life. Celebrate you.
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10
Do you ever think that life could be more?   That we are sitting, doing nothing, that life is passing us by? Sometimes, I feel remorse for having had children so young, for not having adventured beforehand.   I want some adventure! But all I see ahead of me is Tameness. I wish I had had a chance to go out into the Wilderness and just lived, moment by moment.    I'm afraid I will die, regretting that I never once lived.   (If I were a wealthy man, this might be the beginning of my mid life crisis.)   What is it called when a woman feels the panic of settledness coming upon her? There is no name.    There is only the feeling of the sameness of days going by, the aloneness of standing here, surrounded by routine, by repetition. While the desire to jump, to plunge, into the unknown, beats steady on in my chest, and the knowing that That moment, That chance, Has passed me by.
0
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
BruisedOrange
My favorite spatula broke today.
Do you ever think that life could be more?   That we are sitting, doing nothing, that life is passing us by? Sometimes, I feel remorse for having had children so young, for not having adventured beforehand.   I want some adventure! But all I see ahead of me is Tameness. I wish I had had a chance to go out into the Wilderness and just lived, moment by moment.    I'm afraid I will die, regretting that I never once lived.   (If I were a wealthy man, this might be the beginning of my mid life crisis.)   What is it called when a woman feels the panic of settledness coming upon her? There is no name.    There is only the feeling of the sameness of days going by, the aloneness of standing here, surrounded by routine, by repetition. While the desire to jump, to plunge, into the unknown, beats steady on in my chest, and the knowing that That moment, That chance, Has passed me by.
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32
*Self-similarity quietly speaks in fractal visions.. A special sameness with difference spices appears and reappears in spreading iteration.. If we then become a pattern of sacred Sameness observing out there the dance of Sameness and spice we uncover for our moment a most hidden Sacrament...*
0
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
charlesc
Fractal Sacraments
*Self-similarity quietly speaks in fractal visions.. A special sameness with difference spices appears and reappears in spreading iteration.. If we then become a pattern of sacred Sameness observing out there the dance of Sameness and spice we uncover for our moment a most hidden Sacrament...*
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17
There's an illusion in vacations You buy a holiday bundle to endless beaches Expecting to melt into a puddle From the wet sun, from the softest massages, from the savoury delicacies Yet I find myself melted The same numbing beat Disguised as lofi background The same screeching shrieks Of strangers in the sun The lack in detail as I see the same view Everyday, the same restaurant every meal A sameness away from home In the sand a million footsteps form In a uniform path from the sleepy gazebos to the ocean The ocean stretching far and away The horizon hiding the destination of the sun No footsteps can lead me towards where I long Stuck in a routine I cannot call my own
0
Sep 4, 2022
Sep 4, 2022 at 8:53 AM UTC
Esoscript
Holiday Blues
There's an illusion in vacations You buy a holiday bundle to endless beaches Expecting to melt into a puddle From the wet sun, from the softest massages, from the savoury delicacies Yet I find myself melted The same numbing beat Disguised as lofi background The same screeching shrieks Of strangers in the sun The lack in detail as I see the same view Everyday, the same restaurant every meal A sameness away from home In the sand a million footsteps form In a uniform path from the sleepy gazebos to the ocean The ocean stretching far and away The horizon hiding the destination of the sun No footsteps can lead me towards where I long Stuck in a routine I cannot call my own
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18
muse, *she/her has no master, only a mastery; she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding, a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine, which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing of a principled particular “present participle,”* *write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.* *a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey, submission; write freely but not free, compose or decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered, demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving, can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?* <> wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced, repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting. eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism. this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward- bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory, a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity. this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis. <> *the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference? none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always, different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness*                                                            7:13 AM Thu Jul 29 2021 S. I. Sound
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Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
The Compulsing Muse / The Water Canvas Still Life
muse, *she/her has no master, only a mastery; she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding, a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine, which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing of a principled particular “present participle,”* *write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.* *a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey, submission; write freely but not free, compose or decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered, demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving, can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?* <> wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced, repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting. eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism. this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward- bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory, a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity. this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis. <> *the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference? none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always, different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness*                                                            7:13 AM Thu Jul 29 2021 S. I. Sound
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I often wonder why people say love is color blind? See, I don’t think love is color blind at all. Love does not require sameness to love. No, love sees every color and every shade, uniqueness and relishes in everyone. Love seeks to understand and give freedom of expression to every brilliant color. It doesn’t demand general labels such as black, white, yellow etc. Love has perfect vision that sees , embraces and celebrates every color In everyone and everything See , I see color and kindly let me enlighten you It’s Beautiful ~~~~~~~ ❤️
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May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
Edmond1000
I See Color
I often wonder why people say love is color blind? See, I don’t think love is color blind at all. Love does not require sameness to love. No, love sees every color and every shade, uniqueness and relishes in everyone. Love seeks to understand and give freedom of expression to every brilliant color. It doesn’t demand general labels such as black, white, yellow etc. Love has perfect vision that sees , embraces and celebrates every color In everyone and everything See , I see color and kindly let me enlighten you It’s Beautiful ~~~~~~~ ❤️
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I feel as if Life has run me dry. Its vast Opportunity, my Inaction, consumed the last oasis Now they, dry bones Brittle hulls of beetles scuttle amid sameness We starve for color not dripping in red. Nothing much thrives In these hills
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Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC
ashKayeH
Desert Rose
I feel as if Life has run me dry. Its vast Opportunity, my Inaction, consumed the last oasis Now they, dry bones Brittle hulls of beetles scuttle amid sameness We starve for color not dripping in red. Nothing much thrives In these hills
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K.p’s dad was a Science Fiction author, While his son and I learned at school. The teacher talked about planes, bombs, and towers- Explosions, debris, and jet fuel. We were poised like guppies, fidgeting with our lips, Our bodies seemed made of lewd rubber. Not one of us understood the weight or gravity- Of one person killing another. K.p’s dad wrote about a fair United States, Called: “The Defined Territories,” rather tenacious. A satire exploring justice with exaggerated sameness- That most readers found to be tasteless. His main character was a ‘rookie cop,’ And every skin color was uniform and equal. Homosexuals gladly aided population control (by not making babies)- And bullets were designed to be non-lethal. In the story: a group of smugglers find a stockpile of real guns, Automatics, ammunition and bombs. The valiant cop pursues them through page turns and plot- With sweat budding on his palms. K.p and I fought over a girl at school, I broke his nose and we each served detention. At the end of his dad’s story the smugglers are caught- Fined $1,000 and given lethal injection.
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Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
paul-rousseau
Cruel and Unusual
K.p’s dad was a Science Fiction author, While his son and I learned at school. The teacher talked about planes, bombs, and towers- Explosions, debris, and jet fuel. We were poised like guppies, fidgeting with our lips, Our bodies seemed made of lewd rubber. Not one of us understood the weight or gravity- Of one person killing another. K.p’s dad wrote about a fair United States, Called: “The Defined Territories,” rather tenacious. A satire exploring justice with exaggerated sameness- That most readers found to be tasteless. His main character was a ‘rookie cop,’ And every skin color was uniform and equal. Homosexuals gladly aided population control (by not making babies)- And bullets were designed to be non-lethal. In the story: a group of smugglers find a stockpile of real guns, Automatics, ammunition and bombs. The valiant cop pursues them through page turns and plot- With sweat budding on his palms. K.p and I fought over a girl at school, I broke his nose and we each served detention. At the end of his dad’s story the smugglers are caught- Fined $1,000 and given lethal injection.
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