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C S Cizek Mar 2015
I painted the bedposts and bedside whiteboard
beside the baseboard, the outlet occupied
by a power cord, the bookshelf, both coffeemakers,
the power strip duct-taped to the brick wall,
the bush outside, the sidewalks, the brick,
the steel fences separating traffic
babble from pedestrian small talk,
then filled the wall in, gave the oak posts
enough depth to hold up four coats,
a backpack, and a shoe lace, swirled
in the condoms and coffee rings
inside the microwave, sketched a Sears
Apple-Jack-colored record player plugged
in, turning dusted Beatles records
like the cosmos, like the snow, squirrel-
hair, and leather-leaf bush outside.
I masked off the concrete, the asphalt,
and construction yard sidewalks,
penciling dead mosquitoes in the cracks
and $2.39 Rock Salt Slush along the edges.
I measured the fence, so each stake hit
the vanishing point like cigarette butts
in cement cereal bowls of cat litter.

But I ran out of paint before I could fill
the mouths of motorist **** yous,
the car barks chasing dogs
to the chain-link guard rail,
doorbells and mailbox flags
being flipped up, pay phones
clashing on metal receivers,
church bells, footsteps,
some guy breathing,
and a red-light button Wait.

Maybe it’s for the best.
nicholas ripley Apr 2010
To-day we have dividing of parts. Yesterday,
We had arguing. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after separating. But to-day,
To-day we have dividing of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens,
     And to-day we have dividing of parts.

This is the book I was given. And this
Is a present from Aunty, whose use you will see,
When you have departed. To be shared with a new partner
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
     Which in your case you have not got.

This is the video, which is way outdated
But will play memories. You can do it quite easy
If you only read the manual. You can watch
Our daughter on the beach with the waves. The pages
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
     Any sentimental reminiscence.

And this you can see is the album. The purpose of which
Was to record our joys, as you see. The pages
Have not been filled since the advent of digital: you call this
Shameful neglect. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
     They call this shameful neglect.

They call this shameful neglect: it is perfectly easy
If you only read the manual: like the albums
And the tapes, and the pictures, and the shame
Which in your case you have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
     For to-day we have dividing of parts.
with apologies to Henry Reed (C) N. Ripley (& H Reed) 2010
Dan Gray May 2013
I sit and look over the Basin of Minas
Still waters reflect as fine as an optical mirror
The Cape juts out as the prow of some ancient ship
Eternally pushing its way through the long, slow tides
Acting as a wall separating Fundy from the Valley
It stands silhouetted against dark clouds that may hold rain
A white blanket of fog wraps itself slowly over the Cape
Standing out as bright as clean, white cotton
Molding itself over the land
As a blanket molds itself over a reclining person
Emotions are relaxed by the sight
Calm enters the soul with this view
Eternal beauty for all to see
Overlooked by the many
A sense of belonging envelopes me
Just as the fog envelopes the Cape.

Dan Gray
We have the highest tides in the world here which brings fog as the Bay of Fundy is deep and cold and the summers here can be quite warm.  When you live someplace long enough some sites become normal and you don't see them, the site of a wall of fog rolling of the Cape after 24 years still is a beautiful sight to me.
Hallyally Mar 2017
There is a part of me
That will always look for you
In between lines of poetry books
Rapid Blinks of commas,,,,,,, and a beating'
   heart of apostrophes'
You will be my diaphragm expanding opening quotation marks"
Filling my lungs with all that you are. Questions? of us, exclamations! of desire, invaders slashing/ to break our sentences up.
So we are no longer one, just two seperate paragraphs


However, but, moreover
Itching to close together, unspoken words
Conjunctions bringing us further, but closer  and the odd semicolon; separating us once more  
Never the closing contracting final remark"
We have no full stop. no ending
We're simply waiting waiting for our next breath, an ellipses...... In motion
And so i stand here, looking out into the world, waiting for the next time you fill my lungs, oxygenated words of love carrying them selves into every blood vessel.
Just one more eternal breath
One more beating heart
One more exclamation of  allure!
And so i continue to look for you
In between every line of poetry and punctuation I see
Forever
and
always
Jack Jenkins Apr 2016
If you could only hear this howling desert wind,
Echoing of the four corners of this vexed heart,
Swirling about trying to latch onto your love,
But the wind has no fingers...

It continues to go, 'round and 'round,
Forming a dust devil and shredding the walls,
Cracking and separating the desperate foundation,
The blood trickles down my ribs,
And you never saw it.
Dante Rocío Jul 2020
Of beige gaze.
Premonition in the river cast passing.
Would those trees looming
uncertain by gravity
fall on us?
The effort tried in setting
oar’s agility,
so as not to
Hit the sides,
For my own persistence
And calm,
willed mistakes is.

As.
Calm.
Demeanour.
Wills.
In steel.
As bliss.

Bliss such of slipping
out of boat’s grasp
to that of illusionary time,
Out of speech’s hold,
Tenfold,
From how summer moulds.

Head out,
it,
I will
to lying in river’s sole
fine line of freeze,
Who holds dear the mute,
those who feign not appurtenance
of this world,
As the sail companion’s
left to thinking.

Though oars may hit the shore
Lungs in silver lining stay aboard.
Face backwards.
And the bottom separating
River and Boat
will pretend its existence
No more.

I walk
and my laudability
can’t be taken
Off.

As a current like I
Runs air-tight bubbles.

/And the sounding:
SHeeSH | CLing |LiNK |
SHeer | CRinge | PLinTH |.

FLOW, mOUld me SOre/
Kayak passing, speeding,
Forest reed, stream clicking
And a companion to give you a moment.
Silver’s sky that could reek of your lips so strong.
A most beloved cloak
My tanned shoulder will bear for.
Adam Childs Jun 2014
Standing on the edge of life
An edge to a great ocean
High up in the mountain
I stand crystal clear
But as cold as ice
My mind buried deep in stars
As a million winters collect
In my frozen belly
As I seek to thaw
My many icy layers
That separate me

Deep hidden strength sits in me
As ancient Mammoths
Preserved and buried
Frosted over , deep in ice
So let me wake these
Ancient beasts
Lying dormant
As I drive through
The torrid snow
The ice separating me
With these ancient beasts
I push against my
******* forces

Great stresses and forces
Conspire all around me
As they seek to
Twist and tangle me
But I am the King of escapology
As Houdini has nothing on me
As many forces locks and chains
Collapse around me
I just silently slip away
So I invite this world
To do its very worst
As there is not a box or barrel
That I can not escape

As I stand in my crispy coolness
I hear the silence
Of many hearts
As they all sing in chorus
REJOIN US , REJOIN US
As have I forgotten
The value of melting
As I stand tenderly waiting waiting
On the edge of life's richness
As I carry with me
All bravery of the most
Delicate crocus flower
As it keenly breaks
The winters snow
Waking the silent forest
It celebrates all that is new

Seeking now to live life
As freely as a fish
I am carried in the ocean
Almost weightless in this world
As I strip down my hidden parts
And loose all eye lashes
As I embrace this world
There is no need to hide
As I slip sleekly into
This vast ocean
Far away from buried self
The hermit in me
Seeking to almost loose myself
In the much buried love
Lying deeply in all hearts

My flower beds now released
From the deadly sleepy snow
I sew new wild pansies
Lets bring on the show
As all is embraced
By rejoining the  ocean
Now,we are on par
Why are you so dusty?
This table and the tiny desk before you,
Aren't they all separating us ever?
You are ever so empty
Doesn't the boy care for you?

Never are we on par
Lest we switch positions
Desk and table?That's all you see pampered?
We are of varying divisions
Look to the sky
Now back to earth
You see the clouds so high
The sky is indebt
Its filled already though
But holds greedily
Then will it let go
When it has to, angrily
The one you call man
What makes him so?
He sits on another human
Only boys do so
The one you call boy
He cares more than you know
You are just a man's toy
Too blind to know
I am ever so empty,
Yes,that i know
But just a little pity
And i too will glow
We run the relay
While you lie
You get the pay
We pay the price
I have discovered people find it hard to understand my poems so this is an attempt to help make comprehension easier.Its a conversation between two office chairs. The first one is that of the boss while the other belongs to the office clerk. Both the boss and the office clerk have just left the office temporarily during working hours and the content of the poem is the conversation that ensues. Please read, digest, comment and Like
Dustyn Smith Jun 2013
That crazy colored tribal pattern
That almost matches your purse
With the edges that are fraying
And the rubber that's separating

From the streets of downtown Oly
To the sandy shores of the beach
Down the Cherry Creek Trail
And Easton Town Center Mall

Soles worn down and coming out
White rubber now turned brown
Seams pulling out, fabric ripped
Stretched and worn to a perfect fit

CO to WA, OH to ON
All around and back again
Mountains, plains, oceans, and streets
They're always on my feet
A poem about my favorite pair of shoes that my mum often refers to as "you know, those hippie shoes"
We are born unto a crown of thorns.
Our tender skin rendered vulnerable
to self-made deities, rambling idols.
Our minds are roped and tied, binding
our thoughts with punishments.
Punishments disguised as pathways of love.

What love is brought into this world, when love is
taught by the bloodshed of others. What people
are created with love made from threats
of searing flesh? When did love become less
about acceptance and more about separating
those deemed worth and unworthy?

Gods of fear curse our world with tainted
versions of love. We are forced to our knees
before the power of an almighty being unknown
to mankind. In searching for purpose, we have forsaken
our freedom. We fall victim to the fears that numb our
brains liked "Grade A"  pharmaceuticals.

If your god is almighty, all loving, and all seeing,
why does he rule without mercy? Why does he
require full and complete submission as the only
pathway to him?

We go to war under the guise of bringing freedom.
Our politicians preach out from mountains our right
to freedom and free will. But when the votes are cast,
and the campaigns are run, we scuttle home to spread the
single most imprisoning ideological mindset to others.

Why fight for freedom,
when we give it away so willing
to a man behind smoke and mirrors?
The thoughts of a girl raised in a Catholic household, sent to Catholic school her whole life, with nothing but hypocritical beliefs forced down her throat by con artists in robes.
Marigold Jan 2012
Remember how we floated that night?
Minds pulling up their anchors,
And allowing free motion;
An escape from the docks that are our bodies.
The solid encasement of ourselves left alone for a while,
As the stars invited us in.

We were friends and clung to each other in our journey.
Distancing the impending reality.
Separating ourselves from the surrounding truths we’d never really believed.

We flew,
And we swam,
And we were.
Drifting in eternity.
Aware of those around us,
But happy for the moment in oursleves.

Do you remember how we were?
So content in our secret movement.
Releasing our beings,
Freely,
Gladly,
Relenting control.

That night when we floated.
And we were together.

Remember how we were happy.
Sean Dimech Oct 2012
they spoke to me and reassured
that the house was made of wooden doors
i couldn't look as the body lay
face down in blood with hands and feet on floor
but her voice echoed like a melody
running through the corridor just before he left
how could i resist such an offer
which only required my arms and wrists in cleft?
there was more to separating sins
than a focused mind chained to a steady hand
she was the witch in it all
yet i was the fool to have supplied her demand


her words ran through my mind like a metaphor
as i walked to pull the curtains and close the door
there were eyes beside, inside and below
still all i recognized was the familiar sounding blow
the splatter of relief, the push of regret
the drenching touch of guilt set to infinite
my body turned to face a shadowed form of deceit
dimpled cheeks and glowing satisfaction head to feet
i'd done her work and paid the price for naivety
within a minute she ran from there to beyond infinity
all that was left to see was a man down on his knees
contemplating a clenching self-inflicted please


but who could hear through a room with sound-proofed walls?
Who would recognize a plea for mercy through a set of wooden doors?
And who besides myself saw sin dripping through the floors?
Pain and payment saturate me
Beyond the better disbelief of this
Leave my body on the pavement

Pray this degradations done separating
Whispers heard through closed doors
Leave me in a blatant panic attack, panting

Your head on my chest, i think of us
Keeps me warm so wont you write soon?
all i asked of the guardian angels

She said you will be a much better author than I, I smiled and said
I know you will be fine
anna veronica May 2015
The time that passes by
With  flower’s  blossoming bright
Counting days along seconds
Separating   moment ‘s  from memories
Crazy scribbles become massive scripts
A  fun  joy  turns into a pained bliss
A summer with no ******
Like a power with no cover
Baby steps into staggered walk
Scrapped tears are now from pained fears
Sweet perfection seems like cruelty
A step improved unravels hidden dreams
Stuttering talks are now paragraphs
A lovely innocence on its way for a round about
As I sit and write with happy tears
Observing and recollecting all their wondrous layers
Distinguishing their past
Dreaming about their future
Just to see them bloom
To try take a leap at being free
I try hiding a grinning smile
Seeing   their  pleas with muffled cries
To tell them the story of two lovely boys
Who grew past their heart’s lair
you were a storm--
whirling and whistling and...
well, everything and anything
all at once

and I was caught unprepared.

though they feared your wrath
panicking and praying and...
perhaps, everything and anything
all at once

but I paid them no mind.

violently tearing that dotted line separating
making believe and messing up and
maybe, everything and anything
all at once

or what I thought I feared.

when the winds have faded
when the waters have evaporated
when the smoke clouds have cleared
all at once
I realize finally that

the calm and the quiet and the peace and
well, all of it
was what I truly feared
Amanda Kay Burke Jun 2024
For sake of argument let's pretend you're right
Smiled to prove that I'm doing alright
Wake
Freedom left idle too long
Seemed to be unsure of where it belonged
Who are you taking independence from my arms?
Fireflies caught in fictitious mason jars
To warm dreams on nights dark and cold
For the sake of principle I break the mold
I smile but know it isn't real
Last line drawn separating what I feel
Gaze still trained on love already gone
Saga discontinued from now forever on
Written 3-3-21
quinn collins Oct 2013
in math we learned about parallel lines,
always moving in sync,
always in the same direction,
but never crossing, never touching,
and i went home, crying,
cursing the universe for being so cruel,
the pure tragedy of the fact
rattling me to my bones
and into my soul.

but the next day,
we learned about perpendicular lines,
coming together and meeting in the middle,
but separating, parting ways,
never to see each other again,
and i sat there, silently fuming,
and asked my teacher
why things have to be like they are,
the one question she couldn’t answer.
the words
we whisper to each other
   of love  of comfort
   longing  and desire
cross separating oceans
with the speed of light

your voice so close
that I can  
   almost  
feel your body next to me
and catch myself
not to give in
to the temptation
of touching air

      * *
Christian Bixler May 2015
Silence

The barren hill


Silence

The rusting gate


Silence

The downcast eyes


Silence
And gentle melancholy


Hand in hand,

The Great Divide


Chasm

Falling down...


Abyss

Unspannable


Separating

The dark from the white


Mist from the light...


Jump...?
Brandon Cook Oct 2015
He feels he's fallen
into a pit of despair
he's lost and hauling
himself along
Does anyone care

What if he's forgotten
freezing and lost
looking for a silver lining
lost between thought s
nervous, confused, and ignored
trying to set aside how he feels

Destroying his thoughts
separating what's right from wrong
distinguishing between
if he is memorable or not
or even if he's good enough

What if no one remembers him
the poet with a dream
who's lost in between
deciding on what he wants to do
wants to see wants to know.

Wants her who speaks to him
letting him know
that she cares
wants that moment of peace
wants to know will it consume him

What if no one notices him
just lying there, lost
gone, completely non-existent
with anger so immense
so exhausting
so excruciating
so exhilarating

He can't do it anymore
so he looks for a way out
an opening
but all there is,

Entrapment!!!
Ryan Cenzon Feb 2013
The absence of you,

is the presence of fangs digging deep into my neck,

brutally separating my soul from my body.


You were once my candle,

helping me live in the darkness,

providing a faint glow of hope.


The absence of you,

Has created melancholy in my chest.

I wish the candle's flame had lingered for a while.
Ronald J Chapman Dec 2014
We relive our pain so many times,
Like the pain of a cold knife sticking into our hearts,
We are separating once again,
There are no excuses to give,

Our yesterday was too long,
We can not remain together,
Our tomorrow is too far away,

This pain can not bring us back to happiness,
You carry my dreams with you,

No matter how we say goodbye,
We relive our pain,

Our tomorrow is too far away.


© 2014 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2
Oct 2020
Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.


Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.

This is a poem of humans, regardless of our natural multi- flavored striations, that tend to over-define us, thus separating, instead of celebrating commonalities.

Like most things we enjoy, our five senses are the gateway to pleasure, even the pleasure of friendships. They act in concert, a symphonic interplay that reenforces and heightens so that in combination they create a whole greater than a single sense could provide singly.

This is on my mind this week, as I wrestle to understand the meaningful possibilities, the limits of friendship.

Poets form bonds without hearing each other’s voices.

Poets connect despite geographic distances that makes grasping each others sinewed arms, caressing the softness of hard cheekbones, without ever having been granted the unique, all encompassing satisfaction of embrace, hugging.

Poets sometimes can hear but not see each other’s words.

Poets sometimes can see/read each other’s words, but never hear them voiced aloud in the authors own, true voice.

Poets sometimes cannot smell or taste each other’s words, though it can take a poem to another, higher sensory level of coloration.

And yet, a bond so strong forms that defies the conventional limitations of the physical. Should we share such a bond, them you know it, no need to ask for confirmation.

Words, can be gifted, without teleportation, even when and if the bridge of a shared spoken language is not extant.

This is nothing short of miraculous.

Just like friendship.

All my wrestling to true comprehend this state, for naught, for the miracle of words is like the color of water. Universal, invisible, but so varied, that it too bridges and is shared by every ! human body regardless of any human shape, color, form of the billions conceivable.

But wrestle I do nonetheless, for the pleasure of this (non?)soluble problem that both creates queries & quenches simultaneously, so I break off this thinnest wafer to share with you, offering this notional:

All humans are poems.

All poems are human.

Solve this poem for human.

(And ignore the wet spots of my watery, clear tears staining this poem).
written Oct 2020. in conversation with SPT
The Widow Aug 2016
Cheaper. An easier pill to swallow
The damage being offset
Creating room
Doing its bit

Cheaper. The lesser the poorer.
Demoralising to a point
Breaking down its own bonds
on elemental scale
separating

Cheaper. Recording all poisonous options
in a first book
Selecting two or three at a time
to move across
maps lines on the floor.

Cheaper. Strategical
Money Saving Bed Hopping
Toast of Castle Fortuna
Saved by righteous Londinium
and forgetful of wild efforts
Only 90s Kids Will Remember Nostradamus Apprehension
yokomolotov Aug 2013
State Fair, Kentucky 2013

by Yoko Molotov and David Willams


It’s time for the State Fair,
today is the last day of summer.

love all the animals. pet all the animals.
cook all the animals. eat all the animals.

inflatable prizes on a stick, slowly deflating,
it’s the childhood's defeat-
they are lying lifeless in the backseat.

guess your
birthday,
weight or age
within 3 days,
20lbs, or 3 years.
junk on tables for looks at-
key rings, magnets and stickers.
Formal complaints.

white people.
Starving ducklings leap and fall
while snotty babies squeal at them.
Obama, I'm a friend of Mitch.
donate 3$ to the GOP.
I fed an estranged Grandpa
roasted pecans.

country people. concrete floors.
legs. legs long and legs glossed.
Thousands of people and two thousands of crocs.
pillars of ivory, blue and dimpled.
sunburn, wife beaters, and university shirts.
(THAT'S IT, I'M TELLING MEMAW, your shirts are beautiful)
beautiful lips
and toothless maws.

half-hearted, half-heated corn dogs and overpriced
beers, I can never finish an ice cream so
I usually leave the cone lying to be
sat in.
Dead bugs in a box and bug puke in my mouth.
A salad made from blue ribbon tobacco and light bulb tomatoes.
everything smells like popcorn, **** and tradition.

Joseph's Dreamcoat worn in some nobody's county.
you're my favorite gingerbread girl.
lover's quarrels are illegal, thanks.
everyone has the right to be miserable, thanks.

bovine pet request,
dumb static and docile eyes, do they ever change?
does any of it really change?
at some point all the cows petted will be digested and shat out.

congested aisles, shoving and trampling,
the mobilized morbidly obese in carts
WWJD?
a fat stone in a brainless trout stream.
the failing pan salesman hawking his wares,
no one in attendance, wearing a headset (a real go-getter)
and holding his pan like a flag.

the really poor families come to the fair
because it's cheap entertainment,
and it's cheap tradition.
and these struggling families
trudge proudly in faded Kmart attire-
an exhibition the pretentious call
"people watching".

separating oneself from the herd of undesirables,
a pasty man
with his head awkwardly on a pillow,
trying to convince an apathetic and bloated crowd
the perfection of his product,
his head a bit like road ****.
he's selling but the
crowd walks on-on-on.


Was there more guano under the bridge or beyond the gates?
The Black Beast Mar 2013
As I sit here in a room full of students
I watch and observe all the conversations they make
Some are working, and some are chatting nicely
Some in general gossip and others about loves mistake

I can distinguish the difference between each conversation
I can hear the voices separating the football from the flirt
But yet, it all seems to be one big mix of noise
That reminds me of some type of global dirt

These voices and conversations gather around my head and ears
The silent whizzing of noise has hold of my mind
Instead of shouting “stop”, and joining their noise
I slowly put on my headphones, just to be kind

As I mask the sound of gossip, love and sport
I focus more on the noises which I have chosen to be played
The clashing of drums, the tinkering piano and flute
With un-matching vocal of how enemies should be slayed

As I listen to this song, I focus on the room around me
Everyone that was here before was still here
The gossiping groups were still laughing and joking
And the heart-struck teen still shedding a tear

The difference in this was that it seemed silent as space
As if they had all taken part in an unrehearsed mime
Uncontrolled, unordered, so random, yet so distinctly real
Hidden behind my music for this moment in time

As the song slowly came to an end and switched onto the next
That 2 seconds that accompanied my timeless zone
I heard the blur of their previous chatter and talk
The world had continued, and I’d been left alone

I’d been taken from the world I knew for a brief moment
And as I felt like this new silent world wasn’t true
My next song of chattering metals and drumrolls started
This world had returned to me and it was new.

I didn’t know how to react to this realisation
Of a different dimension that my music sends.
How long until I’d figure out where I am?

I guess I’ll have to wait until this song ends.
Lux
Those who were marginalized by the braids and serpentine lights, devotions were made in Saint John allowing electromagnetic discharges from the imperceptible space-time of Vernarth's parapsychological quantum; alluding to clarities that achieved everything by having Patmia in the material and incorporeal from the start of the stained glass windows and archetypes by Transfer Quantum that burned the chins of hominids who believed to be immortal as if they were looking in this position for the direction between the eyebrows and the chin , for the Euclidean incidence crossing all the pools that are between quantum means of transfer of ions and cations. The oscillations of the sparkling field of consciousness of the containers were of ethical variables that became perpendicular to the space of draft or levitation of the designations that originated with accelerated electric charges on Patmos, developing albiceleste skylights over the harmonic equations as they elongated in proportions of quanta that They argued greater than those that circulated elliptically from Grikos to Skalá, and then to Profitis with assiduous progenitors of long-wave quanta. The magnificence of the halo became rectilinear up to the high altar that was atomized from the unskillful penumbra to reabsorb the inclinations of physical life in the Macedonians and the Achaemenides when they were trapped by the loss on the propagation of the Lux, which was imposed in hemicycles where they were they reclined to relax in the lux of rest of the path of the reasoning that made pederasty in the links with the minuscule obtuse lights, reeling from the clothing and its finite speed of what measures the ability to be undetermined in the margins of error of the antagonists when originating flow rates, greater in his dermis to regenerate towards any other that could be clothing of greater speed.

Thus was the scenario of dimensional magnitude between the powers that did not have contact, but their dimensionless energies on a surface that reached absorbent to the one that rectifies the concretive of the error that partially abused them. Their legacies would pass to a supplementary electromagnetic plane, separating their masses and retaking orientation from where they returned, where if the ideal of the final rational was refracted where everything would be vivid darkness. The obstacles classified them in the closure of the average height and the average surface, to then redirect to the maximum height and maximum surface propagating in irregularities of the Ego "Believing that they were never overcome in the diffuse perception of the metal mirror." The incident rays of the Lux would go to meet the multi-incident plane of the Mashiach, the wave angles were refracted throughout the sinuous law as radiosity passed over the greater mass that was normalized from the tangent that was projected 180 meters above the eyebrow. and Vernarth's chin, along with the recharged electromagnetic strengths of Alexander the Great's reactivation bezels, which at times seemed to levitate over the Lux's high frequencies and vary independently with its crowded functionalities, among scattered restraints that it presented to both weightless behind. from the decayed marble sawdust, separating from its phosphorescence that bounced between the rigging of solid surfaces and semi-solid ones, when realizing that the sea and the silica were confessed to the Pronoia of Delphi. Inducing Vernarth for the first time into a Pronoia versology on the Athena of Delphi, prompting them to separate from the world and it's holistic to divide into three portions of the dissociation of consciousness from the end of the Lux of Parapsychology, which had hosted them for centuries and centuries. . The Pronoia conspiracy systematized the reaction that would reunite them after this oracular parapsychology, making the adversaries believe that they were discrepancies of clinical parapsychology, equating warlike causes in the containment of Delphic neuroscience. From this quantification, the predominance of Vernarth's Lux de Pronoia was announced, linking peculiar segmentation of submit logical historicity in this work as a starting thesis, which speculates the same for those who have to make an analysis of historical dogmatic imperialism as a justification for mythological normality. The Lux thesis aimed to show that the dimensions of the mythology and the submitology, when exposed in physical quanta, made a tendency of irresolution in the abode of spiritual Tractatus reasoning and not in the instinctual one, which watches over recitals where history and its collective memory indicate outbursts of moderation. The role of the submithology  is to pretend that this normality is made close to the instruction after yours temporary for causes of your deep patrimonial, that makes them captives from the social complexity, with the disambiguation of certain criteria by maximizing the hidden truth of the ascending opposition forces that they have generated great conflagrations, intuition being the unreflective pseudo-reality with historical formalities that stumble into the terrified directionality of the myth that was to be reality. The tiny spaces of the verve left by the silent mechanics of the Persians became defensive when they saw their emissaries incoherently in the verticality of Allah when they saw that the confusing world with anxiety exaggerated predictions and failures invulnerability of a lineage that always had. been condemned to the desert.

Everything conspired with a Pronoia of siege, before the exegesis that sought purification and that was how they headed and misdirected their mistakes in the active train of the recess of their abstracted retreat, in a universe that also abandoned them after the subsequent train of Aurion waking them in their illusions with swords, and stealthy spears in dreams that specified safe rest. The ferocities of the proto-souls of assault carried away the translucent bodies of the Persians, and the Hellenes in acts of honor made such congenital paths of the understandable vocabulary that he did not speak. The prism was located in the cautious measure of its contractile dispersion with white separations of mantles, earth, and water scalded by dynamics that formed colorful activations with their withdrawal phenomena in the immaculate albino Lux that dissolved all of the facet optics that it made. Lux's great brain in the instant that the Thuellai airs transfigured the nuances of the Atros monastery, with objects that refused to be absorbed by the black hue, generating mechanical waves of equivalence in their identical interference that caused two opposing forces to distill the coherent differential that had to be overexposed in the category of historical Submitology. The two inverted waves separated, the Hellenes moaned and hiccupped for having to become identical when separating from their immaterial bodies, doing wonders that would house additional souls that would complement a transitory becoming towards the garden of the angels that provided them with identical beams of light, interfering in what animated the lights of pageantry, with the antithesis of interference where they resided in constancy knowing that they felt possessed of benefits of the eternal length of existence, but with pressures of mutable in some involuntary constancy and amplitude of having parallel directions with Saint John the Apostle and the Siblis. The phenomenon of polarization of both empires was denatured in a transverse way in all the electric fields after this feat, inciting unique fields of the pure and selective ascending ecosystem, which generated polaroid substances at the angle of ninety degrees above the browbones and chin of Vernarth, to approach the Pronoia of concatenation with Alexander the Great refracting unscathed hyper-vital and transcendent faces of infinity. Like any other phenomenon, the Lux crossed both bodies like two Xiphos swords that processed the electromagnetic valve, by iridium that converted with all the coarse Lux that crossed the succumbed immateriality and stopped the shaft and the nail that hang in the typology of electromagnetic radiation from the Hellenic world between them, making an ominous redemptive fire that was regimented to leave them both in the middle of a farm where there were farmyard animals, stockpiled pastures and a house that absorbed them as parents who would love them as beings of Lux. Thus, this primary parapsychological quantum network penetrated the level of the archangels that made them be together in planes of manumission, and that does not admit bi-quantum personality or bi-parapsychology that can cancel out the portent of the helmets and the lineage that does not dazzle if they are not made of iron.

The life of the other world began to be encompassed in all the Subtraigus beings that would correspond to the astral plane that was confirmed after the Kalidona Romantics deduced the Unicorn Uilef or Uilef Monókeros after Pronoia. Kalidona being an uninhabited island and the Uilef sleeps in between copulating with Spinalonga and Kolokythas along with other smaller islets, plus two hundred that will make up six islands of the twenty-six tetragram of Alef. Here Drestnia went with her consort of Etréstles from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi to find fateful encounters of Pantheism based on the majestic copulation of beauty, among twenty-six numbers that prevailed in virtuosos who took refuge in Kalydon or Kalidona, preparing for their rampage with grafted grotesque derived bodies of the Falangist Hellenes who were arranged of their musculature, so that they directed the finesse of the civility of Hesiod, Terpando, Archiloco, Baquílides, tragic like Etréstles, Aeschylus Sophocles, Euripides and comedian like Aristophanes.
Lux
In times of great boredom or great stress
I take a break from my surroundings and find you
My happy place
Always counting down how many more days (27) have to pass
Before I can cuddle with you and PJ.
Counting how many days have passed since I was able to hold you last (23).
Ten days short of two months separating us
although we're only separated by 78.8 miles.
So I daydream
Always recreating what our reunion will be like
They can't take me from my happy place
It's what's getting me through
Helping me wait for you.
It's worth it when we're saying good-bye on FaceTime and we both hold up half a heart. It's worth it when I find ease by looking at all the screenshots I have, especially the one of him and PJ. It's worth it because I'm slowly falling for his mind and spirit waiting til I can have his body for the first time. So I just day dream just to remember what I'm waiting for.
cr Jul 2015
ink scratches appear on skin in the
morning as the sunrise falls
into the streets. cars are
screeching and
smoking is rising and
screams are echoing off of the graffitied brick walls -

there's a woman dancing
on the ledge and
she nearly
trips, nearly
dies, nearly
cries out, but her hand grasps
the gate holding her
to the concrete cracked beneath her
feet. sirens are blaring and people are yelling till their lungs
burst and she is laughing because she -

the lines separating happiness and paranoia are faded
when the brain chemistry of a human being
is constructed of hopelessness and oh god why'd he leave me
and the kisses from people who
slowly ruin our bodies, our hearts, ourselves, and -
and -
and -
there is no such thing as black or white; merely grey,
and paintings have no colour when
chemicals in our brains are exploding
chemicals in our brains are spasming
chemicals in our brains are murdering us.

and the woman laughs as she
dances off the edge, the blood
orange sunrise bleeding into
the highways as
black
and
white
and
grey.

everything grey.
inspired by la dispute.
i Mar 2014
pm
12.00pm--
now she was floating
in thin air.
she couldn‘t see herself
because she was not
even there.

13.00pm--
she barely heard
the police siren in the
far distance.
she could feel her ghost
slowly separating from
her bleeding body.

14.00pm--
all she felt were hands,
number of hands touching her,
all over her body, examining
her like she was a science project.
she didn't like it.
but soon she was going to be with
him, and that's what calmed her.

15.00pm--
finally, she was finally gone.
she didn't exist anymore.
all she was now,
was a spirit, while
her lifeless body was in
an old coffin.

16.00pm--
before she went and saw him,
she wanted to know how her
mom was holding up.
she certainly didn't expect this,
her only daughter to be dead.
nobody did.

17.00pm--
she saw him.
just a glimpse of him,
but still.
he was here, with her.
finally, they were together,
where they truly belonged.

18.00pm--
she was now in london.
she left the rainy and dull
germany and went here.
she was just a ghost,
she could go anywhere
she wanted.
after a long tine, she was
happy,
whatever that meant, now.

19.00pm--
she hasn't seen him.
she was exploring the world,
but she could sense something
was missing.
it was him.
and she would do anything
in her power to find him.
after all, she killed herself for him.

20.00pm--
he still wasn't found.
she didn't even know where she was,
heaven or hell?
it didn't feel like any of those.

21.00pm--
she was torn.
this wasn't heaven.
nor it was hell either.
it felt like something,
bittersweet.

22.00pm--
she went by her house.
she shouldn't have.
she saw her mom,
crying her eyes out on the
dinning room table.
she felt quilty, for once.
and she kept watching as
her mom screamed and cursed
at the world for her daughter‘s death.

23.00pm--
it wasn't in her nature,
but she gave up.
she shouldn't have,
but she was worn out.
her death, her dying,
was a mistake.
but she realized it a little too late,
and now it was impossible to
turn back time.
Katy Nicole Dec 2013
To the boy who wants to travel the world.

I remember being younger and spinning my globe around with my fingertips touching the equator. I remember thinking that I wanted to go everywhere. I wanted to step on every patch of land, swim in every drop of ocean, and look up at every single cloud in the sky. But then I got older, and I realized how harsh and cynical this world could be. I got older and wondered if I would never even step foot out of my hometown in fear of what else was out there.

To the boy who wants to travel the world.

I hope it's beautiful. I hope that it gives you chills in your spine and provides new breath in your lungs. I hope you get knocked down--hard. But I hope you have the courage to get right back up and keep moving on. I hope you find a new perspective looking at life through the under glass of a broken bottle. I hope you meet people who touch your life in tender ways, because I know you'll touch everyone else's.

To the boy who wants to travel the world.

There's going to be downsides to every situation, no matter where you are. There will be consequences from roaming in any area. But I will tell you this. If traveling was easy, every human being would do it. There will be days that you'll just want to hide under the covers, but I know that you'll keep pushing on.

To the boy who wants to travel the world.

You are beautiful. You are beautiful and don't you ever forget that. No matter what side of the world you're on, no matter how many miles or mere inches are separating us, none of that matters. But what does matter is that I love you. And I want you to be happy. So travel the world until your heart is content, and I truly do hope that you find what you're looking for.

(Even if you're just looking for yourself.)

— The End —