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Anthony Carrasco Feb 2016
We held each other
like breaths under water,
day old infants in their mommies arms,
and dreams we never meant to wake from.

You touched me
like I was your instrument,
a texture you were testing to buy,
and a newly used pan after cooking breakfast.

I loved you
like my favorite tv show,
warm blankets on a subzero night,
and the tattoos I designed with you in mind.

There are no amount of
     similes
I could say to express
how much I miss you,
yet here I am again
writing like an author
striving for a movie deal.
Arlene Corwin Aug 2017
Bemoaning Similes & Metaphors

         (the lack thereof )


I cannot think in similes or metaphors.

I can, but it’s

An artifice.

A gift

I’ve not been left with.

Of course,

I’ve got Thesaurus –

My old pal -

To push me

In the simile

Direction.

Those

Whose

Aptitude’s

To see,

Their inner eye

Comparing parallels unconsciously –

A gift of gene and DNA –

Overwhelm me.

While I moan about my lack,

They sit with throne and luck

Expressing with an ease,

Anything they ****** well please

In metaphors and similes

I lie in bed,

This running through my head.

That’s why it’s here.



Bemoaning Smiles & Metaphors 1.13.2010/8.17.2017
A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin
It can seem silly sometimes - even containing a sense of the ridiculous
Kagami Apr 2014
I am a silent scream. My soul
Spits at broken glass hanging from the wilting sun
And the moon colors it a glowing red.
A red like the ruby of my lips as I dream they would be;
White dress, ruby lips, black silk lining the inside of my coffin.

Pages of photos litter the ground and
People kick them. Step on them. Those were my memories,
The visions I had, and the world I wanted to live in.
The dust and grime erase the ink and leave
Blackened footprints over the things I once remembered.

The memories were erased, like a sentence in a diary.
Verses written on the page and similes
Raining among the mind of the writer.

And the inspiration is gone.

A blank page replaces the one with images dancing across the ink.
A chill spirals in from the open window and the moon shining
Across the expanse of city lights and fire.

A melancholy sound radiates from the belly of a cat
Perched on the roof of an abandoned house.

The girl is there with her star charm anklet, bolts
And screws still loose in her joints.
Her doctor never came to fix her. She is still as broken as a glass slipper.
Her new hideout devoid of mold and charcoal, but filled with
Tears and memories of the pain lived there.

She reads it.

She find similes in the haunted parts,
Sees the tears as currents in a river
And views the poetry written like leaves in the wind.

Yet everything is dead.

And everything was a dream.
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2014
She's like a drama queen,
Plays the 'blame game' like a loser,
Fair minded as a bigot,
Wages war like drones,
As free as surveillance,
As open as privatized prisons,
As equal as feudalism,
As rich as the beggar masses,
Bankrupt as homeowners,
Socialist as the military,
Truthful, trustful as "NEWS," as propaganda,
Pagan as the manufactured Goddess 'Columbia,'
Christian as the stingy,
Pious as a sinner,
Wicked as securities, exchanges on 'Wall Street,'
Insecure as an empire,
Greedy as a fast food glutton,
As brave as a fool,
Warmongering as a chicken hawk politician,
Machevellian as a coward,
As rigged as the free market,
As selfish as Capitalism,
As tolerant as Islam,
Beautiful as a clear cut forest,
Charming as a strip mall,
Forward thinking as chaos,
Lawless as congress,
United as a belligerent crowd,
Compassionate as a swat team,
Green as any petrochemical company,
Organic as pollution,
Deep as a strip mine  .  .  .
  .  .  .
unwritten Nov 2014
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?


this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)
this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please
Sky May 2014
Loving you was like
sleeping on the wrong
end of the bed:
*uncomfortable and out of place.
Love is an ocean with boundless limits
At times waves do travel to the shores
Beauty in the eyes of lovers make poets
Love makes similes, beauty metaphors

She is in my heart and I am in her eyes
This is what love takes time to explore
Love takes to heart all the beauty cries
Like a lunatic entity goes door to door

My dreams are just like broken glasses
I have debarred myself from the taste
Sins have taken away all with glances
I have nothing with me she is but chaste

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow
Edgar Gordon Nov 2015
Restless unlike the owl
I need sleep unlike my neighbours
Eyes heavy unlike the air around me
Counting sheep like a shepherd
Sleepless similes get it right once in a while unlike left
My thoughts escape me unlike the words in my mouth.
Will they be quiet? It would be unlike them.
Things start to go wrong when you're tired. My mind often wanders to the oddest places of thought. I wonder what the opposite of a simile is. What wierd things would similes do if they were sleepless? What will I think of all this when I do eventually sleep and wake to read it?
Your face, the moon
not unlike craters,
the mark
the scar
the fierce reminder
that there was impact
and after the fact,
a surge of dust
that left me.  Clean and free,
feeling better, like I could survive
another meteor shot to **** my heart’s desire.
Yeah, it's esoteric, but I posted it because the word flow is still fun... read it out loud and with attitude! ;-)
Yates Nov 2014
You have your hammer down, foot stamping Passion Poets,
the ones who feel something and like a waterfall
similes fall out of their pen and land
they are LOUD and they are dynamic,
their metaphors are laser beams out of eyes,
they are the Crowd Raisers.

And you have your hearts open, eyes closed Emotion Poets,
the ones who love something like a fountain,
spilling over adjectives their words are
red, they are heated
yellow, they are revelling in that shade of
blue that poets hate to love,
they are the Heart String Pullers.

And then you have...
me.
I'm an imperfect, writer's block, In Between Poet.
my similes are more like a puddle than a waterfall,
all the same parts but nowhere near the power,
I am LOUD in all the wrong places
my metaphors are dead battery laser pointers, I am
not a Crowd Raiser.
My fountain spills over adverbs quickly dying
out my words are sort of... gray, they are
not Heart String Pullers.

But

We are all Poets
we are like similes
we are comparing our words to something bigger,
we are metaphors we find a way to put love into words,
put hate into words,
jealousy into words.
we are adverbs quickly coming to life in all its splendor
we are
All the Same.
Ofentse Tsie Aug 2014
Is there something wrong with being black? Different
                 skin color tone war,
is that what our heroes fought for?
Why is it necessary for white men to form similes about our color? Is this freedom or what?
            I feel like being black is a sin.
What's really funny is racism is found in the black community only because it has turned on itself “I'm light skinned I'm better than” “dark skinned is ugly”
is this what we call love? Ubuntu? if so then I want none it.
It's amlaot disgusting how we can't show love to each other but expect love from another kind.

by: ofentse_tsie & dvniel
Different subject. We hope it moves you. Enjoy
E B K Sep 2018
"Walk amongst the similes"
Or so her mother said
For there you'll find a garden
Which fosters, like your head

Ideas
Phrases

You'll find the dirt and grass
Of the words
"Like" or "As"
You shall see

Things
Grow

Fire, Earth, Water, and Air
can all be
comparisons there
to Life

Power
Emotion

Perhaps you'll find the people
comparing to each other
not necessarily fighting
just getting to know one another

She is like him
He is like her

I suggest you pick a couple
to nurture in your head
so when you wonder what to write
you'll look to those instead

Of
Nothing
Third Eye Candy Feb 2013
sand
cherry blossom
vintage clothing
poem
grass...

You Are These, My Love.

like a fairy
is like a dark-eyed Junco, twitter-pated in snowfall apocalypse
like a painter's palette, engrossed in the notion
of gone from me. like chocolate. a sun down
feathering our bed.
like water and thunder
blasting sand
through the blossom
of my cherished -
cherishing.

a
vintage
ache
clothing the naked risk
of my honest poesy.
like the grass roots of joy
fairly gaming the
opaque eye -
of some rara avis-
blinking outside Caravaggio
palette...
a
deep cocoa
of divine waters,
that flood the ludicrous
of your charms
like austerity
is plush

our heart's are vintage clothing

and we must.

what's a metaphor like ? do you simile -
the way I am a valentine ?

or do you
love
me
?

deluge

[ ? ]
pure as the moon on darkening nights
radiant as the stars and growing, growing
bright as sunshine, gold, gleeful
warm warm warm
crisp and fresh as a spring breeze
full of life, deep roots gaining strength
gentle, gentle
buoyant as a bird's wing, joyous
freedom freedom freedom

/

Messy as an unkempt room
scattered and complicated
desolate as the drying desert
burning burning burning
lost and mewling, blind as a cub
clumsy and careless
volatile as active volcanoes
destruction destruction destruction
cold as rain and tough as hail
harming, harming

Beyond the sun there is
*violence, violence
I want to be so bright
that people want to orbit around me
but i am a supernova
consuming all who stray too close
Tommy Johnson Mar 2014
We are all human beings
We all have our own lives
And different ways we live them
But each one of us is a writer
And this poem is for all of you

All of you who have virtues and use them in your writing
Those who use flashbacks and revisit mental photo albums

Beginning the story from the middle for that’s usually where you mind is at
Looking back then looking forward
Studying the past so you can be ready for what is to come

Recording catastrophes with a number two pencil

Tales and blurbs of tragedy
Caused by love or the lack there of

Rewards and punishment
Self-reliance and self-fulfillment

We are mere narrators
Humble, maybe unreliable
Equipped with numerous devices
Ironic Paradoxes
Red herrings
Fortuitous plot twists
Metaphors
Allegoric hyperboles
Analogies
Oxymorons and onomatopoeias

We sling Chekhov’s gun like bandits of literacy

We’re visionary revolutionaries
Revolution of the mind, body and soul

Changing ourselves and examining who and what we are
To become what we are destined to be
The best

Rejecting convention
Building our own paths
That lead to cliffhangers

Romantic lust
Comedic affairs
Dark massacres
Spiritual healing

Religious speculation
And the questioning of the way we, the people are being governed

We use the tools we are giving to sculpt new art that the world can stand in awe of

Personification
Symbolic imagery

Practicing pastiche with respect
Dionysian imitatio

Surreal reality
Defying mortality

Reiteration and retort

Using nature to express emotion and thought

Doubts and fear

Opposites
Morals and ethics

Satisfying curiosity

Parodying what we see
Embellishing just a little

We us word play to dive deep into the topic of conscious, subconscious and unconscious thought

Using satire to poke fun at the human condition,  its senses and perception of the universe to get readers thinking

Expressing our anger, our boundless joys
Desiring unknown pleasures

Seeing past the fallacies put before us

We write with great candor about war, personal conflicts, and self-abuse

With hinting undertones to give these ideas a second thought

We write of the supernatural, metaphysical mysteries
Outlandish, obscure mind boggling theories

As the clock ticks too fast for us and the characters we’ve created

Demolishing the fourth wall with a sledge hammer of defamiliarization

Epiphanies in a parking lot
Speaking in the 1st, 2nd or 3rd person

Using fun things like anagrams and palindromes
Candy for the lovers of such things

Spontaneity is an understatement
Nonsense is an insulting overstatement
Absurdity seems to fit just right

We are chameleons
We can write in various forms
Streams of gratifying consciousness
Brilliant prose
Beautiful poetry

And chose to use or merely acknowledge the ways to achieve these forms
Rhetoric, rhythm  and rhyme
Meter and mora
Conceit and consonance
Assonance
Intonation
Working with phonaesthetics  

And accenting aesthetics

A poem can or could not be organized as such
If we want to get technical about it

We have a poem
With a number of verses
And in those verses
Are lines
And those lines might rhyme
And have a meter or rhythm
Stressed or unstressed syllables

In contrast to that we may write
Without all of that and use emotion
Feeling and structure our work with what we feel is the best way
Line breaks
Pauses and puns
Silly similes
Ambiguous antonyms  
Intonation, linguistics
Fight against the fascists of grammar and conservative correctness

So, in the end we are writers of a rainbow kaleidoscope forms, devices, ways and ideas

But we alone are the ones who make the world think
Make it move
Revolt
Renew
Learn
Look back
Remember
Cry
Smile
Forget
Ease

Write my friends write until your mind explodes and your fingers bleed

Read, read and become inspired
Even if what you’re reading is bad cheese

Forget getting published it’s the writing that matters
Disregard the off-putting, critical chatter

And if you think no one reads
Than be the seed and sprout a tree of astounding artistry
And let’s begin a new movement composed of ideals that will hold true forever
I might be preaching to the choir but it must be said that poetry; literature isn’t dead
Kate Lion Jan 2013
A decade from now,
            My words will only be a carcass even birds won’t want
            To pick at anymore.

I won’t be able to keep track of where my similes skip off to,
And maybe I’ll discover later that they crossed the street like a chicken
That wouldn’t know to look both ways,
Causing a six car pileup,
But never making it to the other side of the road as I intended them to.

Maybe my metaphors will age quickly,
            And ten years down the road
            Their doggy jowls will quiver with one last yawning breath
            As they collapse beneath the nearest tree from hip failure
            Resting at last beneath a pleasant summer sun.

I don’t like to think about it,
But I’ve entertained the idea
That perhaps I will neglect my words,
            Letting all the quatrains pass me by.

Yes, that is how my structured sentences will meet their end:
            With no periods
            But a blank space
                        Where your name should be.

I’d like to think that someday
            I won’t have this horrible need to write anymore
I’ll describe my perfect days because I want to,
Not to fill this void I made
When I handed out my consonance like candy
            And scattered similes in the air like skittles
            During that drought we had a while ago
When everything was black and white
And I thought everybody wanted
A taste of the colors I’m made of.

I like to entertain the thought that someday

Someday
            People are going to reach back through the decades and excavate my words
            And try to find deep meanings beneath all my poetry.
            Scholars will slit the throats of my similes,
            Claiming there was some philosophical point pumping through the jugular,
            And I might laugh somberly [a little] if they do.

            They’re going to find the rotted carcasses in the most random of places:
            A passenger seat,
            The floor by a bathroom,
            A stairwell,
            Under a tree.

I know that some might try to find the cause of death.
In fact,
I know they will.

But I’d much rather people look for the only reason of birth,
The only meaning behind all my metaphors,
I want these people to catch the quatrains I let pass me by when it hurt too much.

When it hurt too much
To just write-

I love you.
Perig3e Jan 2011
Similes are weak
like a rusted link in a chain,
stronger with authority, the metaphor,
that hammers iron into maille.
All rights are reserved by the author
Moriah Jean Feb 2011
You make my heart fly like it's still whole,
like the bones in my wings aren't brittle and broken
and these palpatations actually follow some sort of a beat.

Like maybe my feathers are still beautiful,
even though I've made a habit out of flying too close to the sun.
Suddenly, it's heat just warms my skin,
and now I'm glowing.
Instead of bursting into flames.

You burn me from the inside out,
but it's a comfortable energy.
You play my strings so delicately,
I feed off the vibrations.

You make me feel like a song,
that missed a beat, but found it just in time for the crescendo.
And now I'm playing on
like nothing bad has ever happened in my life.

Just like a Dali painting --
Beautiful and ugly and brilliant
and no one's sure exactly what it means...
But you're the artist,
and in your eyes, every stroke makes sense and I'm perfection.
© February 7th, 2011 Moriah Jean

For Bryant, It's just how you make me feel.
And for # 2 on the 100 themes challenge, which is love.
shaqila Jul 2013
As random as the appearance of rainbow
As fresh as grasses tipped with morning dew
Like lightning, a forerunner of thunder
It’s slick and smooth and full of energy

As happy as a little girl with a soft dolly
As giddy as a kid in a theme park
Like stars that glitter when the sun’s gone to bed
Like rough seas and gigantic waves

Love comes and conquers all!
Dark n Beautiful Apr 2015
I was in love with a Poem:

The poet lured her victims into her wild kingdom of
Word, words, words, that
became the forest of ****** illusion
verses and verses that I never encounter;

In this kingdom I never notice the Sunrise before Sunset
The chanting before the protesters
Lightening before the winds
suddenly brought on by the rain,
That triggers the mighty storms:

The poetics effects of Similes, Hyperbole,
Understatement and personification devices got my attention
Pages after pages,
line of words that opened my eyes,
The mighty pen, a trending poem,
and there I was a loyal reader
With an amazing cup of hot coffee

The poem took me through
this much-modernized tale of
Alice’s rabbit hole adventures

Poems are to be read aloud,
loving making is meant to be private
So is mourning for the dead:
Some things are just meant to be...private

My love for the poem and
my admiration on its poetic views
Is more than human emotions,
than my stimuli of brain ***
I read the poem while sipping my coffee,

Birth, death, politics and religion
***, drugs and empty souls : human emotions,
This much-modernized free verse poetry can causes multiplies  *******
ottaross Dec 2014
A heart beats monotonously,
Like a leather-encased clockwork, a spring-wound toy
It ticks away the hours until the moment
When, with a silence like a stone, it stops.
Oliver Philip Dec 2018
Battered Similes
As an ABCDERIAN poem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As battered as an aspen leaf a tremble.
Bad pennies just keep turning up
Clean as a signal from a whistle
Deaf as a post or daft as a brush
Easy like Sunday mornings epistle
Fit as a gipsy upon an old fiddle
Good as the gold you pan from the river
Happy as the longest day , a joy to be living
Innocent as a new born babe in its weaning
Jack of all trades mastering none  
Keen though as mustard, is that keen enough?
Liken as two peas in the greenest of pods
Memory like that rusty old sieve
Nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof
Obstinate as a Mule with a stone in the hoof
Pretty as a picture , the one in my head.
Quick as a flash then the picture is dead.
Read like a book that mind of the poet.
Sharp as a razor,though he don’t even know it
Talk to the hand, just like my Dutch uncle
Ugly like sin with the face of the devil.
Vague battered similes to drive poets mental
Wise as King Solomon but you must beware
Xenophobian as a dislike of foreigners
Young in years of training still to understand
Zion’s a million miles from any promised land
    
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip
December 5th 2018.
An A to Zee of Battered Similes
Zigzag Universe says: "I am the space of Devananda" Way of God "and meditation. We know how a great inherited noun “de meditatio” has reflected on the ideas that are reconciled. My numen comes from the Greek Peltast mercenaries, creating survival in the contemplation of standing on those who are not in the fords of the breath of blood. We focus the mind so that the sheep that graze in the meadows fall upon us when we reconcile ourselves to somehow standing, waiting for them lectured here in Archangelos and in placebos of the bread-making gifts of the grasses. Obviously, stability allows us to get colossally on our feet and meditate where we have to sow hopes of meditation and work them with the pleasure of experience, which transports us on spirituality on the lips that are pronounced by the horses that graze, filling their bellies with the idiomatic hopes that transport us to the intellect and the conclusive horse. On the other hand, in contemplation there is more spiritual than intellectual character since it carries an experience and not a conclusion. Philo of Alexandria; Philo Judaeus, being a Hellenized Jew, is our mentor and philosopher star, born in the year 20 BC. He is contemporary to the era of our Mashiach, maker of everything and the neo-universe of Vernarth "Duoverso". The new universe of Vernarth being apologetic, Jewish and also Hellenistic therefore makes of our creator and all the theological creative thinking of all his creation. Divine providence and grace are and will be your superiors to have universal kinship with the Zig Zag Universe that migrated to Duoverso Zig Zag, for the providence of divine powers, who are in this range mercifully allowing and forbidding the splendid power of the royalty of Christian meditation manifested. Those of us who bear his goodness transformed into passion, we are the ones who create his theocratic rise, doing sovereign service, courage, joy and caution of human ethical satisfaction. We surround ourselves with our philosopher Philo for the diaspora, for the benefit and virtuosity of laws that emanate from the One-dimensional Beams of Kafersuseh in Ein Karem. The stoicism of democracies weakens the ungovernable powers of self-wisdom, they decay before those who ignore who they are and will be, under the symbolization of the supposed Jewish leadership of offering their children to the sacrificial altar ambivalently. The warmth of the afternoons in Tsambika increases the macro radius of our zigzag, binding the biblical pages with Platonic Greek philosophy and anti-material stoicism, with goods re-delegated to the natural good where it comes from. Our writings are the inspiration of the demiurge of the embodiment of a bakery recipe in the idea of the lowing of Zeus's stomach, with the solid dissatisfied discourse of not creating more bakery hectares for Stoics and demiurges. Although the thought of Philo permeated the fathers of the ecclesiastical epic, as in its origins in Alexandria, they will be Ambrose of Milan and Augustine of Hippo, with weak influence on the Jewish tradition, particularly in the rabbinic tradition that was born in one or two centuries after his death. Part of this is due to his use of the Septuagint (the Bible translated into Greek) instead of the Hebrew Bible and his allegorical interpretation of the Torah. His work also gives references to religious movements that have disappeared today, such as the Alexandrian therapists. Zig Zag was and will be moved away between time and space, in a world adjusted to the senses that are propelled within the contextual totality, the world and the biosphere framed in the phenomena of the Zigzag Universe, being born on a stellar night when it touched our life the earth, being able to see how the cordial matters of the cosmos caressed its cosmology, making of it its magistracy and descendants of the Hellenic cosmos, in constant caresses of the universe already predisposed to the bing bang, emerging from the other side of the car, observing us and seeing ourselves in the Horcondising face anti-material. We are science that models the energy and matter system in causes of the ancestors, with whom their life and ours sneakily crashed. Gravity made us great paternity in Vernarth, being in the Dodecanese, being a cosmos in the curvature that makes us screen with the moon in its romantic astrophysical swings and with the exaggerated geometry of a zigzag. We are the versatile and multi-dynamic mass that expands simultaneously in the head that pauses in the oaks of the Horcondising of Vernarth and also the time-space that has not been troubled by the origin or the inflammation of the stars that move irregularly in zigzag , for the fractality of its component, which is clearly Aramaic blue light, in circuits of cumulus movements skimming the air, attracting the attention of the entire order of the sleeping universe and making the duplication of the universe itself appear before them; in Duoverso  that is the universe awakened and young of thanks "

Duoverso says: “My distribution of nearby galaxies are keys to the paleo universe already arranged in macrowaves, which are the percentage of the spaces of the Trisolate energy fields, which interact with the Mashiach phylogeny in Gethsemane, now lying in a stagnant decomposed future, in a specific frozen present. My final station is to place the Zigzag Universe on the re-expanding medieval chrestomathy, in qualities of Sub Mythology, already settling here in Archangelos. The implosion of my gravity has created worlds of visibility of great astronomical yearnings, in some fractions of time zigzagged by millions of fractured light-years, like an irregularity that resembles the measurements of everything quantifiable, being science or not, acquiring from the hexagonality, the primogeniture of the passage that from Jerusalem goes to Bethlehem, where the Davidian prism, in whose Original is attributed a fractal of the two-dimensional shape of a line of the Mediterranean fractal coast, resembling the gems of the crown of King David to that of the Messiah, seeming to be similes, but of irregular geometric formats. To build gems in landscape spines, basically subdividing themselves into equal conical funnels and then being randomly displaced towards their central point shared with King David's crown, recursively repeating it in each square until the desired level of detail is reached, in the curve that joins the landscape to Bethlehem and then to the Church of the shepherds in its fractured hexagonal base, simulating to be snow falling on the top of the roofs, wherein the Kafersuseh manger, the Mashiach was born and died in the abstraction of the Beams One-dimensional in foreign eyes, eroding those who are mortals and do not see you with divine eyes in self-likeness of our hysteria of the failed plan to increase the size in the unknown geometry of this new dimension in the implosive movement of the Verthian Duoverse. The nature of the snowflakes in Bethlehem are natural fractals, detailed in their nature and in natural infinity. Here the new privileged world for self-similarity in the mental and cosmogonic functions of Vertnarth was envisioned, at intervals in each space of gloomy clouds, bringing accelerated bombs of messaging from Gethsemane among mutated olive trees towards other humans. My correlation is an infinite fractal with the reversible observable time and with the pattern belonging to mobile echoes of a space, which is occupied by Vernarth as multi-study and integers between fractional integers”

Hyperdisis: “Finite is the curvature, between the time that walks between the jungle of the Duo Universe as an alternative of energy Zigzag and Duoverse, which triggers our observable world what a great eye is, which ignores and knows extreme distant and focal parts of the One-dimensional Beams of Kafersuseh in Ein Karem, since the Duoverse is the trial Universe that the Mashiach had before coming to the Holy Land, provided by my form of Hyperdisis escorting him. I go in arduous colors in gradient for its limits of positions of verbality, and solutions of physical fields, interwoven by an external gravitational means. The macrowaves are exposed matter not contained in the abrupt changes of the optical selection of the Mashiach with the One-dimensional Beams, attracting selection crystals to atomize them, in the fears of reaction and recreation of multiform plasma saviors of Christian cosmic. Examining the double of the macrowaves and the equation of them on the axial of the universe turned into Duoverse, already in millions of light-years will continue in the Duoverse, for ectoplasmic reconversion with great margins of assertiveness. The cartography of hyperdiction, is the correction of the error of the current universe, losing itself, in the second thousandths of figures that separate us from the Universe, but all being more than time ... !, we are left at the expense of the wick of all electro-matter "

The sub-mythology having already been constituted, Hestia appears, having taken a great nap. When she appeared before Vernarth in Tsambika, she was seen changing in size, when she was six meters away she looked dwarf and when she was two meters from him she looked monumentally giant, but with a versatile countenance, therefore she was already appreciated in the last steps, with the domestic figure of a Goddess who emanated light-years from the chimneys of her habitable galaxies. The critical immanence that would happen would be the perfectible plan for the Zig Zag Universe and the Hyperdisis, bringing torn words for those who were approaching the main altar of Vas Auric, which was in a great proscenium ratio in the vicinity of Tsambika, between the Mind / Meditation for a constant mechanism of Wisdom / Meditant, according to the cosmological constant, leading perhaps to the beginning of a decade and third universe called Triverse. The oscillations of all these fantasies, Vernarth observed, but he knew that he would have to collide with these worlds finally already precipitated and of temperature that acted on the average of the normal range, therefore it was imminent to mutate it to the provisional Christian Duoverse, which goes backward advancing between the rapid lights of creation. Immediately afterward, the Universe has torn apart and lost among those around it, establishing itself in units millions of years of lightly compressed in the piccolo Aulos, which Hestia carried in one of its golden hands, in its Prytaneion, igniting with the flames of the heart of fire and of the passion of consanguineous love, "Prytaneum", paved by the light of the clarity of faith of the owners of the hamlets that were founded when they arrived in Tsambika, in search of Vas Auric, cheering with the omphalos stone, which marks the navel of the world with the challenge of wandering towards the island of Delos in the daily warmth of a spring afternoon in Rhodes. She is a woman with veils on her face, always walking to and from her virginal abode, in the house of foolish or vestal virgins, there is no Hestia, only perhaps there are some similar ones staying in the cold fire of her menopause, losing fertility afterward. to be swallowed by her father, and then expelled from himself, regurgitated in candle flames, of love in a blessed house full of immunity, giving the Duoverse another geometric category with angles never contained, sliding vibratory between distances that deduct minutes from Hestian space, for the purpose of approaching its finiteness, and inaugurating the sub- finite, which will never be a source of termination in a puzzling end of equationally physical unfinished time. This consolidates the Duoverse in Duouniverse, expressed in figures that moderate the length of a physical state before it is finished and restarted in a process that does not end (sub-finite)

Saint John the Apostle says: "Not even death recognizes the dimension of the universe when it detaches itself from the capsule of the body ..., less from the Duouniverse ..., making at night what is day and what is a day at night"

Vernarth says: “I am being reborn, the variety of times between myself and myself, are you. In my new creation and Duo-universality, with rules that angle my thoughts where my muscles did not reach. Today we are plagued by invasive objects of new creation, and in particular, I feel them bustling with the wrinkling of the strings of the balalaikas that I had in Moscow, with flat thoughts and now with flat atonements that I do not know, but my courage climbs where they fear me. be poor of feared value. Rather greater fear on a larger scale and related limits where infinite dramatic areas fade away almost make me an atheist in atheism. The ribs of time, gropingly, are oversized, in the ribs of the five-fold dimension of the Duoverse that imagines my curved, over-curved world, not knowing how to reach the line that allows me to know it head-on and full, on the coast of light that If now I see the Mashiach in Gethsemane, in the Olives Bern, walking straight ahead towards me, with another starting point going back, but I being in the creation that for God the light of himself towards the stars that are reconverted into stars, in all addresses calling each other. "
Zigzag Universe
Alli Westerhoff Aug 2015
Like a fossil you have encapsulated yourself into my history.
Whether we like it or not, I can still feel your presence in my dreams.
Sometimes you are distant and we never quite reach each other.
Sometimes you are so close I can smell your breath again.

Like a cold shower in the dark, I feel you shockingly all around me.
Overtly aware that you are both here and not even close by.
I’m strictly aware of who you are around me.
But in the darkness I do not know what to make of you.

Like an A-frame hug, you comfort me from a distance.
The sound of hope is emerging from my lips,
But each time it’s left floating like a pebble to the bottom of a river.
The music we shared plays softly but I know I am the only one who hears it.

I could spin similes and weave a quilt showing what you mean to me,
Small memories and fragments of our time would keep me warm.
But I can tell that there is not enough for both of us anymore.
If you don’t mind, I’ll hold on to these pockets of happiness.
Terry Jordan Nov 2016
The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth

Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud

The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries

They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest

Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet

So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain

He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best

I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time

Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief

Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform

Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter

Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression

Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred

She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique

The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind

Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.
Been working on this piece for a while; my thoughts on the inner mind of poets.
ottaross Dec 2014
A slow-rising migraine seeps into my head
As toxic floodwaters that fill the rooms of my home,
Seeping into my skull with powerful fingers
Like heat-seeking needles to pierce the calm quiet
Of a relaxed and peaceful reverie.
Bluejay Nov 2014
Ode to my teacher,
oh what a wonderful,
delightful, energetic
teacher.

So full of love,
and patient when
we need it most
my teacher.

It's a shame you
have to go before
the rest of us do.

This is an ode
to you - our teacher
to thank you
for your help along
our way.

You are like the tree
and us the apples of
your eye. Love us-
teacher.

We hold you with the
importance of the sun
for we are the plants
bowing our heads to you -
teacher.

we have used similes
and metaphors
just for you -
our beautiful teacher.

Thank you -
really.
Written on behalf of my entire English Class as a surprise to our student teacher on her final day. I was ill and did not get to see them presenting her with the framed and signed copy but I heard she did cry.

Really though, it's for all the teachers out there going above and beyond for their students
Jonathan Veres Nov 2012
What is Poetry?
Is it emotions flowing onto paper?
Or is it the tranquil sea that holds the world's tears?
What is Poetry?
Is it the outpouring of emotions onto
A canvas of beauty?
Despair?
What is Poetry?
Look around you.
The lives of those surrounding yours are Poetry.
Those feelings that extend and pour out to one another is Poetry.
What affects you, runs through your being and
Makes you who you are.
Who you are is Poetry.
Poetry, the undying form, style, wanders through the generations.
An emotion?
Love is Poetry.
An indescribable emotion flowing from the depths of the soul.
Such is Poetry.
Reader, listener, friend.
No poet can say what Poetry is.
Similes, metaphors, analogies,
All just chalk on the board of life.
A poet can't describe Poetry.
Even now I am left in the fog of understanding, contemplation, and wonder.
So, friend, again I ask,
What is Poetry?
Skogen Feb 2011
Like a fine wine we only get better with age and like a delicate ingredient your my sage,  complimenting my tastes and offering your flavor, in this time cooked sauce we savor.  Something like a hero your my savior.  You went deep inside and brought out my pride, like a magnet you pulled out my talents and rejected my fears, and like an angel you’ve brought me the opposite of tears.  Joy and light, our dreams are in sight and **** the futures bright.  High above like a kite I float over that stagnant moat of limits and push through doubts that self emit.  And like a homemade kit, I put it all together to find my own fit, joining edges, getting lit and jumping ledges.  Like Columbus, Magellan, Alexander, I conquer, discover, travel and unravel the mysteries of what my new lands are like.  Like gravity sometimes I fall, like a baby sometimes I crawl, and like a man sometimes I feel small.  But like life its natural and in the end I like myself, I like who I am, and like a compass I’ve found myself.
A Thomas Hawkins Aug 2010
Your words sting like vinegar
when spilled on open wounds
They carve their way into me
like eating ice cream with a spoon

Like lemonade thats sugar free
they have a bitter taste
but unlike health warnings on cigarettes
their message goes not to waste

As with most recipe disasters
like when I cooked Fish Ragu
I'm not sure where I got things wrong
just what exactly did I do?
Hayley Schiete Apr 2014
i'm really good at similes
comparing myself to things that are not me gives me a sense of good ego
and makes me feel like i'm not in my own skin
but i hate being similar to something
because all we wanna be is different, a bit out of the typical box
but somehow if we're compared to normal at least we have the mind state,
at least no one will exclude us

i've been abandoned
but what gives me comfort in the outcast
is english language slabbed on my paper and a slice of outkast at 12 am
we've all been taught in grade school that original is the way to go
the path of happiness
but consequences often go unmentioned and unnoticed

i've been normal, or at least compared
been a simile my whole life
"you're a lot like your brother you know"
i'd rather be excluded than have set up expectations from a man 6 feet under

i don't know where i'm going with this
a part of me wants to be excluded from the box
a part of me wants to have normality to lean on
a part of me loves being compared
i'll always been a good at similes
i'm the human embodiment of figure of speech
except i don't even want to talk
just keep on tak tak taking on this keyboard
hoping to find something similar
to self realization, self reflection
i only want the similarities to good feelings
because **** is all i've felt
i guess being almost there is better than never there
i'm a lot like myself
i'm undecided
Juliana Dec 2012
Let’s make vulgarity beautiful
for a couple seconds.
Dwell on the ******* gimmicks of language,
the shock value of mixing syllables together,
the stupidity of poetic “terms”.
I’ll tell you about my hate for
******* clichés,
****** overused poetic devices and word pairings
that ruin the fun for all of us.
I’ll lay down some ground work here:
too many minutes of my life spent
trying to count syllables ,
rhyme words,
analyze and alliterate annoying argumentative articulations.

You know what?
**** alliteration, assonance and consonance,
bastardisations of the brilliance of poetry.
Destroying all appreciation of something so fine
at such early age,
with red pens,
poor introductions,
and misconceptions falling out of every ******* mouth.
Reused and recycled clichés
trivializing the beauty of rain,
that stomach hiccup when you see someone you like
the actual emotions that fundamentally make us human.
The over-judgemental *****
who can’t write for ****,
think they’re high and mighty,
overusing these feelings with the vocabulary of an eight year old,
giving us poets a bad reputation.
**** those *******
with their dark souls
empty hearts and
broken dreams
**** them over cups of cold coffee
in vintage mugs
snapping in a low-lit jazz café.
Sonnets, haikus and ballads aren’t the only forms of poetry,
nothing has to rhyme,
I shouldn’t be graded on my ability to be a thesaurus.
******* teachers narrow-mindedly give us
“creative writing” homework
that's not creative,
like the colour green.
I don’t see how they can judge poetry,
perhaps how it flows and word choice,
but I have an extra syllable
and purple doesn’t rhyme with anything,
**** me right?
Because purple is the only word which
accurately portrays what I mean,
excuse me if I pronounce this differently
rendering my iambic pentameter to ****.
I didn’t deserve a B.
*****.
Poetry isn’t something you can confine to four walls,
it can’t be truly ugly,
it can be the sort of ugly where your mum doesn’t want to put it on the fridge
but she keeps it until you’re satisfied,
and then she trashes it,
but it’s not ugly.
Remember that poetry is supposed to be beautiful,
*******.
Forget about that *****-*****-***** who ******* you over,
that ******* who didn’t say thank you or
that ****-faced ***** who should go digest a bag of *****
and write something worth reading.
Something that will makes eyes wander back to revisit phrases,
admiring the careful craftsmanship
that translates into something universally beautiful.

The moral here is that
poetry is an art to be mastered and
no one has yet to master it.
Some have come close,
and not all of them have used alliteration,
similes about the heart,
metaphors for love,
binding syllable limits
or rhyme schemes.
Whoever told you otherwise is a raging *******
who doesn’t deserve even the lowest paid *******.
Don’t be afraid to use taboo words;
it's your writing and anyone who doesn’t like it can *******.
Despite the irony,
vulgarity can be beautiful.
http://poemsaboutpoetry.blogspot.ca/
Tshepo mashiane Nov 2019
Creativity is more of a broader subject than what we think. Creation is the final product but always fear the dangers of not knowing what goes into creation.

             SWITCHING YOUR MIND TO CREATIVE MODE

They say true knowledge is realisation, but realisation is the argument of what you already know.
One can't be creative if one can't view a subject differently from it's Natural form. It's dangerous to have alot on your mind and nothing in your heart.

                        why is it critical to view things differently?

The more differently you look at something the easier it is to acknowledge and express it's significance.
If you cannot feed an original concept with possibility then that original it's burdened with stagnation.
A solution is a problem that has evolved. Lets get poetic about mathematics, in mathematics you won't be successful if you look at problems in one direction hence why they are so many formulas that can solve a single problem. Just like a formula a problem is created as well. Mathematics can train a mind to be creative because math always encourages a different approach. Creativity is the "how" in everything, any mathematician will tell you that most complicated problems can be solved by using the lightest solutions and this is always achieved by looking at problems from a different perspective.
Treat you concepts like mathematical problems and you will reek untold creativity. It's always easy to view things differently when you appreciate them, even criticism is lethal.

                   isolation

When an individual grows up like most great artists, isolated from society, they grow up with their own perception of the world or life in general. Whatever these individuals create feels and looks like it's from another planet-this is just a way of showing you that creativity comes naturally to all of us. The dark arts involve locking yourself up in a room that has no words written anywhere, no sign of a letter or anything that resembles an alphabet, then start walking around the room looking for words, this method is powerful beyond words.

          The truth about us people

If we were all aware that everyone is capable of creating a masterpiece but the main problem with alot of us is not how we view things, the problem lies with how we view creativity. The closest thing to creativity is not art, The closest thing to creativity is relatively and lucky for all of us our minds are machines of comparison. Metaphors, puns, similes' and rhyming are all based on relativity but funny enough these literature tools are perceived to be unattainable or difficult to come up with and these aspects make up your final piece. With relativity we can all understand connection-the cornerstone of creativity.
Relativity doesn't disturb the natural flow of our minds. for instance, when someone makes an example with two things you never thought to have a connection, what they're basically showing you is a link. Connection is key and with proper connection discords are eliminated because Everybody is creative but not everyone is sublime with their creativity. Technique is the master of all  connection but technique depends so much on calculation so if you can figure out a way to calculate,then how close are you to perfection?
Analysis is key to understanding complication.
As the bible states "imagination is stronger than willpower".
                        
                    A BLANK PAGE

A blank page doesn't seem to have anything on it, It actually has what we human beings are inspired by whether it be in objects or people...potential. A blank page could be anything you set your mind to. If you are to truly understand the resistance that's been stressed about in previous laws, you would have to think about simply looking up in the sky. Usually when you look up in the sky you not really looking for anything, but subconsciously you are looking for serenity. In this moment there is no resistance, when you look at the clouds they usually resemble an object and this is because you don't resist to see anything, you literally let your mind lead to your thoughts and in this fashion there's no disturbances, so then you reach your state of creativity- seeing things to be something else. Your mind wonders what those clouds could be and everything flows harmoniously. In essence don't think about your idea just think what you idea could be.

                        inspiration

Never use any drug for inspiration, these laws aren't meant to mislead People into  life of hardship and self-destruction. This may seem to be the quickest route to your creative zone but this method will damage your brain in the longest run. We all strive for a masterpiece but getting yourself drugged up for a piece of art is total injustice to your health.
We have to understand that we can't all be inspired by the same thing or be inspired in the same way, think about whatever inspires you when you create. If it's an object then place it right in front of you...if possible.
However there is the ultimate driving force...AMBITION. Ambition is the most powerful tool you'll ever come across, what are goals and dreams if there is no ambition?
This tool alone can overcome the odds stacked against you. In fact what separates a good writer and a great one is not talent or intellect, it's ambition. Art is the possibility of everything in anything, with ambition you will became a better writer everytime you create something new. All of this can't be a myth because we all know the power of ambition.
Michael DeVoe Feb 2010
The weight of the world can be found
In the circles under my eyes
I spend my nights awake
Worried about the wrongs everyone else is suffering
I imagine what it would be like to be someone else
For so long I start writing rap songs harder than DMX
And I'm from the suburbs where no one comes out of adversity
Because there is no adversity
There is success
Or there is suicide
I worry for the future of ex lovers
Not just mine everybody's
Will they ever wake up from their depression
Will they love again
Will they smile tomorrow
I stay up worrying so late
My mundane work day is my only place to write
Or sleep, but I choose writing
Because I'm like the rest of my in-between-generations generation
We don't expect to live past thirty-five
So when I die the only thing my mom will have of me
Are these words I write
And I'd rather them be a bit more
Then love poems to girls who wouldn't remember meeting me
I want to write about important things
I want the things that make midnight
The start of my day
To be the things that make my pen run dry during it
I worry about hobo cities
Full of veterans, drug addicts, and bachelor degrees
And sometimes all three at the same time
I want to learn how to crochet
So I can make a blanket for every baby
Going home with a loving mom
Too poor to turn on the heater
This isn't a poem full of metaphors or similes
This is just true stories
From people who can't sugar coat their truths
Because sometimes you just can't get the blood out of the carpets
And your kids grow up playing hot wheels
On the stain their mom left when she left
Sometimes thirty-five to life is a *** deal
And it ends your life
Sometimes thirty-five to life is an excuse to get one
And sometimes thirty-five to life is the only thing keeping you alive
Because three square meals a day
Is a luxury you've never been afforded
I built a wailing wall in my house
And I have yet to put a prayer in it for myself
Not because I'm self righteous
Or perfect
But because I haven't gotten around to it
I just know there are so many others
Who could use the extra prayer more than I could
The way I figure it if no one prays for me
And I don't pray for myself
That should lighten the load a bit
And I've put in so many prayers for other people
The wall might just fall through the floor
And land in the living room of the lady who wears sunglasses
She wears them day and night, outdoors and in
I worry about her the most
More than AIDS ridden starving kids in Africa
More than Tsunami Victims
More than broken limbs and missing babies in Haiti
I worry about the lady who wears sunglasses
Because she knows no other form of love
Than the kind he gives her
And the closest she's ever felt to real love
Was the day he bought her those new sunglasses
To cover the bruises he gave her
The circles under my eyes get darker and darker
With every passing hour
And that's not a metaphor
You can see it if you turn on the lights
And the world is getting darker and darker
With every wrong that is suffered
And that is a metaphor
But that doesn't make it a lie
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae
cr Feb 2015
because sometimes
metaphors aren't obvious enough
i used a simile to tell someone i loved them and
they still didn't understand.
****.
ottaross Dec 2014
Wrapped in a blanket against the cold night
Like a paper-wasps' nest
in a black-and-white birch tree
dusted with snow;
Like the wick of a hundred-times-dipped beeswax candle,
awaiting the flame.
Marya123 Sep 2018
If I could write my life as a poem
For millions who'll read, understand, think
I'd conjure an epic, a mystery
A tale on edge, a tragedy's brink.

I'd weave gripping waves of pleasure
Together with heart-wrenching tides of pain
A sea of battles with no leisure
Of joyful wins going against the grain.

I'd stitch metaphors with gleeful pride
Constructing rhythm with a bit of rhyme
I'd dabble with similes here and there
It'd be my thread on the sands of time.

But when I see my life as it is now
How different it is from my lovely tale
It retains its mystery, some agony
A once-green crop grown dead and stale.

A lost yarn of mistakes and pitfalls
With regret binding the threads as one
Repeated faults with no known structure
A once-free verse that is trapped, undone.

So I'll cast away my dream of a life
In a graveyard as a forgotten goal.
Some dreams never come true, it seems
Just like some lives will never be whole.
Emma Amme Oct 2013
Sometimes i wish i could write poems
with all the similes clinging to your thoughts like barnacles.
And describe people with metaphors that wrap around the actual meaning like weeds grow on to other, more pretty plants.  
It would be nice if i could use edgy things like cigarette butts, half filled bottles of beer, and lipstick stained papers with a number jotted down
to describe mundane things like sadness and fear,
although lipstick stains and cigarette butts do leave an awfully mundane stench behind.

— The End —