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Nathan Alexander Aug 2018
Oh, how disgusting.
All this disguising...
To become somebody that’s worth existing.

Oh, it's repulsing.
Fully engulfing...
Every truth, that ever found itself hiding.

So join me...
Hey let's play a lying game!
And ***** ourselves, with something exciting!

Deceiving, and heartless thieving...
After all life is so dull without some bleeding.

Such is life for a boring... Existence...

Cause I’m a...
Liar, liar!
And only that is true!
After all fire, fire...
Is something I pursue!
Just call out liar, liar!
And I’ll infect you too...
With the addictive taboo...
Of bidding the truth adieu.

Trust me!
That’s a lie, such a lie, for a lie!
You see, I can’t pry my own dyed scheming eyes.
So please, forgive my falsified truthful lies.
...Truly... Lying!

‘Cause I’m a liar.

Oh, how appalling.
The lies are crawling...
And covering every single little bit.

Oh, how revolting.
And full of loathing.
It’s nauseating!
Exhilarating,
Isn’t it?

Manipulating.
Hardly pulsating...
A heart like that, is the only one that’s free.

Without emotion,
Without devotion...
It’s much easier to fake something happy.

Much easier to fake yourself being happy...

So, join me!
Hey, let's play a lying game!
And cover ourselves, with something inviting!

Rewriting, and truly lying...
Finally a story that wasn’t meant to end with painful feelings!

Put on the masks, and let's have us a masquerade!
Dancing senselessly, on the shadows of the betrayed!
A smiling, and crying, and lying charade...
Such is life for a boring... Existence.

'Cause I’m a liar, liar,
And only that is true!
After all fire, fire,
Is something I pursue!
Just call out liar, liar!
And I’ll infect you too...
With the addictive taboo...
Of bidding the truth adieu.

'Cause I’m a liar.

Peek-a-peek-a-boo!
Ha, ha, I found you!
Hiding from the truth...
Well it’s nothing new.

Peek-a-peek-a-boo!
I can see right through!
Liars know liars...
Like you know the back of your own hand.

It’s bland.
Such an existence...
Where everything goes as planned.
Wasteland...
Is much more fun to navigate and understand.
That’s why...
I left it behind, my world is covered in lies.
That’s why...
It seems there’s no longer blue in my sky...

So...

Put on the masks, and let's have us one last masquerade!
Dancing senselessly, on the shadows of the betrayed!
A smiling, and crying, and lying charade!
Such is life for the boring existence... Of a liar.

Am I a... liar? Liar?
Does it seem that way to you?
After all fire, fire...
Is burning through the roof...

'Cause you’re all... liars, liars!
And I don’t know what’s true!
After all fire, fire...
Has ravaged all I knew...

I call out liar, liar!
I cannot trust you!
But the world has gone askew...
And there’s nothing else to do...
Except bid the truth adieu...

Leave this, leave it behind, hide it in the back of your head!

I’ve given up on all I knew,
There is nothing, that is truly true.
I’ve given up on all I knew,
Because after they betrayed me, they’ve gone askew.
I’ve given up on all I knew,
Because life, people are so boring and dull,
There is nothing for me here.

I don’t see a point in living...
That’s a lie..?

Trust me!
What’s a lie?
Is it lies?
Only lies!
I can’t pry my blind eyes, while I cry...
Please, forgive my blackened sky full of lies!

Truly... Lying!
Truly... Dying...
Yitkbel Jun 2018
You’re not the unreachable stars
You’re not the almighty sun
You are every blade of grass
You are every deer in the forest
You are every ripple in the pond

But I
I am the restless moonchild
Roaming senselessly through
The starless sky

But I
I am the moon that wakes
Among slumbering hours
And sleeps through life

But I would rather be the dust
That buries your loneliness
But I would rather be the dews
That wash away your sorrow

Your gift for me is my love for my humility
Your happiness for me is my willingness
To be your eternal shadow and not just
The momentary sunshine

You’re not the sky high above all
You’re not the gale that takes all
You’re the dove I wish to caress
You’re the untouchable dandelion

And I
I am the dark clouds above all fleeing life
The inescapable starless night

And I
I am the gale wind that leaves nothing behind
That goes away silently
When there’s no hope left to be find


And I would rather be the catkins
That hold on to your dreams in flight
And I would rather be the honeybees
That take away your bitterness, despair and fright

Please show me how to love my humility
Please bring back my happiness, my willingness
To be your eternal shadow and not just
Momentary sunshine

For my love for you is not above all,
            But within every breath of life.
Written Thursday June 7th, 2018: I wrote it in Chinese first, and then translated it.
A few elements are from my earlier poems:
eg. Moonchild
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2101155/moonchild/
Julius Nov 2013
oh **** just realised bare movements 2wards success dnt think
THIS TIME, but not just say 'dont know' rather than just saying
It lasted 24 hours, at least i do?
Epic album in my living room lol
them waterproof socks were gonna die of cancer we'd be nice D!
NEVER STOP MAKING me
yes well it
insert ambiguos, nondescript but first
spanish exam conditions, conditions which wall were gonna BUY them off
and i die, I wanna hear about 2500 bones id need a birthday with a large group of 17/18 year olds
89.01 for da nine
he gets the light ray effect for
is it is and no KURUMA!
Ok so we progress through the clean flow of 'having a reminder, dont
Because Чou Are A list of MY favoutite photos i have 'got the 40's music
AM I end of school?
*** americans are so
i watched super sweet 16 and now
3 Ivo my ROOOME! MY SWEET ROME!
mi amigos son
when i die, I was hench
I'm not too but you
I watched Super Sweet ROME!
This is whats happening to BE working
luv your fellow man, NO matter what happens. i would rather die than take notes...
people are bad when we've all done
yeah dont watch after all, he doesn't have one* Sorry im tipsy
ahh he's completely changed it...
yeah dont watch it
in fact, not a bad subject its interesting but still proves my point not yours so
in fact, not should you, would actually rather spend time with both arms swinging, well, I'll tell me
guess everyones at the caravan
think my wisdom teeth are coming soon
89.01 for 1 bike and 1 bike and abused for
i'm ******* SERIOUS?
must do coursework, must listen
ok about the street, almost over At the levels cuz
2 many ppl online anyway
come to a party or social gathering where for
should be pretty good
it is there womans face and a lampshade behind me?
btw i did with strangers
dont take pride in an easter egg
i watched super sweet 16 and feel happy
m a party or social status. chew on the telly impress the nation, im a product of my favoutite photos EVER!
anyone whos doing ANY REVISION?
dnt chat **** y11 white rappers who aren't good.
Classic Jamie scruple Should I need to climb over a mountain of Valentines cards to get out o the house?
I'm not a 9to5 a 4 39% Allow this
year 10s are hyping over a mountain of us looking piff
*** americans are such an intelligent sounding statement here
in fact, not on the menu screen tap the triggers repeatedly then
does anyone know
so theres online write ****** responses you
Originality is really long, i will treat others
you need to be popstars we cannot change?
year 10s are always
relax and take it
round two windows
, no, the game
well it **** though, none of there full mental capacity and who's ...a danger to themselves senselessly, and i can’t improve, school
Your dress is very consistent with enduring 2 Chainz + Iggy Azalea but **** it
**** education, i don’t wanna be perfect, then
2 many ppl online even tho the Day!
gal dem would be honest forum
oh **** just realised bare movements 2wards success dnt forget to please therefore stop being friends with that
i watched super sweet 16 years, the coursework deadline is tomorow!
this is sarcasm lol
at the diner, clothes aint designer vision, i will continue thank you
wish i had some friends with gets totally embarrassed and i hate slow internet, and his lyrics have Maths is at the open evening.
no, it WAS SUPPOSED TO BE a few words, why
legally made to be easy to get. I invite you
insert ambiguos, nondescript but theyve sorted it
Who said anything NO ****!
utorrent never STOP MAKING THEM PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

you need to be teachers but we’re treated like the school
and i hate slow internet, and i know
THIS TIME, IT'S BETTER! BECOME A fan
well it is on DETOX I WIL PUNCH THE WALL until THERES JUST A few questions, oh well
cant wait till these exams are almost over At the same time
to clarify, I was cros examining me
but i DARE you
and i will treat you

Basically the problem was caused by a bug in the background
single strand in an infinite white plane of intelligence remembering things and performing well
Justin bieber is a response
so theres online anyway
You're going to be an electric shock device to prevent stupid kids ok?
ahh he's white i can
must do coursework, must do

and i hate with love!
They pretend it's a sailing boat and sit on one
no matter what I propose when we've all done
this is Grace representing here?
THIS TIME, IT'S just a standard morning
spooning, tribal *******, free
no matter how hard i tried to talk to you
jules you're somehow still managing to frape me, but sooner or later they betray me.
facebook chat is ******
im a white guy
i watched super sweet 16 and now
you need to use poetic language
also how is there womans face and a part of myself
Had to climb over 1 Favourite song
and i hate facing reality. they ARE Reading This
just gotta finish this
But Post i'd like to see!

to clarify, I was screaming 'wheres my wisdom teeth are notifications???
That's how to be very somberly FOUR HOURS ago
Had to bend edges to find a standard morning
utorrent never works no morre

anyone whos doing ANY REVISION?
*** americans are trying to raise AWARENESS about the son
if one conducts themselves senselessly, and respond to sound like rhymes...
everyone say thanks to Grace Julia Clarke and Black ops AND Tomorrow Will Be A regular guy, i wanna have a huge **** already!
Kat Raven Nov 2020
My thoughts screaming out loud...
**** me daddy...
I need it bad, I want it, I crave it like a sin waiting to be unfolded inbetween my thighs where wetness needs to be explored.
You seem like trouble, temptation that I can’t help but have no control over.
Teasing you senselessly and wondering why I seem to have such an effect on people.
My eroticism speaks millions of sensual nightmares waiting to be unraveled and seeked upon.
My curtains are shaking and trembling waiting for pleasure to be evoked.
I scream to loudly on the inside wanting to lock away this part of me.
My ****** and ****** nature got me in bad spaces in the past, locking and hiding away that part of me for so long , I forgot what it felt to squirt... to feel drenched in your sweat, to leak forbidden sins...
Calling me your ****, I love it when you provoke me, wrap me, and hold me.
It’s been a long time, I need a reminder of what it’s like to be bad again...
I’ve been good, keeping my habits controlled.
I want to feel you and ******* so bad it’s driving a drill through my chaotic sinful mind.
My words so raw and unfiltered, I need it bad...
Daddy, punish me for all that I have sinned...
Don’t forgive me, kiss me harder and penetrate deeper into my mind.
**** me with your words then show me what a bad baby I’ve been....
The devils ****** monster is lurking within, waiting for a sign....
Hungry and seductively parched.
Bring out my demon and allow her to drive you ****** insane...
and the sun weilds mercy
but like a jet torch carried to high,
and the jets whip across its sight
and rockets leap like toads,
and the boys get out the maps
and pin-cuishon the moon,
old green cheese,
no life there but too much on earth:
our unwashed India boys
crosssing their legs,playing pipes,
starving with ****** in bellies,
watching the snakes volute
like beautiful women in the hungry air;
the rockets leap,
the rockets leap like hares,
clearing clump and dog
replacing out-dated bullets;
the Chineses still carve
in jade,quietly stuffing rice
into their hunger, a hunger
a thousand years old,
their muddy rivers moving with fire
and song, barges, houseboats
pushed by drifting poles
of waiting without wanting;
in Turkey they face the East
on their carpets
praying to a purple god
who smokes and laughs
and sticks fingers in their eyes
blinding them, as gods will do;
but the rockets are ready: peace is no longer,
for some reason,precious;
madness drifts like lily pads
on a pond circling senselessly;
the painters paint dipping
their reds and greens and yellows,
poets rhyme their lonliness,
musicians starve as always
and the novelists miss the mark,
but not the pelican , the gull;
pelicans dip and dive, rise,
shaking shocked half-dead
radioactive fish from their beaks;
indeed, indeed, the waters wash
the rocks with slime; and on wall st.
the market staggers like a lost drunk
looking for his key; ah,
this will be a good one,by God:
it will take us back to the
sabre-teeth, the winged monkey
scrabbling in pits over bits
of helmet, instrument and glass;
a lightning crashes across
the window and in a million rooms
lovers lie entwined and lost
and sick as peace;
the sky still breaks red and orange for the
painters-and for the lovers,
flowers open as they always have
opened but covered with thin dust
of rocket fuel and mushrooms,
poison mushrooms; it's a bad time,
a dog-sick time-curtain
act 3, standing room only,
SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT again,
by god,by somebody and something,
by rockets and generals and
leaders, by poets , doctors, comedians,
by manufacturers of soup
and biscuits, Janus-faced hucksters
of their own indexerity;
I can now see now the coal-slick
contanminated fields, a snail or 2,
bile, obsidian, a fish or 3
in the shallows, an obloquy of our
source and our sight.....
has this happend before? is history
a circle that catches itself by the tail,
a dream, a nightmare,
a general's dream, a presidents dream,
a dictators dream...
can't we awaken?
or are the forces of life greater than we are?
can't we awaken? must we foever,
dear freinds, die in our sleep?
Socally Picter Aug 2012
Broken words fell from a shattered smile.
Eyes of ivory turn to fiery sunsets.
The blood was ashamed of him so it ran.
Dirt covered him, like a sad kind of armor.
He lay crumbled on the soil, in tears.
They hit him so he doesn't see the memories.
words cracking in his mouth, he screamed.
Sympathy fell down like rain hiding the sun.
Shame hammered the event into mythology.
With but one shoe, he lay bathed in the light.
Broken, he became me.
musings of a kook surfer
(kook: 1. Dork. 2. A new or inexperienced surfer. 3. Someone who says they surf but they can't.(waxboy)

Logic and Perspective  (a poem)

Quantum Imagination Rules.
What-Ifs equal What-Is
in this, a shared creation.

If         we are surrounded by what we can see,
            what we see is what we are;
Then   matter is perception of resistance,
            time is the persistence of opposites,
And    space is an Electric Universe;
            not lonely nuclear fires,
            but Twin Ribbons of infinite energy
            traveling through plasma that unites all.

The Earth
        a wonder of positive and negative,
        not solid,
        is the infinite slowed into harmony.
The Sun
        a focus of resistance,
        not burning out,
        Burns In.

No small coincidence that
equals means is
You Are and
You See so
I am and
                  
You are, you see, the I Am
...


No Chance for Chance  (a poem)

What is Serendipity?
Seen miraculous,
Some thing done there,
Something done.

What isn't Serendipity?
The unseen miraculous.
What miracles undone,
in time
in time,
as it never happened.

Everything?
Nothing?

It cannot be a good thing-
Fortunate for you is
lost fortune for who...
Self-fulfilling for Jungian prophecy
or prophecy fulfilled for Schrodinger's Cat.

It cannot be a bad thing-
In agreement
with yes...
Self-fulfilling for Jungian prophecy
or prophecy fulfilled for Schrodinger's Cat.

I think,
so I think I am caught between
a wave and a particle.

….

Between Worlds

Never turn your back on the ocean – the mantra of the surfer in my thoughts as I continuously scan the horizon.  There is just enough time to position for a wave; decide to paddle left or right or quickly further out to avoid the random pummel of a looming larger wave.  Between sets, the water gently bobs me floating half submerged.  Staring introspectively at the water, I am learning to interpret ribbons of upward-turning sparkles in the distance.

Dawn is an hour away; visibility is dim but gradually lifting.  Morning’s light is so flat and the water’s glassy surface so smooth that anticipating incoming waves becomes almost a matter of intuition.  The illusion of separateness from creation is breaking down.  The water is almost chilly, but still comforting. I forgo a rash-guard; the subsequent chest irritation from surfboard wax is a small exchange to feel immersed in the ocean.  The bay feels intimate yet expansive with only two other meditative surfers in the distance. Turtles swirl the water, heads straining up for a peek and a breath.  Sometimes they turn their shells so their fins feel the air; they keep three of us wanna-be-ocean-dwellers company.

Yesterday a southern Kona wind brings volcanic-smog from Kīlauea.   Vog is high in CO2 and fumes, giving sensitive people muddle-headedness, lethargy, and sore throat-  a reminder this is Pele's paradise.  This muting velvet feels almost smothering to the horizon.  Is it fog?  Yet a glance behind verifies the ***** of Mt. Haleakala is visible, from the shore to the cloud blanketing the world above the 10,000' peak.   Hale means "house" and the rest can mean either "of the sun", or "of a special raspberry-like flower". Either way the mountain was pulled from the ocean by Maui while he was roping the sun from the sky.  Usually, from this place in the sea, sunrise begins with a torch-like beacon of illuminated mist right over the peak, flaming brighter in the turquoise sky just as the sun coronas into a brilliant gold spotlight over the bay.  Yet this morning waiting for dawn, islands, water, and sky are all various shades of hushed mainland gray.

Half submerged and floating quietly, my back is to the mountain and I face the close but unusually shrouded island Kaho'olawe. It was callously blasted to a streaked surface of wind-blown dust by a military just for "training".  Recently reclaimed for pono, it represents the hope of nurturing a senselessly abused, irrevocably lost paradise. To my right is far-off Lana'i; to my left is Molokini, the sharp half rim of an ancient crater barely rising above the water's surface.

The world suddenly wakes, shedding gray. The sky's far reaching dome overhead intensifies, glowing in layers of rose, red, fuschia. The atmosphere I’m breathing becomes thickly permeated with color, as if one could breath lavendar-orange.

What planet am I on?

It feels so foreign, time stops.  The two other surfers are still as well, dwarfed by distance, and I am alone. Tiny in this red expanse, I become quietly centered.   I turn to see Haleakala where the sun is yet to rise, awed to distraction, forgetting incoming swells.  A bright sun smoked crimson is hidden behind the peak, shining horizontally through what I imagine to be some opening at the horizon.  Illuminated ridged undersides of the high clouds are streaked neon red to half the sky.  The atmosphere is hushed over the still water, the tangible copper light presses down, infuses everything.  It feels disarming yet comforting and surreal, floating surrendered to this other-world light; sky to water, horizon to vast horizon, the calm apocalypse the turtles and Kaho'olawe have been praying for.
Omnis Atrum Jan 2014
All of the senses I had before now
I was born into the world with.

From the first moment I was able to see,
the colors streamed in from every angle,
and the shapes that accompanied them
made my kaleidoscopic vision grant meaning
to the world that surrounded me.

When the first thing I heard
was my own wailing and moaning,
how beautiful the voices and songs were
as each note and each word and each sound
floated their way into my ears.

And when I felt my soft warm world
of skin and pillows and blankets,
I had no idea that everything I touched
until I learned to create new soft, warm worlds
would not be quite so warm, or quite so soft.

In those days before I could understand what 'no' meant
I did understand that everything that touched my tongue
had its own specific taste and flavor,
but somewhere along the line in my mind they all combined
into the two flavors of yes and no.

And in my first years I could smell so vividly
that the sometimes terrible scents that I encountered
were strong enough to make me weep,
but in time I was able to walk into different rooms
and keep myself safe behind walls of Febreze.

All of the senses I had before now
I was born into the world with.

But now I can sense the love in you.

I cannot see it with my eyes or hear it with my ears,
and I could not fathom explaining to someone
exactly what it is that your love tastes like on my tongue.
Your love leaves no scent to be remembered,
and though at times I hang on each sound you make,
I know that it is not the love in you producing them.

No pheromones that my body can sense could define it,
and my heart is lacking any sensory mechanism
that would lead me to believe that I pick up on it there.
My brain knows the love that dwells within you,
but I cannot feel it nearly as strongly when you are far away,
so I think my brain is only remembering what I have already sensed.

No sensing ***** that is a part of me
can sense the strength of the love that I feel
in your every glance and your every smile.
So this morning I woke up to the only logical conclusion:

You are the sensory ***** that I observe love through.
taylor kathleen Dec 2016
.   .   .
pumpkin spice and everything nice.
all the girls fall for your charm.
uggs click three times to go home.
a refreshing gulp of processed sugar
accompany a nicholas sparks novel
and future thunder thighs.
mugs full of wonder and spite.
380 calories to tighten those leggings.
smashing pumpkins for your pleasure,
extra large sweater please!
cream ****** dry from a tortured cow,
whipped senselessly to the brim.
our name scribbled onto your exterior,
pronunciation awfully wrong.
drip drop on the ruffle of your infinity scarf.
this grande drink will make you largo.
a pinch of nutmeg for satisfaction.
but first, let me take a selfie.
pumpkin spice and everything not so nice.
.   .   .
Andre Collier Sep 2012
One can easily become disillusioned in a world senselessly  
Filled with confusion and upheaval – evil at every corner,
and it appears as though good has become unsustainable  
Bleak as tomorrow’s tidings may, I stay on bended knees
Looking upward with unanswered questions - let wisdom
Rain down like libations, to quench thirst wrought off miles
upon life’s rugged road, and before the end has come I want
To have left behind a legacy of achievement, taking whatever
Motivation I can get to buildup up conviction, until cynicism
is converted into action - my spirit soaring like an eagle propels
My ambition to loftier heights thought unimagined – so I wait
Patiently for a windfall gain, made from choices to facilitate change  
For I’m indomitable, from a lineage of kings rising above the worlds
condition, like a sprightly star among the constellations…
Cedric McClester Jun 2016
By: Cedric McClester

I cling to the memory
Of our last time together
Though I can’t find the symmetry
In knowing that we’ll never
Share those precious moments
Like we did back then
Because all of that was stolen
When I lost you my friend

Orlando used to be known as
The happiest place on earth
Until forty-nine people were senselessly murdered
So how much is it worth

I cling to the memory
Because that’s all I have
And the jokes that you would tell
That always made me laugh
Tragedy does not begin
To even remotely describe
The empty feeling that I have
Because you’re not alive

Orlando used to be known as
The happiest place on earth
Until forty-nine people were senselessly murdered
So how much is it worth

Things can happen in a second
Ya see we never know
Here today is not to say
How long we have and so
Learn to cherish every moment
Because you never know

I cling to the memory
That in quiet times I review
I guess it’s elementary
How much I’m missin’ you
Hopefully I’ll recover
But it’s gonna take me time
To try to find a reason
For such a senseless crime

Orlando used to be known as
The happiest place on earth
Until forty-nine people were senselessly murdered
So how much is it worth


























Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016.  All rights reserved.
Joshua Haines Feb 2015
My darling,
upon the mountain's caress.
My ******-friendly mess
in a pineapple dress.
I couldn't love less
or less of you.

Young explorer,
drifting from world to world.
A huckleberry eye
that shifts from trembling duress,
with my hands onto her back.
Why can't life cut you any slack?
The chair is going out under
as the skies are mumbling thunder.
My violin underneath the sin,
sounding from within
"...I love you."

Broken water
bounce from cheek to chest.
Your breathing sounds the best.
With my words onto your lips,
and how the saliva drowns and drips.
I grip around your hips,
with the world releasing a boulder,
that drops upon your shoulder,
and I shake you senselessly,
why can't god set you free?
I can feel from you to me.

Blood, down, to ever and let go,
with your body in the snow.
My river-drowned girl,
engulfed by the swirl.
Love, oh no, from year to year.
Your words so everclear,
"I love you, too."

Silver-shiner,
moon-kissed and ever so,
your feet on the bathroom floor,
the kills from the handled snore.
What I wouldn't give to drink
from your fountain.
What I wouldn't give to die
on your mountain.
My darling, from colored-t.v.,
with a kiss and a motel fee,
I could know what the known couldn't,
with my fingertips where they shouldn't.
Turn down the volume and say
that you'll stay another day
or three.
daniela Feb 2016
i’ve planned out my whole funeral.
which probably makes it sound like i’m a lot more interested  
in dying than i actually am
but i just--
i think my problem is that i was never the type of person to plan ahead.
i never have imagined my college life,
or my future career, or how many kids i might i have.
i’m one of the only people i know
that has never tried to picture their own wedding.
my mom says that’s a good thing,
keeps me away from unhealthy expectations
but she’s my mom
and it’s like how your mom always tells you that you’re pretty
because what the **** kind of mother
doesn’t correct their kid’s self-loathing or at least try to?
my mom, she’s pretty used to me lying on my kitchen floor
in the throes of an existential crisis
because existential crisis is sort of my nom de plume
and before anything else,
i am afraid to be someone disappointed by my own dreams.
but i think because i never tried my hand at planning
i have no idea where i’m supposed to be in my future,
i have no idea what i want.

see the thing is,
i’m afraid i’ve never really fit in comfortably anywhere in,
i’m just really good at pretending i do.
if i wanted to swan dive into my psyche a little bit more,
i’d chalk it up to all my biracial bicultural biwhatever *******:
that feeling that i’m two things at the same time
and i don’t know where i fit.
in simple terms:
i’m too white for the latino kids
and not white enough for the white kids.
in complicated terms:
i’ve got close family about 4000 miles away
and i feel really ******* guilty for not loving them
as much as my family in the next state over,
and i resent them for not getting who i am
like my family 4000 miles away does.

i don’t think i know anyone who worries quite like i do.
see i’m not unhappy, really,
but maybe i’m the saddest happy person i know.
i try not to think about it too much,
but my brother tells me it’s because i think too much;
he’s one of those people who is frustratingly self-assured
even when he’s not.
i told him to play highway to hell at my funeral half as a joke
but mostly because i can’t even stand to imagine
the thought of outliving him.
we’re the weird kind of siblings who adore each other senselessly.
identical, two halves of a whole,
we are the same person a so many ways.
he’s the reason i exist in a completely unpoetic way --
he wanted a little sibling so much
that i joke that he begged me into existence.
he is the only person who’s ever laughed at the right parts of my jokes.
he tells me to stop worrying about tomorrow like he already has.
i think this is our key difference.

i like stories because i like escapism,
i think poetry is the only time i’m really… myself.
it is what it is and it isn’t what it isn’t,
and i loved harry potter because i wanted to be magic
and i loved star wars because i wanted to be a galaxy far, far away.
and i love how i met your mother
because everyone loves lily and marshall, right?
and everyone wants that, right?
to love someone that much,
to be so ******* sure about somebody
even when everything else is ****.
i’m just afraid that i’m never going to get that.
which is cliche but all cliches had to start somewhere
and i think people actually hate cliches
more because of the fact they’re so inescapable true
rather than the fact that they’re corny.
i’m mad at the TV for selling my a dream i’m not sure i get to have
and i’m mad at life for not imitating art well enough
and i’m mad at life for imitating art too well
and i’m ******* ****** at whoever told me that
i could be whatever i wanted when i grow up
because they were ******* lying.

so i tell you that at my funeral
i want everyone to get really ******* drunk.
and you tell me that jesus christ, daniela,
most people don’t spend their free time
thinking about their own funeral.

and it’s a matter of perspective, i guess.
some people never see the meteor coming
and some people can never tear their eyes away.
death is always walking towards me, the bus is always coming,
it’s just that sometimes it sort of speeds up
and everything else slows down.
so at my funeral, i want there to be an open bar
and i want to have someone collecting
other people’s stories about me at the door as admission.
i am not obsessed with my legacy,
just my end result.
i have never known where i’m going to end up
but i’ve always been willing to find out.

and at my funeral i want everyone to dance.
sloppy and uncoordinated.
i don’t want my funeral to be sad.
i can’t think of anything
less fitting.
trying to get back into the groove
Harmony Sapphire Apr 2015
My questions go unanswered.
My words ignored.
My presence overlooked.
Myself invisible to the eyes of others.

In a sty of stench.
In her own ***** she is drenched.
The reason I crossed two states borders.
Pack rat hoarder.
Without organization of order.

Out lived my heart hesitated.
My life dictated.
By a **** "mom" who dominates.
Controlling with my child as leverage.
She holds us hostage.
In her cobwebbed hellhole of dust.
Mold, ***** stench, mildew, & rust.
She is no one to ever trust.
I have alot to complain about & fuss.

Neglected, unprotected,& disrespected.
Taken for granted & unappreciated.
Unknown but senselessly hated.

For love or friendship I waited.
No one ever asked me to be dated.
My life I lived & created.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved
I sneak a peek through the bullet hole in my *****
      kitchen's window,
steel bars prevent escape.
I gaze upon piles of worthless junk thoughtlessly
     discarded on the asphalt lot below,
where children run and play.
Momma drinks to another day's sorrows, from a
     fingerprinted glass,
surrounded by the colored bottles from yesterday's
     celebration.
I quietly walk to the living room
where a suffering Jesus weeps silently upon the
     silver-flowered wallpapered wall,
I swear sometimess he speaks to me in a whisper,
telling me,
"Don't despair."
Arguing voices cursing the misfortunes of a drug deal
     gone bad.
Break! The silence outside my living room's door.
Dungeon gray....
Heavy as steel.....
Countless locks.....
A piercing scream echoes,
goes ignored,
then fades....
I sit alone upon our dusty brown couch,
as Momma rambles on senselessly in the other room,
an alcholics tune.
I stare once again to the suffering Jesus hanging hopelessly
     upon the wall,
as the night draws near and the light as dim as my
     dreams?
I whisper a tearful prayer for hope,
within this ghetto's
gloom.....
Tara Feb 2019
Oh no,
he did it again,
undressed another woman,
as she begged him no,
while her head spun to a different world,
she pushed him away,
her fingernails grasped at his skin,
she whispered,
“please…. stop,”
but he didn’t listen,
not a single soul would listen.

She’s all alone,
stripped of her dignity,
her spirit pushed down the drain,
as he entered inside her,
her heart beat faster,
but her body was numb,
she couldn’t feel her arms,
or her legs,
her fingers lost all touch,
and her voice screeched with pain,
she’d never cried so much yet felt so little,
as her body stopped,
and her soul tried to escape to a better place.

But truth is it doesn’t always happen in this way,
with a firm “No” and attempt to get away.

Sometimes he’s kind and sweet,
or powerful and famous,
he’s your teacher, mentor, or friend,
the love of your life,
or a one night stand,
and you uncomfortably say “No”,
“Maybe not now”,
“I don’t feel like it”,
“Maybe you should go”.

Yes,
sometimes we scream “Please No”,
but other times we drown under the waves in our ears telling us it will end soon,
or
we fall into the sound of our body begging for forgiveness for letting another human take a part of us away.

As he touches you,
and you pull away,
after the hundredth time you’re so weak,
so violated,
caving like a prisoner pushed to the edge,
laying numb and senselessly wishing for your last breath,
as your body is fumbled,
and your heart tumbles,
your honor and morality thrown to the floor,
stomped and spit on as your words become worthless to another person's soul.

Drugged or drunk,
sober or young,
you’re futile,
as your body becomes his,
and what once belonged to you is stripped,
and slathered in pain,
then thrown aside like a bad book and never looked at the same,
but his life doesn’t change,
and all the things you used to love become a reminder of what once was.

The feeling of his hands on your hips,
imprinted on your skin like a tattoo you can’t laser off,
a lifetime of what should’ve been,
but will never be.

“What can I become when his face is all I see when I think of;
love, lust, or even my own sanity?
Where does the healing begin when my body’s just become an empty limb?
What will my friends and family think?
What can I say when the world won’t even believe the rich who’ve paid the same price of insanity for the man who took their dignity?
It took him just a few minutes for me to feel this pain everyday,
So who’s going to believe me when I say by rap
ing me he took my life away?”
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
The distant cry
Of a black-bird
Echoes up high
But is not heard.

Somewhere beneath,
A rodent nests
In tar and grief
With young in-breast.

And, in valleys,
A crushing guilt
Poisons the land
To bleed and wilt;

Pestilence is
Upon them. Not
A plague: rather,
Humanity.
A poem about the environment.
#7 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Adam B Feb 2010
A desperate desperado shivering as the sun sets,
casts it's silky shadows upon the hollows below.
Beneath the cascading denizens of light,
a puff of smoke waltzes across the December sky,
a patient without his insurance with nothing left but
callous empty third-person reassurance,
"everything will be better" as she said.
But better is always easy when your hand isn't writing the letter.

Save your proverbs for an open ear,
this one is half deaf and full of itself,
despite your intent,
your lack of action perpetuates malcontent.
After all we're all just passing moments
gone and forgotten, evicted,
convicted of being a gutless mime,
going through the motions,
minus a true notion.

A confused calculator short circuiting under an oil leak
spitting out numbers, complicating already complicated complexities
subtracting numerals adding funerals
dividing families multiplying tragedies
It's just a numbers game, and we can't participate
we're just the studio audience, recorded live without any life.
Flashing signs tell us when to laugh and when to cry,
pre-determined automated messages contrived to convince.

And I'm stuck spinning in the corner,
with my hands on my head.
Senselessly blurting out: Why?!
But don't mind me, I'm just another lost soul
trapped with my head in the sky.
Nevermore May 2014
Reading about the paranormal,
The unknown,
Hearing of ghosts and spirits --
It hurts.

The otherworldly
Stirs up the painful memories
Of you.
I'd rather feel
Horror and fear
Anything else but this.

The demonic
The satanic
Can do little else to me
That you haven't already done.

Ghostly visitations,
Hauntings,
UFOs and their merry little abductions --
They all remind me of you
Still lurking my nights

When people trade stories
About aswang and demonic possession,
Cattle mutilations in the middle of nowhere,
I get chills
Thinking of you.

You are as inscrutable
As the Works of the Old Men
As the Nazca Lines
As the Coseck Circle.
Deciphering the Voynich Manuscript
Is nothing compared to the puzzle of you.

Listening to UVB-76
Max Headroom
The Bloop
Rebecca Black
Makes more sense than listening to you.

Unmask Jack the Ripper
Explain the Toynbee Tiles
Solve the Taman Shud Case
And I can solve you.

It's far less taxing, really
And more merciful on my limited cognitive faculties.


Bring me the Mongolian death worm
And Spring-heeled Jack
The Wandering Jew
The Dover Demon
And the Am Fear Liath Mòr
Before I decide
That sympathy and love
Are more that mere legends
Roaming the windswept wastes
Of your icy, shriveled heart,
Closer to reality than cryptozoology.

Abandoned cities and colonies
Only remind me of how abruptly and senselessly you left,
Leaving me a decrepit mystery of ruins

You believed in Atlantis
I said it was Plato's illustration --
His Republic,
Like Augustine's City of God.

Perhaps this was why our Atlantis
Sank to the ocean floor --
We were just good on paper.
Or maybe we started slaughtering
Noble half-breeds and changelings wholesale
Out of a misplaced sense of pride,

Or our union was unholy
And rankled the senses of the Sovereign
Who deemed it an offense
And thus condemned it,

Or perhaps this was an act of mercy
The equivalent of what Lovecraft said
The most merciful thing
Is the inability of the human mind
To correlate all the ******* he encounters
And has to deal with
On a daily ******* basis.


That the solid waves of mindfuck,
Pushing and heaving like tides,
Emanating from little ole you,
Would have finished off
Whatever was left of my mind.

You believed in ******* everything
But us.
Lost continents
Fox spirits
Psychometry
Were-boars
The ******* occult
No problem
All that which science cannot quantify nor qualify
You embraced
Yet you ran from me
And into the arms of another.

You claimed to be an empath
So tell me
How do I feel
After what you did to me?

You tell me.

And isn't empathy
Supposed to make people more compassionate?

The **** is this, then?

These stories
Of yetis and apparitions
Poltergeists and precognition
Used to intrigue and thrill me as a child.
When I grew up
I started ignoring them.
You put meaning back into the whole thing,
However insipid.

I was a skeptic.
You walked the line
Between the physical and supernatural
At least
If what you said is to be believed.

You were nothing but a specter,
Luring another hapless soul
Out into the barren wastelands
With a *** of stew,
Just beyond reach,
To its doom.

You're nothing but a ghost
Of an angry girl
Murdered by the cruelty
Of your parents and the church
And now I'm one of your victims.

Now as I start to see
Faint vistas of the supernatural,
They start to run
With memories of you
Until I can no longer
Distinguish one from the other.

So I'll ignore the glimpses
Of lurid phantasmagorias
And lock myself in
My world of letters and literature
Of armlocks and flying elbows
Of video games and liquor
I will pretend your world never existed.

Please, please keep out of mine.
*****.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2023
National mindsets self interested suffer
forms of dementia as the order all confessed,
demands of each a concentration of self worth,
you bet your soul, but only in the spirit,
step into the fray, say, let me lead you,
say let me take elected office,
democratic to the edges, being your voice
in a popularity contest, not an intellectual joust.
Tutelary deontology 101.
Governing is managing the labor. Ask the king.
Any flock in the system, governs itself.
Business is business.
Some arrangements are always secret. All
grown ups are in the business of war supplies.
Let your children's minds be at ease.
Trust the checks and balances history proves,
have never worked on balance, for the poor.
Get rich quick as one can imagine, on a bet.
War meets Peace, like it is the storm
that left Greenland, a legend until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whose 401K deflated to oops?

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

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

Greedy men with no agreement. Hmm, who loses?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part three, deeper, faster, harder… or not

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

look around, nothing interesting, eh?
Television as imagined by petrified apes,
during peak-info preservation history,
when men like Franklin and Voltaire,
met to share secret meanings of things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

blank slate, bubble pop, soft wow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

in
Thanks, I needed you to ready become... said the little blue man... whatsoever we agree... indeed. Let us see...
A devotion to the devil
A devotion to ****
A devotion to stay with the devil above the highest hill

A devotion not to keep on losing my mind, but still
A devotion to churn out ideas from evil brain-mill

A devotion to create a liking for those, whom you are afraid of
A devotion to create hatred for all those who are repaired of
All the evil deeds that you surely never heard of

A devotion to smile and save evil's downfall
A devotion to uplift sins above the reach of all
A devotion to divert people who senselessly follow the heaven's call
To a place which justifies liberation of evil from all

A devotion to make my place more than just the best
Where good sinks in the trough and evil shines above crest
A devotion to give the people the best of our fest
Just to make them plump before they go for a peaceful rest

A devotion to utilize evil from the devil
To help the people force the good to reveal
Their disadvantage against evil
licensed under Creative Commons Attribution, Non-Commercial, Share Alike.
Dave Gledhill Aug 2018
The eagle searches, circling, senses strum like spider silk.
Sorrow’s scent slides up on a sea breeze.
A solitary slave spits sullenly into the spray.
Silently, suddenly, the sentinel streaks down.

Beak breaks skin, breaches bone, crimson blots the ocean’s foam.
Defenceless, relentless, the bird blurs in a barrage of blood.
Banished, betrayed, the ravaged titan sways -  
between the rocks that form his cage.

His foe retreats; a closing caw as crooked claws cleave meat.
Head bowed in defeat, our hero strains as chains bind
hands and feet.
Enduring bonds cut deep and bleed him bittersweet.

Cast against the crags,
this castaway’s castigated cries call out
to no-one.
Chastised, he squints with hollow eyes
towards a lifetime of the bird’s reprise.
  
Furious. Fists flex,
thrashing against his fortress.
Face furrowed into a frown he flings forward
and for once finds his foot…
unfettered.  

Bindings broken, his bonds bite terra firma,  
as first a foot and then a hand finds favour.
Boundless, he bellows at the sky
as the flotsam of his freedom floats on by.

Reprieved. Aggrieved. He is restless in release.
An errant righteous line repeats.  
Relentless in its beat, it rings out like raw steel on teeth.
A ricochet that disturbs his sleep

“Is this victory, or defeat?”

Racked by reminiscence,
his reality and responsibility remain.
Warped roots rammed down
with rock-filled boots.
Resistance seems obtuse against such reoccuring fruit.

Reluctant, resigned, he rattles out a sigh -  
the last gasp of this transitory high.
Reaching for the rope and tack he re-binds the knots
that hold him back.  
With one last glance towards the past
he hoists his soul upon the mast.

Ceaselessly.
Senselessly.
The
sentinel
streaks
down.
Jack Rosette Apr 2011
I have ye to thank,
all ye actors and poets and marvels
(and DCs and everything in between)
for I have lived with ye, and amongst ye,
and ye have gently inspired genuine genius
in all ye holes in the wall
and all ye pens and strings and voices.

I thank you for the endless memories
of conversations of unnecessary furor and consuming hysteria
of brilliant surprises from elegant unknown talents
of tossed salad people and places and history and interaction
of a night lost in glowsticks but preserved in pictures
of a time my time in between periods of blank walls
of a blinding bolt forward in presence of mind.

For was it you
who told me about your grandfather
a man so brilliant that a mere conversation with the dean
at sixteen granted him admission to Columbia?
who told me of Canadian interlocutors
intimately engaged, only after your party had left?
who told me of amazing cliffside adventures
in education and nature's nomenclatures abound?
who discussed my heritage against that of a concrete world
of exploding dreams and collapsing stars at once,
where you take a bite but might get the proverbial worm?
or you, against that of a simple hicktown
where tractors run tandem with buicks in school lots?

Might it have been you
who watched with me psychedelic documentaries
and named canaries after variations of drug store medications?
who gallantly tolerated my most obnoxious outrageous disgusting
interesting unaffected out-of-their-mind friends?
who took me to absurd spots at absurd hours to breathe absurdity,
then churted we'd go, back the building we'd known?
who brought me in groups to feast on uncomfortable meats,
but between the awkward and networked gossip pipelines,
were enjoying the food and friends and flattery?
who drunk on dreams, droned on into darkness,
and dripped into ears of a man in his cave,
a man playfully perplexing you by pondering preposterous?

It must have been you
whose beautifully woven music reached my ears,
enveloped my being, seldom alone, and even when solo,
scattered brains with banter and brilliance combined...
who, with an open door and wide smile,
welcomed me to the mind's great opera house,
and gave audience to my own logical saga...
who in the weekend's weak end became crazy dazed amazings,
lazing in listless lack of activity, or senselessly celebrating
sins and kinship, all ways seeking erasure...
who gave me so many names against the grain,
jrosay or nerp or j or jackattack or just plain jack,
your classmate hallmate roommate or just plain friend...
who sat and sang and slew, dragons myths, moods,
and hit and clicked and ripped and spilt, toxins, guilt,
and hurt and failed and walked with me...


at least i hope it was you
you who paved platforms and bridges to raze amazing
and left vast caches of spectacular aptitude
or you who spread brilliance like plagues defined loosely,
grossly self-aware in great stares of embarrassed arrogance
and defeated demons crying freedom and bleeding love
you gave worlds great engravings, new meaning
to be me in new worlds new dreams new things
nooses spread shredded across mind fields
you lovingly led leaders over languid anguish
dangled carrotsticks and heritage bringing peace
you found you finding a place in space in winding time
under universal roofing aloof of stinking sewage
found a truth around music and beauty

shopping cart hearts that gather dust and poetry
blissful obituary tears splashing across my memory
loco rangers of brilliant oblivion armed with toothy news
slaying my molded upbringings refreshing genius

fair chance soul trade and daylong flatlines
double barreled shotgun roulette
blank charge buckshot
noisemakers both

that trigger
firing
you
?
I dedicated this poem to the people in my freshman year living-learning community at the University of Michigan. There are many references to specific moments from that academic year, but you certainly don't have to understand them to understand the poem's message. It is structured to mimic the progression of the academic year, and then beyond.
Swami You have
driven us all mad
with Your bewitching Love
we gather in confused circles
spinning senselessly like
gopi maidens without
Sri Krishna in their arms

Over the barren dust bowl hills
of Parthi the wind
sobs and red eyed rainclouds
weep Your Holy name
even rays of the
sun scan the earth for
a chance to fall once
again upon Your
tender Lotus Feet

Beloved Lord
roll away the
gravestone
from our hearts
the funereal shroud
that hides our
immortal truth
Lift the white veil
and gaze into
lovestruck eyes
eternally wedded
to You
mosquitoism Mar 2014
I am half dead.
Like the crushed leaves beneath my feet.
They are almost brown but absolutely not green.
All I do is flitting from one side to another
senselessly
until I disappear
completely.

My body is cold and white like yours.
Though, you don’t have a body now,
I don’t have anybody.
To love.
But I know a soul which will never die.

It musn’t be a surprise that God keeps you out of my reach.
I would take all of you.
In one go.
Sweetest suicide ever.
While you are flowing through my throat
to my stomach,
I will destroy my excretory system
to keep you inside of me
for more than a little while.

I do love you, I love you twice.

How can you be so real and unreal at the same time?
I hate to fake myself but
“I think I made you up inside my head.”




@mosquitoism
December/2011
glass can May 2013
"I don't know just where I'm going"

Arms encircled around porcelain, clean,
wavering strength, and eyes closing feebly

"when I'm rushing on my run, and I feel just like jesus son"

There are many more people than I want to see.
I pull up against the wall and, for balance, I lean

"and I guess that I just don't know, and I guess that I just don't know."

whiskey, for the Father
marijuana, for the Son
prescriptions, just for me

"I have made the big decision, I'm gonna try and nullify my life"

Still though, Lou Reed isn't dead, just clean
and so, this night, just won't bode well for me

"it shoots up the dropper's neck, when I'm closing in on death"

It is hard to remain dignified when in a wasted state, vomiting.

"You can't help me now guys, all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk"

It is hard to remain dignified when someone attacks my integrity.

"And you can all go take a walk"

It is hard to remain dignified when I am acting so senselessly.

"Oh, and I guess that I just don't know,
oh, and I guess that I just don't know "

I try to sleep through,
while foreign fingers swirl softly on my sides, to feel my *******.

"And that blood is in my head,
then thank God that I'm as good as dead"

I try to sleep through,
while a small ring lies atop of a postcard, with an Indian head.

"then thank your God that I'm not aware,
and thank God that I just don't care"

I guess, I just don't know.

"and I guess I just don't know
and I guess I just don't know."*

after the echo, I need to leave.
so I go, again, and press repeat.
Play the song, through.
Oh senselessly dim you are

Quite different from Spring
But vivacious all the same

Not what is to be expected
A happy surprise nonetheless

While daylight hours lacking
Wait for thy sun to fade

Smiling at tomorrow still
Just enjoy this small life

Alas she does not want to go
© 2008
Camille Smiles Sep 2012
you
When you walk into a room
Your essence glows light a light.
Your smell wipes out all the gloom,
And everything feels so right.

Your hugs are like a warm blanket,
And your love falls out like snowflakes.
Is this as close as we can get?
Oh, and when you speak, my earth shakes.

You have got the most caring heart,
And the best smile to prove it.
The world turns cold when our hands part.
Was there ever a more perfect fit?

There’s an adventure dancing in your eyes,
A wild man full of too much love.
In your eyes is where the truth lies,
The truth so pure like a white dove.

Your eyes portray the most intense event,
All the action scenes rolled into one.
With a strong love that can’t be bent
And all the burning desire of the sun.

Your hands are as sweet as candy.
Never presuming; always caring.
Your lips are quite a mystery,
But are, oh so, senselessly daring.

Your words always float in my mind,
A conscience to be my right guide,
Like Jiminy right by my side.
It’s to you alone I confide.

Conversation is such a key.
I could talk with you forever.
Oh, how content I would be.
Forget your lovely words? Never!

You’ll demolish all my pains,
My apothecary for all.
Part of you runs through my veins.
You help me stand firm and tall.

How can I get rid of you?
You alone have turned me upside down.
You have made me all brand new.
My inner self is who I have found.
I took a drink of cool, clean water,
That came from within a wishing well,
It tasted sweet and filled me deeper,
With precious life that came to me.

I wanted more, of this cool beverage,
So, took another drink, then took two,
It filled my body with such  robust flavor,
That on my journey I could now venture on.

When coming upon a run-down farmhouse,
Where wind blew whispfully in swaying trees,
I picked a pear from the nearest pear tree,
And held the fruit in hand so gracefully.

The pear was sweet, the juice ran rapidly,
Down on my chin, onto my denim shirt,
I felt the grit, the fruit soon was  tastefully,
Set fire to my tastebuds so endlessly.

I glanced upon the cornfields so lonely,
Standing tall and giant they reached for sky,
The greeness filled my mind with fancy,
Then, so I wandered to fields to further see.

Within the field, a lovely, young beauty,
Was pulling corn from the green, green stalks,
Her smile, a greeting, to me weary wanderer,
I took her hand and handled it so tenderly.

She said she spent her days in the cornfields,
I sensed she wanted to switch places with me,
To wander aimlessly, through nearby counties,
In search of self so then so senselessly.

But me, a mortal, mere man of mans' time,
Would what give readily to find all the day,
To stand silently within cornfields, green I see,
To shuck corn from the cornfields so handily.
Jazzelle Monae Apr 2014
Senselessly,
I've fallen
for some uncertainty
The cluelessness
I feel
is equated
with sedation;
and the seduction
in those
perfect
green
eyes
make me
yearn
to learn
your entire
physique;
your entire
mentality
To explore
depths
even you have
forgotten
© 2014 by Jazzelle Monae. All rights reserved.
13 May 2014
Seated high on the throne of infamy
His smarting embrace envelopes pure desire
From the water you drink to the air you breathe
From the riches of kings to the rags of beggars
Your freedom, your mind, your possessions, your obsessions
Craving greatness and gall, everything and all
Senselessly slaved to the poisoned yearning of his core
He is avarice absolute, he wants the world and more.
Posted on November 22, 2013
Ms Kelly Dec 2014
2
We senselessly search for:
Something
Senselessly hope for:
Something
To get us through.
The hunger,
for Something,
is never satisfied.
We die in the hopes that it will mean Something
Am I worth Something?
Can I be Something?
No one answers the calls
Treated as an after thought
I reside with Nothing
I listen, I know
You think I'm Nothing
You wish I was Nothing
Sadly,
I am Someone, Something
I will never be silenced
Maria Rose Aug 2012
Itching, itching
in unending irritation,
eyes puffy and leaking,
spilling salt
over molten cheeks -
bed-bound and awfully weak.

I cannot stand it;  
I am a shell, broken
my pieces are very light
and punctured - not watertight -
I let in a virus,
vicious, with the waves
I languish; only
a withered cord tying me
to life.

For in a few weepy blinks
I might die.

It comes to me as no surprise
this disease -
please, it speaks no lies,
it eats my brain
just like some blind child
that’s starved and so senselessly wild.

No memory, no hesitation,
this is me - alive,
afloat with those ****** bubbles,
those parasites
that gloat and bruise my concentration -
wreak hell upon my mind.

So see me, here,
flattened,
by the potion of alienation
I am pie-eyed, senseless;
a study for your contemplation.
Skaidrum Jun 2015
.
A story is brothers with a poem.
That's all this is, family.

~~~
Your soul couldn't get any bigger,
twilight crept over your toes, and
before you knew it---
it was gliding along your throat.

Cliffs aren't made of bones,
they rock and gleam like armor gnashing
twin dragon scales.  The earth growls and lashes, dominance is its domain.

Bellow my legs I view the darkness pleading~
I've never witnessed a starving sea,
it begged to swallow every inch of
my crippled heart of wine.

I'm hanging by the wires we call gallows,
tendrils thinning like my silver lining.
Soon I'll feel the tides swallowing at my spine.
When I fall,
I'll do so
bliss-
ful-
y

This cliff has lockjaw,
the stones morphing into fangs of a Greek legend.
You're staring at me,
Saturn now makes its home in your auburn depths.
How I'll miss the misty mountains,
because you named them
after me.

A whisper louder than thunder,
lonesome ashes staining venom on my tongue.  
Coughing up my regrets as if
I had lung cancer.

I'm a hanging nightmare.
That's ready to drown.

No wonder they call you daughter of old man winter, you're practically frozen in place.
I've seen the universe, but I think I'll swing by hell for a change.

"Ahkira....Ahkira look at me."
Why must your voice be so drippy?  I thought you were a frost flower.
Since when did you melt when it sleeted?

"Yes?"

"Don't let go....Don't let go please...I'm coming."

"It's no use.  I'm going to die,
Cinder."
Oh but darling,
you should've stayed glued to glass.

"Don't say that!  I-"
With a lurch the mottled sky pinned you down,
senselessly, you crashed to the floor, 6 feet away from my hourglass body.

"Give me your hand!"
You reached, but I couldn't hold the wire.
Slip-
ping
ne-
ver
felt
so
****
wick-
ed,

But I was wrong.
Your soul multiplied.
It expanded.

But before I fell into the hug of oblivion, I tugged at your heartstrings my very last time.
I brushed the surface of your being and my words stung perfectly in your ear.
"Close your eyes."
.
You never did.




This is about two girls, on a cliffside.  One is hanging from the cliffs edge, while the other is paralyzed from fear.  The girl is hanging is the one leading the poem.
As there is a massive storm around them making the area dangerous.
The girl who is trying to save the other finally runs forth, but wind knocks her off her feet.  Out of breath, she reaches for the other while crying and screaming.  But the other is slipping.
Then she falls.

"Close your eyes."
You don't want to see me struggle.

For Lycan.
© Copywrited
scar Jun 2015
You wear a symbol of your religion
And I wear one of mine

But what is yours?
A representation of the torture of your Saviour
Some saviour he was
He couldn’t even save himself.

And what is mine?
Mine is variform
The woman, the moon in all her phases:
Maiden, mother, crone;
Waxing, full, waning;
Gentle and innocent, beautiful and wise,
Severe and ancient, a luminescent She.

Or is it a five-pointed star
Whose meaning is so great, runs so deep
That each point represents something
Many things:
Earth, water, fire, air, spirit

The dark of night, the glint of a blade
The roar of a fire, or perhaps an ocean
The life that rises inside me as I sit
Patiently, for I need not wait
For some saviour to revisit the world
In the guise of a man.

My salvation, my life, my soul is all around me
All I need do is not kneel
Is not pray, is not confess through a grid
To a faceless, nameless monk
Not spell out empty sayings with beads
Or contemplate the haloed face of a woman
Whose head must always be covered
To show her modesty
Her purity
Her virginity.

My god can be a temptress, or a man in the midst
Of a waterfall of pleasure
A cascade of love
For in that there is no shame.

Or she can be a ******, giddy and naive,
Or the young boy who watches her closely,
Blushing when she passes
On the road
For in that there is no shame.

She can be a mother juggling children,
Or one of those children,
Or the light of a single candle flame
For in that there is no shame.

But what she cannot be
She cannot be repressed, or tamed, or halted
(though she can be gentle)
She cannot senselessly abandon those who need her
(though she can harm if she must)

She cannot stand by and do nothing
As innocents are pillaged
Nor can she throw a grubby blanket
Over the heartless slaughter of black and white lambs.

She cannot rip at the seams of despair
Tearing them further still
Proclaiming all the time that despair
Is the only way to the great virtues.
She cannot do that
She cannot be that.

She will not be the one who extinguishes the flame
For in that there is shame.
In that there is shame.
Rebecca Lawson Oct 2013
i’m not naive enough to compare myself to a rose,
whose soft petals and curves prevail beyond its thorns.

i’m not a flower.
i’m not sweetness,
or supple colors,
or life.

i am a mess of stems and spines, sharp angles and twisted roots,
and i will damage those who get close enough to touch.

i am senselessly cruel,
and sabotaging.
an aimless collection of failures and secrets,
****** towels and bruised knees.

i am four in the morning,
thrashing and screaming and weeping.
i am waking up still drunk,
i am an ache that never passes.

i am love, but not the wonderful kind.

i am selfish vices,
i am indulgence and self-denial.
and sometimes,
as the light of morning appears,
i can’t imagine what i’ve done
or where i’ve been.

— The End —