"severity" poems
crooked steps
just a seconds glimpse behind
perfect trail before me, each step a gift
Then in the distance I caught sight
of something
I saw you kiss the lips of the sinking Sun
locked embrace
and O' how completely I struggled
that entire night
and O' how the next and the next
and then the next I tasted
betrayal O' how vivid I
I relived the scene in visions,
questioning my eyes,
wondering your motives
I focused, I tried more and more
O' I dug deep, i closed the miles,,
then much closer I witnessed
then, you whispering to the sky
then you reached up your hands
upon the full moon's face
Pulling her down from heaven,
to your promises as you smiled
to deny us, O' I obsessed
You....
Kissing the sun, Promising the moon,
As I watched O' I glared
O' as did I wilt
I withdraw to obscurity
Beneath cover of your growing shadow
a silouhette to follow
making chase of the impossible
I can't give up
all i do is follow,
and look , and press on ,
just to get close enough
To tell you
You are still my sun,
Though you have another
and you are my setting moon,
my unobtainable,...
and my reasoning for every step,
every mile...
Now besought by the breadth
The severity of those betrayals
I hope you knew,
i followed and still do
coming to apprehend
my little tease,
my treasure, my liar
I give chase,
to how completely
how very far I would go
just to prove once and for all
I love you.
I shall, one day...
If and when the stars let me
they decide...
Even they see plainly my envy
As I have no mask
One motive,
Several unknown labels.
I contrast the brilliant
Silk strewn beauty once mine
Falling once, am I choosing
Leg by foot, by will and love
Outshine the sun and by this
Luna will turn it's attention
Perhaps this test of time
Practiced, lonesome patience
May one day return the gaze
Embrace in arms my desire
The only one I want and follow
My world.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
she liked the color yellow because it calmed her
its brightness soothed her soul
and the sight of a yellow flower
always brought her joy
it illuminated her dark days
and stormy weather
it always seemed to try so hard
to be happy
A quality she could relate to
but one day, she met a boy who liked orange
a color she always said she hated
its hue too close to yellow
but too different to be enjoyed
she never wore the color orange
felt as if it drew attention to her
when she was content enough
to be invisible
in the corner of the room
her favorite color was yellow
and his was orange
but she never liked that color
with its harshness and severity
it reminded her
of traffic cones
and reflector vests
of emergencies
and warning signs
But one day, she realized
he reminded her of the color yellow
he soothed her soul
illuminated her dark days
and calmed her storms
he never seemed to try too hard
but always managed to make her smile
she realized yellow and orange
weren't that different after all
and when the two hues came together
her, perpetually the color yellow
him, forever orange
she felt like the only girl in the room
the colors yellow and orange
started to bleed together
and orange came to remind her
of fallen leaves
and clear sunsets
of butterflies
and sprinkled zest
and in time
as she grew to love him
the color orange started to become
just as beautiful as yellow
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
He is a link between this and the coming world.
He is
A pure spring from which all thirsty souls may drink.
He is a tree watered by the River of Beauty, bearing
Fruit which the hungry heart craves;
He is a nightingale, soothing the depressed
Spirit with his beautiful melodies;
He is a white cloud appearing over the horizon,
Ascending and growing until it fills the face of the sky.
Then it falls on the flows in the field of Life,
Opening their petals to admit the light.
He is an angel, send by the goddess to
Preach the Deity's gospel;
He is a brilliant lamp, unconquered by darkness
And inextinguishable by the wind. It is filled with
Oil by Istar of Love, and lighted by Apollon of Music.
He is a solitary figure, robed in simplicity and
Kindness; He sits upon the lap of Nature to draw his
Inspiration, and stays up in the silence of the night,
Awaiting the descending of the spirit.
He is a sower who sows the seeds of his heart in the
Prairies of affection, and humanity reaps the
Harvest for her nourishment.
This is the poet -- whom the people ignore in this life,
And who is recognized only when he bids the earthly
World farewell and returns to his arbor in heaven.
This is the poet -- who asks naught of
Humanity but a smile.
This is the poet -- whose spirit ascends and
Fills the firmament with beautiful sayings;
Yet the people deny themselves his radiance.
Until when shall the people remain asleep?
Until when shall they continue to glorify those
Who attain greatness by moments of advantage?
How long shall they ignore those who enable
Them to see the beauty of their spirit,
Symbol of peace and love?
Until when shall human beings honor the dead
And forget the living, who spend their lives
Encircled in misery, and who consume themselves
Like burning candles to illuminate the way
For the ignorant and lead them into the path of light?
Poet, you are the life of this life, and you have
Triumphed over the ages of despite their severity.
Poet, you will one day rule the hearts, and
Therefore, your kingdom has no ending.
Poet, examine your crown of thorns; you will
Find concealed in it a budding wreath of laurel.
8.9k
Like a male monkey you rises up
And thumps hard your chest-it is you and you only!
O Man! You forgets, who you are and what you are is Nature’s
She generously gives and she avariciously takes-
Just a few chances she is giving you to repent before she ruthlessly returns
She is a sharp, doubled edged sword-merciful and merciless!
Man, Humanity is not hostility: Humanity is humility!
Like Sheol that is never satisfied you want to swallow the whole world
Like death you want to take everything, big-small-you want to stomach all
Everything you want to keep to yourself, to be to your entitlements
You take and leave nothing at all for the harmless hopeless-the voiceless
Yet you easily forgets, when the angel of death calls it’s only you and your soul in burials
Your ill amassed pride, wealth and health is not with you anywhere in this your brutal trials
Man, Humanity is not gullibility: Humanity is generosity!
O man! O man! You fills the whole world with mortality
You have killed the sole essence of the soul’s endless immortality
With your undignified dishonesty, your free-will to filthy immorality
War you begins wealthy to get-war is a supernormal profiting business
Man, Humanity souls has never been subjects to severity but sanctity!
Innocent-as little as little children-you murders-they were inevitable!
Common civilians’ deaths are collateral damages-inescapable!
You forgets who you are-you are a little loaned, little you returns for judgment
Here no allies to look after your backs, no cracks to corruption kickbacks-
It is the fairest of all hearings, a ***** for a ***** it is not for a big spoon!
Man, Humanity is not ignobility: Humanity is dignity!
What you are given to govern you governs not
What you are given to take care of you pilfers all
For you and your lineages eternal legacies-the richest ever to have graced the earth!
Yet you forgets, Master a little while returns to put you to a rigorous account
And whoever much is given-that much is also expected, what will be your report?
Man, Humanity is not royalty: Humanity is loyalty!
Humanity is a community, not a sorority of individuality!
Humanity is not infidelity: Humanity is honesty
Humanity is not how wealthy: Humanity is how a loyal legacy
Humanity is not how large is your multinationals entity:
Humanity is how huge is your small heart-its hospitality
Humanity is a humble history, a saintly story!
© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:23 AM UTC
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,
I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!
Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,
I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!
For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,
Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!
Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,
A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!
Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,
Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,
Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!
Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;
I finagle in my filigree!
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
How does one deduce bravery?
By the weight of the task
or the severity of the situation?
No.
One succeeds in such a scenario by
their sheer sense of confidence
in their own actions.
Know
and you shall succeed.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 4:12 PM UTC
I never put away all of these socks,
there's just something so final about putting away
all the socks. When I close the drawer after putting away
the clothes, its like saying "remain here for awhile,
for I do not plan to wear you again for some time".
But putting away all of the socks
is like saying "stay here,
I'm not going anywhere". What if
something pops up though?
It gets cold, a friend calls
with exciting plans and I must say,
"No sorry, I just put away all of my socks"
Whats the point in putting them all away if I just
go right back and take some out? Might as well
leave a pair or two by the shoes, at the ready.
Plus whenever I put away all the socks
I find the stragglers, the lone socks, the swiss socks,
the worn out ones and then I have to make difficult
decisions. Weighing the severity of the tears against
how uncomfortable they'll be. Designating indoor only
socks and how many more wears a sock can receive before,
garbage. And every time I put on a sock like this I shed a tear
because socks don't receive burials. Socks are easily replaced.
It's just not worth the trouble to put away all these socks.
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 2:39 PM UTC
when i was a little girl -
i believed my daddy was the smartest man in the world.
he knew everything. everything.
if i had a question, daddy had an answer, and a good one.
always.
his degree was in biology,
but he preached from a pulpit every sunday.
his friends, colleagues, congregation, all knew him as Pastor Brett.
to me he was just daddy -
and he was the smartest man in the world.
on days when i couldn't understand my own head,
(which were, and still are, very often)
and got frustrated with myself to the point of tears,
he would kiss my cheeks and promise me i wasn't stupid.
and coming from him, the smartest man i knew, that meant the world.
as years passed and i grew, my naivety remained with me,
and so i thought i was too smart to fall into life's traps.
i fell. i fell fast. i fell hard. i fell often. and i shattered.
each time, the smartest man in the world picked up my pieces
and reassured me i was still welcome in his home.
he never loved me any less, much to my bewilderment.
however, as my faults increased in frequency and severity,
he picked up my pieces now with weathered hands and weary eyes.
his smile was weaker, and a deep pain stirred in the chocolate irises behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
my deception morphed into vines that constricted and twisted and choked out the truth.
he poured out his love onto an underserving me, and said that God would still forgive.
but i, daughter of the smartest man in the world, am a fool.
and by my own two hands, i continued to sink.
he leaves me to pick up my own pieces now, not loving me any less,
but too weak, too exasperated, too heartbroken to do it himself as he always had.
he is done. he loves me and i know it. he shows it. but he is done.
my tears bore him. my half-true stories and pitiful excuses move in one ear and out the other.
he is stone-faced, no longer shocked by my confessions so i leave them unspoken.
his kisses, sear my flesh. his love burns because i know i don't deserve a single shred of it.
i wish he hated me. i wish we could fight. that would make things easier, right?
but he won't. he just won't. he loves me so much and i can't stand it.
but he is done. i broke my father, and his heart, for nothing.
he asked me why i do the things i do,
why i don't just stop it. why i keep on hurting him and my mother.
i didn't have an answer. all i had to offer the smartest man in the world,
was a dry mouth and empty hands.
m.f.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
When Gods tried to churn ocean
For nectar with Meru mountain
Firstly it was poison which came
Because of its severity all life forms
Where in great threat
All Gods prayed him
He decided to take the poison
And save the world
Which eventually made his neck
Blue in color
So we call him Neelakanta
He has a third eye
So we call him Trinetra
He is the destructor of Evil
He wanders in Cementary
To pacify and soothe the spirits
By doing Shiva Tandavanam (dance performed by shiva)
And saved us from those spirits
Shiva is his name
Chanting his name can save you
From any hazardous situation
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
There is a new word describing me
type one, type two, type three
nothing is as it once seemed
brown bandages become red, ******
catheters go up my urethra
when I refuse to take your drug test
by accident.
I'm clean, now, clean and pure
I take Abilify to make sure
and remember that it's all an imbalance
and remember that everyone else is balanced
and remember that the whole ******* world is balanced
on a tether formed by gravity
gravity-- the severity of this situation-- is lost on me
and on that tether we all walk
unbridled by the weight of our bodies
we can shake all that makes us human
and pathologize every thought crime
every idea needs to be cleansed
with a catheter into the brain
we would be able to test it for drugs
and find that all I was high on was existence
and how terrible it is
that we will all die
but that shouldn't bother a doctor at all, now
should it.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:49 PM UTC
What is the meaning of a letter?
They resemble the severity of the talk
of the shame
of the crying
Or maybe they mean laughter
happiness
hope
What is the meaning of a plus or minus?
a plus or minus can ether mean life or death.
Ink.
You grow up knowing that red automatically means
F
in recent years I learn that its the colors like
yellow
purple
pink
that symbolize the F.
The harsher the mark, the better the grade.
Shouldn’t it be the other way?
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
1561
No Brigadier throughout the Year
So civic as the Jay—
A Neighbor and a Warrior too
With shrill felicity
Pursuing Winds that censure us
A February Day,
The Brother of the Universe
Was never blown away—
The Snow and he are intimate—
I’ve often seem them play
When Heaven looked upon us all
With such severity
I felt apology were due
To an insulted sky
Whose pompous frown was Nutriment
To their Temerity—
The Pillow of this daring Head
Is pungent Evergreens—
His Larder—terse and Militant—
Unknown—refreshing things—
His Character—a Tonic—
His future—a Dispute—
Unfair an Immortality
That leaves this Neighbor out—
3k
I quite like the virginity of a fresh notebook
the way my wrists and palms drag across its leaves
breathing life between lines in pink magic marker or the severity of red ballpoint
I like the prickly practical meticulousness of a shopping list:
a dozen eggs
one pineapple
one bag of fresh spinach
one bag of English muffins
one bottle of dish soap
I like the tender impressions of curlie cues and firty cursive
communicating endearments placed on counters such as:
TAKE OUT THE RECYCLING YOU LAZY OAF ******* <3 XOXOXO <3
I enjoy the audacity of a wandering doodle
meandering
cartwheeling
hopskotching
between
and under and over
indices
and spaces
between shopping lists and death threats
i enjoy the lingering ghost of prose shaped caverns
carved onto seemingly empty sheets that carry on for pages
until they fade like whispers into an evanescence
I crave the obnoxiousness absurdity of a to do list
daring me to take a day off from procrastination
until tomorrow
call Gramma
rent due on the first of the muuuuuuuunth
take the GRE
update resume
be awesome. like a boss.
most of all
I love the pain and joy of a poem
the way it slowly leaks from heart to mind to hand to paper
staining
spaces
urgently
faster than muses whispers
barely escaping onto lines
prolific terrific poetry
sporadic spacious atrocious poetry
I croon over the denial of the last page of a beat up notebook
the way the paper hangs onto spirals haggard
littered with stringy remnants of lists and reminders and death threats and poems and goodbyes
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
I feel like I'm drowning
no
not drowning
drowning comes with resistance.
I am sinking to the bottom of the ocean
my every thought is a stone in my pocket
my mind treads ever forward though it knows I will not float
it doesn't care
It is only after my head dips below the surface that I start to realize the severity of what I cannot undo
I open my mouth to ask for help
but instead, my regurgitated words bubble out of my lungs and float away
and I'm distracted by the beauty of the scene
isn't that so like a poet?
so engulfed in the romanticization of my death that I pick up the shovel
and I dig the grave myself
so distracted with the view
I can't force out the words I need
I won't betray those stones in my pocket,
Can't give them away
But then again, what have they ever done for me?
Sep 24, 2020
Sep 24, 2020 at 9:16 AM UTC
I remember when I was at the concert.
I could feel the tsunami of the crowd
As the headliner started.
Nothing to hear but screaming and music.
Electricity shot through the veins of all,
Some intoxicated, some not
we all feel the same musical passion.
The time of excitement was now.
Pit after pit of swarms engulf the crowd.
******* in the unexpected but willing.
But to protect a friend,
I was a fortress against the mob.
Listening to the music, the lights flashed.
and from nowhere known,
A natural weapon struck my face.
Turning around, feeling no pain,
But assured of the severity
by the river of blood I unwillingly donated.
Into the washroom, I stumbled.
Blood mixing with the nectar of life.
Outside to the medic I casually waltzed.
Swollen eyes, nose, and disappointment.
Hearing the music from outside the hall,
my heart dropped, I blew the plans of fun.
But never fear, new friends are made.
The blood stops its own current,
and memories are established.
Stories to tell in the future.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
Writing always seems more urgent
When it's written in italics,
Even when the topic,
Is rather mundane.
Consider this example:
I like to eat sandwiches
Furthermore, everything
Seems much more urgent,
When written in bold font,
We revisit the example:
I like to eat sandwiches
...and a step even further,
Writing seems absolutely
Crucial when written in,
Bold font, with caps-lock,
Once again, we recapitulate:
I LIKE TO EAT SANDWICHES
At this point, it seems as though
I am imparting unto you matters
Of the utmost severity, that could
Be the difference between life and death,
...but really, I just like sandwiches.
This amuses me.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:48 AM UTC
I demolished my own walls to let you in
They warned and admonished me from the danger of your existence
Yet somehow, I was still enthralled by the unprecedented phenomena you brought
I disregard their warnings and entered your danger zone
My soul found solace and felt mitigated in your arms
I am not terrified of your tremendous storms
I am willing to embrace your disastrous nature
My love, I am your victim and it's a privilege to submerge in you
I accept the severity of the damage that it might caused me
I am the sufferer and you are the love that caused
losses
terror
blood
And still those reasons will not restrain me from loving a catastrophe like you
My love,
It is my responsibility to insure my safety and well-being
You are the flood
And I promise to calm you.
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 10:39 PM UTC
It’s true what they say,
we always hurt the ones we love
and love the ones who hurt us.
We can quote Bukowski as much as we want,
but we need to realize the severity of his words.
“Find what you love and let it **** you.”
Love is a death sentence.
It is a sweet one, but in love’s very nature it is a death sentence nonetheless.
You will search the world for someone whose favorite book is The Picture of Dorian Gray
and who worships the same 1953 Hepburn film
and inhales dark coffee in the way that you do.
But you will end up settling for someone who has skimmed the back cover biography of Wilde
and who remembers when and where Audrey was born
and drinks java from a little coffee shop that you think is pretentious.
Yet there will be a time when you will find someone that you can’t live without
and you will be shell-shocked when you see that they can breathe air through their lungs
and eat the spicy food that you don’t like
and sleep with the window cracked just a little bit
all without you.
You will hate yourself more than anyone for letting yourself need someone as much as you need that one person,
who doesn’t even know that when you say you only take two sugars in your coffee,
you actually mean four, sometimes five.
You will ignore their pleas and roll your eyes at their petty compromises.
You will make them miserable because you love them more than they love you.
And they will stick around because they feel guilty for that very reason.
You will salt their wounds and ice their veins.
They will leave you on the side of the road and try their best to hate you.
You will both recognize that it is a valiant yet fruitless effort.
The line between hate and love is so slight that a feeling can change like a compass.
Love is hate and hate is love.
So you will grow to tolerate their lack of literary prowess
and enlighten them on what you actually mean when you say two sugars.
Most times everything will feel off and never quite the way you had expected,
and you’ll always wonder if you have ever really been happy,
and if this is actually how love feels.
When this happens, you must remind yourself that love is a complicated emotion.
It is in the tide of the sea
and the phases of the moon
and sometimes found in a frightening trek down Memory Lane.
You can find it in the face of every person that you have ever met
and sometimes it does not grace those pretty faces for very long at all.
The most truthful and sad part of it all is that it will eventually **** you.
But it is a death sentence at it’s finest.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
1
you were what Adam called poetry those first days in the garden; there were no words to encompass You so he used all of them
2
I have heard voices at the bottoms of bottles, always emptier
3
I am angry at my hands for being too weak to turn house keys, maybe you would've let me in if I was strong enough
4
it's all my fault, I know it. the day my father loaded his fear into the back of a pickup truck and drove away was the day I learned that leaving is just coming back, falling out of bed when I thought I felt your warmth beside me
5
show me a word that doesn't look like loss when you hold it to the light too long; there isn't one
6
maybe if I didn't cry so often I would feel fuller; if I was fuller I would have more to pour out to you
7
love me with a depth and severity that would make hurricanes green with envy
8
we want so much and we desire so deeply, it is no fault of our own that we always feel so disconnected; empty of a thing of which we have never felt full
9
playing foul piano chords to an audience of my nauseating loneliness, roars of applause come from your side of the bed
10
it's okay that he only calls when the morning after has proven to come too early & too bright, you've always been the warm & familiar darkness
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
You ask me to enter to the tilt of your head towards the computer screen
and see, in two words my definition -
bipolar disorder.
You do not look at me, just talk at me
medication? last relapse? severity of episodes?
You count failings, the moments in which I have lost my mind
and you reproach me for them.
You, as you two-finger-type a cold clinical echo of me,
I, on command, recite the past transgressions of my sanity
and you have me – three inches tall on my knees,
in a disease that thrice almost cost me my life
and in your Jobsworth view you tell me I will get ill,
as if this weren't a fact I fight and fear daily.
You with your tunic, blue, cold as your indifference,
announce this, as if calling time -
self-important, unfeeling, with one eye on your watch.
And I smile at you apologetically,
honestly offering up my faith, prayer, medication compliance,
self awareness, begrudged reliance on those I love to wave the red flag
if the waters I get into are too deep.
You are curt with your nod - as if all this is folly between now and the inevitable.
My recovery, my striding, my passion and profession -
All folly.
You are doing the last offices on quick time
because your time is precious and short
and not to be wasted on crazy dreamers with barely a shot in hell
But even with every mental regression, psychotic expression
manic obsession and abyss of depression -
still, still, the world needs more of mes and much less of yous.
So make your disclaimer and write your reports
I'll chant, share the truth in the streets and courts
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
My temples pummel out
A throbbing skull
Drumming on my edges
Cracked bruises
Hidden underneath my hair
No one sees my pain
Feeling dismissed by perceived delusions
Neglect brings forth intensified loneliness
A mystery unable to solve
Potential brain damage
Resting in purgatory
Along the coastline of denial
Where I appear all right
Until another concussion
Drags me to this tide
Wanting to end my life
As I drown to the chilly depth
Wondering why my husband
Hasn't thrown me a life jacket
He tires of my imperfections
As do I….
Severity thrown under
The boat of exaggeration
No one understands my head's sensitivity
Not even me
The judgements of being weak
Of not being careful
Arguments against enjoying life
I am brought to a surplus of cries
Aching sobs swim
In my damaged head
I'm confused and lines are blurred
I'm scared and can't remember
Noises storm
Inside my ears transmitting corruption
Comatose movements
Ambushed by swelling spastic vibrations
Blinding light
Striking serrated razors between my eyes
Weighted head
Seeks detachment from its guardian
How I wish people saw this concussion for what it is
© Jl 2016
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Diagnosed with mentally afflicting conditions/
Why I'm often covered in depression/
Fighting with addiction/
Suffacating conversations with judgemental complications/
Everyday Im waking up to a handful of medications/
It's embarrassing/
I promise from this moment now until my cremation to always make the best decision/
Despite whatever the caution might be to reach the desired life position/
Someone should have mentioned all the implications psychotic intentions have on relations/
Like the one between myself and all other human beings currently visiting/
Why I'm regularly checking out in day dreams of beautiful poetry that speaks/
Only problem being I'm unable to sometimes distinguish reality in the things I'm seeing/
So Im sorry for everyone that's sat through this psychotic rollercoaster, please don't let it be the me you remember/
Just think, that's my life to own except I often have to experience it alone/
I promise I didn't know the severity until just recently/
What I dont get is why nobody stopped to explain it/
My thoughts I knew were never right, which is why I put them on paper every night/
Finding comfort in the empty white when I write/
Putting my thoughts together every time I make rhymes for these poetry lines/
Made up by this one of a kind mind I sometimes can't find/
Remembering memories of a misery that inspires artistry/
Crafting my poetry from this hearts history/
Pieces of beautifully painted rhymes hidden within nameless poem lines/
The portrait of a forgotten poet coloured forever in this moment/
Doing this is the only thing holding together this cracked barrier/
Around this mind that's mentally unstable covered with an RX label/
Questioning moments if I might be psychotic/
Turning against myself with a straight jacket/
Lock set with the sunset, this I've come to accept/
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 7:40 PM UTC
Breath to breath
Our winds, our mixing
I don't know if I'll handle
This hurricane.
But don't let me tell you
It's immoral,
We both know
That holds no water.
Skin to skin,
Ashes to ashes
The earth comes up
To meet our confusion.
Smoke, oh god, smoke.
My mind's become kindling
I burn for you
Fire is an evening well spent.
Don't let anyone tell you
You're a Machiavellian lover
For
Severity is its own reward
And I can be yours.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
Soulful Migration
Dedicated to all whose names are only spoken from headstones and now flowers is the only representation of their sweet presence that use to be aromatic and change our moods and thoughts with precious regularity now we are left to recall their words from memories grand in a much sadder land
A stream of faces and lives collect in a desert pool man’s measure stands in the stature of those he
Knows life’s heat he assuages from this spring shadowed and cool the best medicine man knows is
Family and friends formidable are the mountains the arid land belongs to no man although Georgia O
Keefe revealed its hidden Burnished glory time is the relentless stalker youth falls before its will surly
The bugler stands at life’s sunset to play taps so life is ran this one thing I know he will play reveille at the
Eastern gate the hair has turned snowy white soon the soul will know freedom we who are left will
Celebrate and speak the truth of your nobility you placed in our soul’s steel and granite enough to defend
A kingdom the majesty of God declared your lives must be or all would be vain life can best be described
As grand theater the elderly are the stars and we are the understudy the divine architect designed the
Physical stage in perfect ascetic severity the symmetry is flawless no angles are hidden from view the
Cost to play on this stage is everything you have or ever hope to have the consequence is eternal the
Low and frivolous are denied any central part
Good by Uncle Floyd aunt Kate
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC