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Mysterious Aries Nov 2015
Drawing images using some words
Telling some stories that are unheard
Stealing the moment, freezing the time
Killing the beast that vultures the mind

Spilling blood, the pen is our knife
Collecting traces from this mysterious life
Connecting dots to create a line
Polishing stones to make it shine

Our words are riddles, a must to decode
Giving multiple key for them to unload
The meaning of some could make readers insane
If wrongly unlock it will conquer their brain

We are a shape-shifter just like the cloud
Painting angels and demons to enlighten the crowd
Hoping they’ll listen to our joy and our pain
Wishing they’ll get the lesson of our every rain



11/03/2015
Mysterious Aries
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

  integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
    i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
  i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
   i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

   if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
          ringo star h'ahmed...
  george ali...
                paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
  i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
              and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
        but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
        right on the plonker...
                 i'm not finished!
                        i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
   4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
  (one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
                   12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

    gehirnablassen...
                   brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
   for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
     graphemes: sz phi theta
      compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
       brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
    virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
   german 19th century fascination
with islam...
     θought and φilosophy...
   greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

1.

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.
A shape shifter.
A transformer.
Everything you fear.
Change.

The unknown is
a scary place,
a scary thing.

Do you know who I am?
Do I know who I am?

Would someone please show me
which home is my place,
which family my own,
which lines I should trace?

Every contour on my face,
every word that I utter.
It is all you.
And that’s scary.

Why does it scare you?

Because I am a stranger, and your homie.
Your son, and your enemy.
I am all that you were,
and all that you will be.

You want to embrace me
as your child, your kin.
But I’m different, a little
too complicated to fit in.

You wish for things to be simple,
the son whose identity is set in stone.
So I travel these unbeaten paths alone -
As you close your eyes to me,
a child who barely knows part of his family.

I look to you to help define me,
and still you refuse to see,
even as your memory is stirred by me.

Your mind pushes me
to the back of your head
but your heart won’t let
you forget who I am,
and so I’ve grown,
the invisible boy,
soon to become
the invisible man.

Some days you simply wonder,
and life seems more an illusion, and
all those heavy questions drive
your mind into diffusion.

Your reason screams “yes,”
while your sleepless conscience
tells you otherwise.
So which is telling truth,
and which is telling lies?

As you struggle to pick,
you start to realize,
you’ve made a wrong choice -
a part of you died.
This choice about me
could never be wise.

So which shall you follow,
your heart, or your head?
Don’t be too quick on the take -
You might make a worse
nightmare of your bed.

To see the unseen
is a complicated thing.
Many have said that
with knowledge comes pain,
And I assure you that
seeing me has consequences.

So you whisper, “ok”
Your curiosity parched
For the knowledge that quenches,
As it tugs at your core,
A million tight wrenches.

I will see you
Is your tardy demand!
And a transient being
Lifts his transient hand.
Where this unveiling takes you,
You intend to land.
You’re facing your demons,
You’re being a man.

So who is behind
the mask, you ask?

It’s me,
An interracial boy.
A melting *** of culture, and color,
A child who won’t accept the word other.
Not molded from one sole identity cast,
Destined for eternity to sculpt my mask.
Cali Jun 2012
you came, dragging
cardboard shackles in
your wake and fell upon
my floor like the final
messiah.

surrounded by these walls
that I built for you, and
the props that I live by;
a porcelain cat ticking
time on his paws, and
a blue fish swimming laps,

you fold into origami birds
and exhale debris into
the moonlight, sighing
a breath of defeat.

i cannot decipher it.
i remember how you looked
when you were mine,
how you spoke when you
belonged here.

you are strange to me now.
i cannot pinpoint your
watercolor edges nor iron out the
fissures where your smile hides.

i want to take you in my arms
and place you in my bed.
i want to play chopin from memory
for you and carve figures out of wind,
carry you across the threshold
on gilded fingertips;

but you are no longer
mine to form, and
i do not follow.
Jessie Feb 2013
I always knew your biggest pet peeve was not being taken seriously, but here I am today mocking you. But if I say your hair is a mess, I really mean it looks unbelievably adorable when it curls up like that, just so.

And I know you could never be my chauffer, I know that now, and it isn't because we both don't even have our licenses yet. I'm simply coming to terms with the fact that I live inside of a bubble, underground, a million kilometers below sea level. And you are a shape shifter, only able to transform and transcend into creatures with wings. Maybe they don't all have wings necessarily, but wings could be a symbol for freedom, and they most certainly have that ability.

So one day you are a falcon. The next you are in outer space, being a creature that isn't even discovered by man yet. No matter what, you're still free. And I am still imprisoned.

You would think being inside this cell would teach me that no, you do not care what I think about your hair curling up at the ends, just so. And that yes, you are way too high above the clouds for an underground lady like myself. But I just never learn.

Perhaps the only way I will ever learn is when I find a new shape shifter. One who is not limited to beings of the sky, but one who can morph into anything. Maybe even a petite, rusty old key that can unlock me. And set me free.

And maybe, just maybe, that new shape shifter won't even have curly hair.

P.S. Please come soon.
Wrote this in the middle of the night, half asleep, half crazed. No judging, just my thoughts flowing. Ok
Sydney Victoria Sep 2012
A Ghostly Moon Climbed,
Over A Thick Tree Line,
The Ground Was Covered With Mud,
Adreniline Swam Inside Churning Blood,
A Lip Was Being Bitten,
To Block Back A Scream,
A Story Was Being Written,
Even Though It Was A Dream

Green Eyes Turned To Gold,
Ontop Of Wood,
That Was Rotting,
It Was So Old,
Talons Ripped Through The Moss,
Her Heart Was Being Tossed,
Around In Her Chest,
She Wasn't Human Then,
But She Was At Her Best

A Sly Silhouette,
Crossed Her Path,
She Was Playing Russian Roulette,
But She Faced The Wrath,
She Layed On Her Back,
To Ask For Trust,
Piercing Her Neck,
Teeth Felt Like Tacks,
It Was Hard To Stay Calm
But It Was A Must

The Shadow Realeased Thy Grip,
But It Didnt Let Her Leave Without Blood Drip,
A Cut On Her Sholder,
Left A Scar,
One She Gained Underneath The Stars

She Woke With A Fright,
In The Early Morning Light,
Blankets At The End Of Her Bed,
A Red Hot Pounding In Her Head,
She Looked Down,
And What Did She See?
The Wound On Her Shoulder,
She Had Recived
spysgrandson Feb 2016
I hoped to become an eagle
soaring above amber waves of grain
seeking perch in rarefied air

a red-tailed hawk,
or even a garden warbler
would have sufficed

instead I metamorphosed
into a mosquito and found myself
skulking on a fine lady's arm

I could only hope
she wouldn't swat me
before I drank my red full
and took flight into dusk

or returned
to my pitiable simian self,
lice laced and  homeless, hunkering
in a cold corner, wishing
I could fly
Maya Martin Sep 2015
Explaining My Depression to My Mother: A Conversation
Mom, my depression is a shape shifter.
One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear,
The next, it’s the bear.
On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone.
I call the bad days: “the Dark Days.”
Mom says, “Try lighting candles.”
When I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame,
Sparks of a memory younger than noon.
I am standing beside her open casket.
It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die.
Besides Mom, I’m not afraid of the dark.
Perhaps, that’s part of the problem.
Mom says, “I thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed.”
I can’t.
Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head.
Mom says, “Where did anxiety come from?”
Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out-of-town depression felt obligated to bring to the party.
Mom, I am the party.
Only I am a party I don’t want to be at.
Mom says, “Why don’t you try going to actual parties, see your friends?”
Sure, I make plans. I make plans but I don’t want to go.
I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go.
It’s just not that fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun, Mom.
You see, Mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light.
Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company.
Mom says, “Try counting sheep.”
But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake;
So I go for walks; but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists.
They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in.
Mom says, “Happy is a decision.”
But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg.
My happy is a high fever that will break.
Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat-out asks me if I am afraid of dying.
No.
I am afraid of living.
Mom, I am lonely.
I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely —
The lonely into busy;
So when I tell you, “I’ve been super busy lately,” I mean I’ve been falling asleep watching Sports Center on the couch
To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed.
But my depression always drags me back to my bed
Until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city,
My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves.
The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat,
But I am a careless tourist here.
I will never truly know everywhere I have been.
Mom still doesn’t understand.
Mom! Can’t you see that neither can I?
I do not own this poem! All credit goes to Sabrina Benaim. This might already have been posted a few times on this website, but I have always enjoyed this poem. So, here you go!
TinaMarie May 2012
Straight Shooter
with No Chaser
Tell me
No Lies
Kind of
Communicator.

Pom Pom swinging
Rah Rah singing
From the front
Back
Or Side
Proudly Cheering.

Spirit Lifter
Mood Shifter
From low
To high
With
On time Laughter.

If things get crazy
Or someone comes against me
You got
My back
Quick
You're my one man army.

My Partner

My Friend



©Tina Thompson
Serenus Raymone Oct 2012
Two faced

Many minds

Shifter of shapes

Dr. Jekyll

Mr. Hyde





Past lives

Intertwined

Most mean

Few kind

All vie for equal time

All determine to shine



The writer

The fighter

Drama king

*** machine

The revolution ignite-r

The brave slave

One with

Passion and fire

The singer

Dead ringer

One who points the finger

Conspiracy theorist

Lyricist

Soulful swagger

Hip Hop demeanor



The teacher and student

The dude with attitude

And no one can refute it

A brother and a son

The one that has been shunned

One who leaves them stunned

With the selfish things
I’ve done

The secret me

The enemy

The one whose heart is numb

There are a lot of us

No stopping us

And yes there’s more to come



I’ll never alter

My alter selves

Incarcerate them

In individual cells

Even when they scream and yell

All are a part of me

And they refuse to be veiled



You ask me

Is there a pill?

A remedy…?

Because this has to
be

Insanity



Did you disrespect

My dissociative identities?

Do you really want

to make all of us

your #1 enemy?

We’re laughing

Its killing me  

We flip the script easily

Me- and all of my
inner entities



Chillingly

You’re triggering

A very sad memory



Oh, what a tragedy

You’re just another casualty

Unfortunate fatality

Of my Multiple Personalities…
wandabitch Feb 2013
Shade shifter, turn-me-red.
Master the colors and trick
the disguiser--
morphing electric skin.

Make novelty probing
into the dark
unknown.
Shake suiters with perfect
control, of all the senses.

In a savage land, or a rare
spectacle of courage
no under sea mountain
is too strong.

Or ocean to shallow
to fill the hole,
A schism dares to thunder.

In a serene wave
watched by a moon's
cyclops gaze.
David Moss Dec 2014
A quaint little shifter

From purple to green

He can hide and appear

So funny when seen

With beady weird eyes

And a look of apathy

Don't be fooled by it's demeanor

It's as cute as can be

I'm talking of a lizard

Can be small as your thumb

They can make me go silly

And shout '*** LOOK AT IT'S TONGUE!!'

But really, truly

I do love you


Mr. Chameleon
Sometimes, very very rarely, I write silliness.
Series of nightmares, the monsters in my mind lured me into traps..
Scratching my hands and face.. under the starry sky was a foggy moon night. Persuading that it wouldn’t hurt.. just to take my inhibition away.. for I ought to get comfortable with my fear..

The monster was howling like a Werewolf in my ears, made me think twice before I got off my lair.. and he was not alone.. the Shifter took the essence of my dead father from my locked memories..
Reckoning me into the shelter of his arms, to slit my throat open..
Series of nightmares, the monsters in my mind lured me into traps..

The fear ate me alive... immobilising my limbs. But I was compelled to think, what if I broke free ? Will the dark clouds clear the sky, and will the moon be full again ? Will the stars take me back to my room ?
Wandering through the woods like a lost bunny, I decided to pick up pace and it made all the difference in that race..
Series of nightmares, the monsters in my mind lured me into traps..

The fear reached the pinnacle and the werewolf chased me to the end of the cliff. Pinned me down and aimed for my neck, his paws heavy on my chest..
His cannibalistic eyes debilitating my soul.
The shifter chuckled, I could see him from the corner of my eye..
And the vampire now waited in line, to **** the blood off of my thigh..
But the pace had taken toll on me..I tried to break free. But the nails of that fierce beast were buried into my chest, remember he pinned me down...

But.. But my soul had power tonight, and it picked my hand, held it tight.. couldn’t help but touch his face and the wolf turn into a puppy, to loving from enraged..
My fear looked him in the eye without a flinch and the little puppy licked my face..

Suddenly all the mist and clouds cleared the werewolf stood by my side, the shifter left my father’s coat. And the vampire took steps ahead..
Now my father is gone but so is the blood ******* monster who snickered and sought my depart.
The vampire is just a tiny bat with the trickling lust for blood that’s now dead..

And I’m back in my bed, wide awake and I see the monsters from a distance, they are the raggedy Ann dolls on my windows, smiling into my dreams, and I’ve made friends with the monsters inside my mind..
Series of nightmares, the monsters in my mind lured me into traps..

And tonight, We hugged, embraced and slept tight..
Mae Jun 2017
My depression is a shape shifter
Some days it can be as big as a lion
And others it can be as small as a bee
On the good days I can feel happy and free like a weight has been lifted from god knows what
But on the bad days... god the bad days
It can feel like the world is against me, i wake up and my body tells me no. I go to school and avoid everyone because I know I will either hurt them or myself like I constantly do. it's not just physical pain either it's emotional pain that never stops like someone constant telling me I'm worthless.I'm ugly.
Why are you here?!? I ask myself
Why did god put me here just to torture me
And on these days a little bit inside of me shrivels up and dies
It's like smoking, the first time it's not that bad but after a while your lungs start collapsing, slowly dying inside of you without you knowing until it's too late to change it.
On the bad days I lie to everyone and say I'm fine
IM FINE!
Are you actually kidding me! Do you honestly believe that I'm fine?
Look at my arms and my legs
Do you not see them scars do you not see that my only way of me not killing myself is to control my physical pain because clearly my emotional pain is out of control.
On the bad days it's like a downwards spiral which I don't know when it will stop or if it ever will.
On the bad days I don't know if I will beat my battle I don't know if I will **** my demos
But I hope and I pray that one day. One day someone will see how actually messed up I am.
How can they not see it already!
It's not going to be until I try and **** myself that you or someone else will actually work it out!
I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Here.
I. Want. To. Die.
But then I don't
If that's my only way out I'll take it but I don't want to
Mum say " I just want you to be happy"
How! How can I be happy when most days I feel like there's no point, everyone hates me any way so what's the point!
You don't understand.
My depression is a shapeshifter.
I hope one day you will work it out
A poem to all the people who don't understand
nuwanda Mar 2018
when I was ten, I scraped the surface of my skin
soothing the nerves that might be achin’
and I dreamed of being a shape-shifter
instead of wearing my own skin, wanted to be a transformer
like Mystique covered her scales with brown-leather jacket
as if she was hiding in her friend’s pocket

I wanted to be a shape-shifter so bad
that I carry different names in different events
introducing another personality into another styles and bents,
desperate in escaping reality
that my first name is Nobody
with a last name of loser in a morena body

when I was thirteen, I wanted to be a telepathic
because middle school was boring and pathetic,
your freckles and scars was not considered as aesthetic
because they are distractive, not attractive
then most people was stereotypic
and put so much weight of stigma
that was heavier in my own persona

I hope I could read someone’s mind
to attend their standards and be acceptable, not behind
I hope I could seep in the openings of their cracks
to see if I could join in their popular groups and ranks
I wanted so bad to be telephatic
that my sanity was almost equal to chaotic and psychotic

when I was sixteen, I wished I had x-men gene of invisibility
because school was tiresome and heavy
and bullies was way powerful than your mental ability
that you would rather disappear and stay in eternal tranquility
then suffer from discrimination
because your skin was not society’s accepted complexion
they said, I didn’t belong anywhere
because I am nobody from nowhere

mom even said I’ll be fine and should work for it
I said that I am over it and I am so done with it
but mom didn’t understand that suiting yourself in was like
walking in fired coal with trigger in my feet of armalite the wall

now, I just turned 19, I finally understand
how world kept condemning, exploiting and oppressing people who are weak
who are in minority, not hearing their silent screech
I finally understand that if you have no power
people will trample and trample you to lower

I finally understand that I don’t need an approval stamp
from anybody that crushes my soul in *****
and you, yes you
you don’t need anybody to be whole
because, certainly, surely, you can fill your own hole
I finally understand that I am enough
that life is rough so you have to be tough
And I finally understand what made me stay,
you foolish prodigy, do not be easily swayed
I have the right to be here, you have to.
I'm a small pebble
making a giant ripple
A speck of black sand
on a coral white beach
The left foot
kicking up a storm

A hermit, a drifter
a paradigm shifter
I am a disruptive
not a destructive force
I think outside of the box because inside I'm lost

I've been Nero, DaVinci
Neruda, Dali
burned as a witch
and now I'm just me....
a small pebble
making a giant ripple
Poem written for a blow-torch painting I did earlier this year.
Mike T Minehan Dec 2013
She came first in a dream
when I was fifteen. Yes,
she was the fire of ecstasy and her first licks
set my world aflame.
She's a shape-shifter, sometimes
fair and sometimes dark,
but always naked
when she comes.
She often whispers secrets
in the molten, swollen nights.
She even shows me jungles
and raging torrents down
where tom toms throb.
But when the morning breaks,
and I'm alone,
I struggle to remember.
Accordingly, I search the cities,
the far off mists and mountains
and the subterranean rivers
every burning day.
So it won’t surprise you to know
that where I mostly go to find her now
is under the volcano,
the place of endless fire.
It's where us dreamers and those demons
dance with our desire.

Mike T Minehan
Nathan Vienneau Jul 2013
Drifting the sea of the mind
All too familiar
King of the moment
Face left behind
coyote Nov 2014
lavender and
lemongrass:
november and
an empty
moon.

i'll take
any shape
you ask me to,
just as long
as it takes me
closer to you.
Amanda Elizabeth Jan 2016
as this flame stares,
i stare back
a light losing,
eyes already lost
the sky is breaking darkness and
my finger burns but,
i'm spiralling,
i float.
it's not chaos,
a swifting fire is my guide
a humble shape shifter under the moonlight.
this language it speaks,
i understand
with a pocketful of dreams to burn, and
clouds breathing through my soul
telling me
i'll be on the salty seas at twilight
01/13/16 or 01/14/16 idk i was high
Here lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his girt,
And here alas, hath laid him in the dirt,
Or els the ways being foul, twenty to one,
He’s here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.
’Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down;
For he had any time this ten yeers full,
Dodg’d with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.
And surely, Death could never have prevail’d,
Had not his weekly cours of carriage fail’d;                        
But lately finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journeys end was come,
And that he had tane up his latest Inne,
In the kind office of a Chamberlin
Shew’d him his room where he must lodge that night,
Pull’d off his Boots, and took away the light:
If any ask for him, it shall be sed,
Hobson has supt, and ’s newly gon to bed.
RavenPen May 2015
Smoke unfurls from the ancient urn
Twisting scathingly
Marking territory
Snaking terribly
Towards her
Jonahh Oestreich Jun 2010
in the last century of her life

she returned
in a ship of wisdom and beauty

her entourage of demon hunters
guarded a swarm of hieroglyphics

from a future she had seen

she brought droning strings
of dreams

bridging the time
of her absence
between the first and the final
civilization

i saw her mute smile
radiating the light
of hidden moons

she had passed

her words in a subsonic stream
of childhood memories and

evaporating residue
of the mindwalker era

when pride and rivalry
had made all of man

awestruck minions
of time and space

i felt her ephemeral
veil of tenderness

reverberating our first
encounter in one of those
labyrinthine dimensions
of her starfaring journeys

where she had left me
wandering the ever expanding
orbit of a lonely star

while she was becoming
the supreme shape shifter

descending down
to the surface of our birth
planet and crossing
the eternal echoes
of our minds

[J]
I stand on a mountain ,
I stood on a hill ,
but even the Napolionics dark clouds of war had nothing on this .

the sheep that were grazing have fled in it’s gaze ,
and even though my cloak wrapped around me from the chill of the night .
I saw from the north did asail the wind darkness like no other ,
as I felt my bones rattle and shake under my skin .
How i wanted to take hold of my mistress summer and bask in her
warmth for just one more night .
She left without a word nor did her lips empress upon mine ,
nor the soft comforts of late evenings did she impress upon my cheek .
Now I await in trepidation and much distress her sister,
this dark woman of whome pestilence awaits ,
and where storm clouds gather .
This cold wind she sends an advent for what is to come .
Hail snow and rain nothing is like these in her sight .
Don’t look into her eyes ,
the man who peddles time cast under her spell and now he stands alone as time stands still .





Look a white dove how it ***** it’s wings against her blackened skies ,.

for  in its beak lies a fig ,
and on it’s wings Gods eternal promise,.
herolds the dawn .

How I yearn for a warm bed and a clock to while away this hour .
A dream catcher ,
A shape shifter ,
a net above my head ( to catch these things )
and above all ,
bed .
Pray these things don’t steal the light ,
for my eyes to open and see the mornings sun ...
just once more .
Luke Reed Aug 2010
I’m a verbal chameleon, feeding on and leading onto what comes next.
I’m a lexical shape-shifter, made swifter by the twitter of your vibes,
Your guise,
You guys.

My political agenda is neither right nor left behind.
I’m blind to colour but not colour blind,
I’m not pigeon holed, fully sold or moulded on someone else’s dream.
I’m simply,
Free.
From them,
From you,
From me.

So…
When now becomes nowhere without here and now.
And “unite as one” is paraphrased as a power phrase.
Let’s unite as individuals on separate viduals to overthrow ourselves.

Don’t follow crowns, clowns or crowds.
Don’t follow punishments, covenants or Governments.
Don’t follow Religion.
Don’t follow Science.
And especially,
Don’t follow me

Because I’m a lyrical paradox, toxic and hypnotic to even my own thoughts.
Copyright Luke Reed March 2009
Leila Valencia Nov 2016
Last night
A quiet word...
was trembling
A touch....
hypnotized the senses

It was pitch black....
I went to the kitchen
I drank all I could find,
And slept in the garden.

Last night
I pulled flowers from the garden's ground
And clipped their petals...
It tasted like honey.

From that,

  All blended into a kaleidoscopic metamorphosis.
Channels opened,
yet, I could not foresee the end
the world became a dome.
Immortal shape shifter's
danced restlessly...

When I awoke
There was dirt in my hands.
My mouth, had dirt.
I woke up covered in dirt.

But, I can only remember
how I drowned into an deep abyss.
The rest amiss.

In the depths, my outer self became less
In the future, I hope I do not grew thicker skin
Mind and body alterations
NB Jul 2017
I am ever-changing.

Shapeshifting being
Shaping into the oval form of today
Shifting into the space of tomorrow

I morph and contort
Disarrange and rearrange
myself

But I will
  never
shape or shift

to fit the box you
try to think me into.

~N.B
Astrid Ember Oct 2015
I haven't been happy
in a long time.
I'm not sure I even
know how to be happy without
being surrounded by other people.

You see I'm in a relationship
and I have never been this happy.
When I'm with him that is.
But I have a problem with
cheating.
There are girls with
fire in their eyes
and flower beds in their
nails and there are guys
with a dark look
that says I won't be able
to walk.

And the only reason I haven't
left my love yet is just that.
Love. I don't know a lot
about it. But I know that
I can't ignore it.
I may be cold, but I am
not heartless.

I have a lack of feeling.
My mom said I have no empathy.
I told her I must be a psychopath.
She just shook her head
and corrected me, sociopath.

Maybe when a man decided he wanted to
break my ***** without my
permission, I think I lost a part
of myself.
I went into my head because my words
were no longer being listened to.
I went to a place where
nothing mattered because I couldn't
stand a place where it did.
I haven't left that place yet.
My therapist says it's
Dissociation disorder. She says I have
PTSD. I have a personality disorder,
and a mental disorder equal to being
bipolar on crack.
So don't tell me that I wasn't *****.
Don't tell me I asked for it.
Don't tell me I wanted it.
Don't tell me that **** does
not matter.
Becuase if it didn't it wouldn't
have a name classifying it as something
other than ***.
I would be okay. I wouldn't be this
loony case who needs her
medication so that she doesn't
have flashbacks and feel her
wrists being held down again.

I think this explains why I can't
be faithful. I'm lost in a universe
where nothing matters, and nothing
is real. I don't know how to feel
love when it's not by my side
and I think that's why I always need
to be by his side.
Because when I'm alone I don't exist.
I am grey and everything is just a
black hole.
I am a shape shifter
and I don't even know
myself. I don't think anybody
really knows me.

I am liquid that has been
melted in his hot abusive
gaze. And I am mercury.
A girl with firework kisses
said that I was toxic.
So I guess the metaphor fits.
I just wish I understood why
I can't be real.
I feel like Pinocchio and I just
want to be a real boy.
When I am held in someone's arms
and attached to someone else's
lips I am a leech and I'm *******
color out of them hoping
that the feeling of being
alive stays.

But I really wish that I could
just be real
and faithful.
I just want to make him as
happy as he makes me.
I'm a loser and I don't know what to do
Cali Jun 2012
you were so beautiful
that you were ugly,
like mercury, you
ominous shape shifter.
i couldn't pinpoint it.

you told me you loved me
but love was just a fallacy;
a promise that couldn't be kept,
an expectation that couldn't be met.

dead stars and bleeding hearts,
landmines and orchestra song,
sun like knives, and
deafening silence;
all of it had never meant
less to me.

perhaps its only when
you'd rather wake up
with a bullet between your teeth
that you really learn
how to live,

how to love
something with
a pulse.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
and they began t' sing
marching single file

from the west

no masqued men were these,
these were
Kachina whitemen only saw in curio stories,
now,
approaching the old
prosper-specter

sitting full-lotus in his Barco-lounger, curbside-score,
from the land of too much good stuff

still, it's America, best effort men have made,

up to now.
The whole world has known since the International Geophysical Year,
1957, when the Symbolized Face of the Hungarian Freedom Fighter,

graced
the cover of Time, as Man of the Year before, when they lost
their war
and nobody cared, because
every body knew Disneyland is the Happiest Place on Earth,
where wishes can come true, and

that place is in America as sure as

blue fairy, you'real wish, Urielistical wish-grant,
Asrael and the others
singing backup
reload
when you wish
side-really… and a subtle shift in per
spect capacity
let be, just so,

and haps sub tile into layers of complexity re

because we, the people born to mature in the environs of Dublin
writ large, we
seers endowed with tele-vison, from birth.
The elders who watched the roll-out.
Aye, we watched
us evolve
to now

our future bright they say, a bright white light, then what

now,
we can say. The seals have been broken.
Nothing hidden now stays that way in ever,

and ever, as you know it, began

sometime
agone afore in some direction beyond your
ken, as it were when kenning the way of a knack was
as common as dowsers in the desert of my childhood.

What's in any name but what the namer seems?
Hey, yah way, tha'swhat I say,
tell me
what I say
Hey
Dancing shuffle footed single file
pass the white shirt black tie messenger from
the telestial king down Sonora way,
via
Yahoo, feel that tickle fo' a nickle, Hiram say come see
come feel
a boinin' in d' boosum through

the very crystal lenses

portal-ible model
through which Joseph of the name
Smith,
-- link back to Cain, through Tubal, via Na'amah--
-- set a breadcrumb, landmark, tag- say good old way
-- sign out don't break the story

through which Joseph of the name
Smith, came sayin an angel of light came with another gospel,

maybe the same guy the Galatians were warned to ignor,
re-legate-- re-read- start at the top
or all meaning is
like a song sung by Kansas, when we aren't there,
any more, than those wee
merest kachina jingle bells listing in the winds

but the Kansas chorus is stuck asif dust is all a simple

higgs-ified mind can manage to
regulate

without reading any ancient landmarks on maps of meaning
tattoo'd to the face in your mirror

in the darkest memory you hold
dear,
dearest,
your precious, in your Gollum-purpose state you know so well
protect it for all its worth,
with only your
strength
to lift
being the measure of worth-ship.

Ex-tol the worth of no bher-don born while in my state,
poor
un-gifted.  I remain a mortal soul linked mitochondrially to thee,
for whom the bell
told. You heard, but you were tolled don't ask.

Listen, the same hunch that said, It don't mean nuthin',

when you say you know that,
you bet you do.

I slew this dragon, not you. I say what the map says.

The dragon died of natural causes, so now,
all its true-sures
is yers…
Crown o'glory moon shine

plumb pert-nigh perfect fiture
imagined happy place to a T, crossed
and I dotted

Bleibe Doch! This is where all the Faustian Losers left their marks.

This is not where I aimed t'be said the elder bro,

as the wastrel was welcome t'Dada arms,
the crucial critics rave
Sheiszkunst, who Rah!
isis throws
a party for the prodigal madrigal has returned
from the pig's sty

packing each redeemed pearl, his brother once
fed to swine.

bent low 'neath his pearl-loaded ****-pack, he lifts his head,
waves his
crown, Fini,

come see, he says.
where I live, nowadays.

This is that treasure, on another level
as you may imagine,
free, if

you accept charity.

{There's the rub, say professional older bro, I know, charity;
'taint fair,
s'foul some, some ne'er-do-well finds a
pearl in some pigsty,

I PUT THAT PEARL THERE FOR THE FUTURE
not now.
I worked
for them ****** pearls, I sweated, brow-sweat, lo and hi.
I hid them well,

only a fool would ever believe a treasure
could be found in such ****,

but some fairy pulled a fast one, 'put a bean in little bro's ear,
so when the pigshit hit it began to grow,
sent a tendril to tickle a special spot,
just above the left ear,
right
there,

let's see diamonds, no
pearls,

any where we wish.
Let's say okeh, mark this spot, let us move on,

this is life. Let us see that more abundantly, while the poor
are safe and sound,
free as me to pursue haps past the frozen

disnified happy-ever-after WW2,
in the wake of Camus and ****** Wolves

---
splashes as the speeders pass, powered-row-row-rowing,

merrily mere ly wrong, not evil. Live on, next
is as you wish it were
someday, but in its diapers,

still. A we thinker thought awaiting effectual function,
as this trigger is pulled, in your space in time,

and another bubble appears,
portalish as mine-craft if ever there were

a subtle shifter of perception conspiring
A.I. see
a conspiracy with Lex Fridman infected by
Lynning Skyward
though a wave of old Radioman vibes,
played with plastic spoons
a famous peace march by
Kenurchka Klumpen, Sera-serah-selah-sinnade in B-Natural

and the last to leave broke the right arm from the doll,
sealed the dirt box one measure by one measure
deep and wide,

That seal was broken, 1957, approxi apriori right
arm dis
allowing
the left to change this next to come, sym-bolische
ified in the one-armed bandits left behind,

the bet. The die cast. Foccinaucipilinihili or holy

happy hunting ground, imagined in the land of too much good stuff.
Bits and pieces of the underlying tale. Note: The one armed effigy left in a 12 inch bt 12 inch adobe sealed hole in the floor of a pit-hose that may have been a kiva/ Vernon AZ
Descovia Jul 2021
I don't understand it.
Everybody want to be a savage.
Upscale and overdramatic
90's mentality, I'm still fightin' madness.
So tell me
What you know about classic?
Better think, before you pop off at the mouth
and do anything drastic!

I never changed
I continue to do me
956 to 323
I got power
I am father to many prodigies
I'm going to stay on top
of the game, until they body me.

So you made a couple of hits
So you qualify as a hitter?
Stop calling yourself a killer
if you ain't about it ni**a
Gotta be outside the box
This is why
You cannot frame me
for any picture!
None of you, about the smoke
but be so quick to burn it all
Just like a swisher!
I cannot face time, rather not waste time.
Most of you get loco
When you be on the liquor
My foundation stands by me.
This is not vengenace, this is vigor!
So stop trying to use my lines
You's a stolen-style shifter
You ******* stolen-line-spitter
I'm not saint.
I rather not be a sinner.
I tell my child
You can do
ANYTHING!
Daddy will always rock with ya!
2021, new era, new me, I am done
******* with you pretenders!
Toxic yeti Mar 2019
I shape shift into
A wolf
To be with my pack
My only family
To lead them to food.
Meals to eat
We must.
Every full moon

I shape shift in to
A wolf
So I can lead
My pack to victory
And beyond
To the moon
That we howl at.
Every full moon

I shape shift into
A wolf
To lead my pack
To help humans
Find bombs
And drugs at the airport
The enemy shall not
Be victorious
This full moon.  

Every full moon I
Change from woman
To a she wolf
Leader of my pack.
nivek Mar 2021
body fragile Butterfly
A skin shifter
laying down in my bed
colour of night
breaking daylight
metamorphosis
watch out for the hungry
they want to eat Butterfly
Its a retched world
puking up Butterfly wings.
sinderella Sep 2013
she was a heartbreaker
the storm creator
the shape shifter
broke my heart
on the road
she left me
for Dead
so cold

we had a love affair
which was kinda
sickening from
the beginning
she broke me
saved my life
broke me again
then saved me
broke me for
the last time

a part of me still loves her
she was so addictive
it really hurts

she was a wicked villain
but she looked innocent
angel eyes lookin'
for another victim
but love was all
she truly meant
© sinderella.
Brent Kincaid Aug 2015
Don’t like waking up in the morning
I like to sleep until at least noon.
Breakfast can be any food at all
I drive home under the moon.
My friends are all complaining
They don’t know when to visit
But that never seems to stop me.
That isn’t very balanced is it?

I’m a swing shifter, it’s true
Even if it’s grating on you.
I’m either cooking or cleaning
Or maybe the one waiting on you
So you have your evenings
Free to go out and have fun.
Someone must be there for you
And baby, I’m the very one.

I never see the evening news
Except on my evenings off.
I’m not caught up on politics
To form an opinion or scoff.
I’m not up on television shows
Don’t know about the stars.
But I know the late night spots
And exactly where they are.

I’m a swing shifter, it’s true
Even if it’s grating on you.
I’m either cooking or cleaning
Or maybe the one waiting on you
So you have your evenings
Free to go out and have fun.
Someone must be there for you
And baby, I’m the very one.
Adam Jun 2013
With my blue wide eyes, I see nothing but airplanes in the sky.
I reach up with my sun hands, trying to feel the warmth of the earth, but all I receive is cold world news. I consider myself a shape shifter, not able to camera talk since my message appears weak. I play my cards & quarters, ignoring the warning sign, about getting lost. Who knows who cares, words I carry deep in my heart, trying to live my cubism dream. There are stranger things in this world, that are held together with a sticky thread. It was always you & I, we just didn’t know it for so long, unable to move forward because of our heavy feet. We lay and look up at the ceilings, only to see a black spot millions of miles away. Riding breakers out into the sea, it's hard to believe only three months went by since I met you and you met me. Sometimes we get caught holding our black balloons, filled with feelings larger than a wooly mammoth. Remember our trip to Mt. Washington? We had that white stuff from Columbia, a week I’ll never forget. Reminded me of our first concert together at the The Bowery. It was in our Gorilla Manor, where we got Hummingbirds drunk, for no particular reason. We are nothing more than Local Natives, coinciding in a world too small, for the adventurists living inside us all.
People tend to forget her
As if she was a chameleon
Blending into conversations
Wearing a shape shifter's skin
She tend to mirror other people
Just to learn how to fit in
But like a mirror, unknowingly
She reflected what was within
A mind teaser, a people reader
She was who she was with
A mixture of absorbed characters
Like a cauldron of characteristics
Andrew Rymill Jun 2014
On strange days
like these
baking cookies
is an arcane art.
For it is winter outside
how we transform
the inside
into mystic summer.

For i know the golden ratio.
i have surrounded
myself with graduated cylinders
that recall the lore
of  cups and ounces.

Retorts of  pots and pans
where i can observe
the powers of this world
returning and combining
into simmer.

Such smells
waft from the oven
as ginger swirls
and cinnamon sworls
like molten mountains jumble.

As the elements combine
eggs and butter
await their transformation.
Some believe that
transmuting baser  metals
into gold somehow proves their worth
but they have never
crafted cookies.

At my round
small wooden  table
my imaginary children enjoy
the coming holiday of doughy
spell-making.

They beam at me
with their gumdrop eyes
and jelly bean smiles
and write Latin script
with licorice and raisins
on their raiment.

As the homunculus
i have constructed
out of hen’s teeth
and oatmeal.
with a retro fish tank.
skips like calendar with
an extra leap year.
hiccupping time.
Mice in the wainscot
squeak as Saturn
rises auspicious
in their whiskers.

As my roller
impresses and passes
i fill the silver trays
the cuckoo clock strikes thirteen.

While i  in a black forest script  
write of spells
of life and  death
and of the perfect
distillation of a sugar cookie
in baker notation
Sprinkles on the flour
that has spilled upon my table
from the shifter….
Quentin Briscoe Jun 2012
I was created..In my mothers womb..From dirt and of Clay...
A piece of art...In the potters shop...molded in ways...
A shape shifter...A color fusion...of what ever he may...
From light fair skin...
to a darker colored state...I will be what ever the potter shapes....
From one form to another...to another again...
I wont stay the same until Im perfect for him...
And even at what I believe to be my Finest...
He can ball me back to clay...And remind me he is the artist..
.And he loves each piece he has created..
for none has been out weighted....
I just want to be pefect in his sight..Even If im ugly in yours...
For maybe he will put me on display inside of heavens doors..
mold me form me..Im yours to maintian...
I know Im just clay...
So I'll let you have your way...
Teardrop echoes; the tone of your skin drains away,
painting another picture of the night. Whistle-blowers of the night-
torchbearers of the day; kids fighting each other for tree turfs;
skipping stones at early morning ducks. But their mother
inside doesn’t have much time to duck his punch

Well domesticated dogs, too afraid to bark at the night’s
domestic violence. Dominated skin under the dominator’s tight
hands; the love of a shape-shifter— changing its skin to appear
loving for ten pairs of eyes; striking down with a false picture
of love- to the sight of six eyes. Like claws that sink into your
skin; he’s drunk again!

A day away from shelter; for a heaven that does exist from
one’s bruised knees. For all the hurt draped over troubled
shoulders, unfurled eyes crying silent tears bouncing off
the walls

                     A child in the next room hears the teardrop echoes

— The End —