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Dondaycee Nov 2017
Next lifetime just let me be,
All lost souls that noticed me,
Over killed the hope in me,
Helpful hands unnoticed, feet,
Blistering I’m growing weak.
I have questions for the runaways,
How did your feet get so strong?
Why couldn’t I tag along?
Did you leave home to be alone or vice versa, got cold and was searching for warmer days in the week?
What is life without a friend dependent on I,
Is trust nonexistent when there’s a mention of side,
Is it not selfish to love yourself before mind,
A system that houses a light linked throughout time,
“-What do you want?”
For you to love me like you love all.
Look in the mirror, what about this person,
“I’m always here, all you have to do is call”
Where’s the assertion? I’m looking for words because the ones I’m using aren’t working.
Never felt too good in crowds, because there’s folks around, and they’re always thinking,
Never felt too good or proud, when joyful sounds touch my heart before they’re leaving,
“-Loving others isn’t a bad thing, lose the fear, it’s a state of being.
Don’t hate yourself for seeing a reality that others aren’t capable of seeing.”
But, Am I dreaming?
“Do not confuse yourself, you don’t want to lose yourself for dreams are other realities, you are currently in a state of being.”
But what is being?
“To be or not to be is the question.”
… Give me clarity
“Everything is being, it’s all existing, everything existing is living.”
Is this another lesson?
“Is death to exist and not be, or to be and not exist?
That is my suggestion-”
-How can you be and not exist?
“To exist is to have objective reality, a reality that exist independent from our minds.
Consciousness construct realities through imagination in space, which is time,
So, does the world end when we die,
Or does the experience of this reality end and our consciousness move into another reality beyond the human mind?
Would the state of being then not exist after existences?”
Let me go the distance with an analogy to make sure there’s nothing I’m missing.
Is it pain to love in a world that perceive it with ignorance, or to fully understand it and not have the experience?
“A little personal but the balance is understood.”
I just needed some clarity to be reassured,
Because sometimes I’m insecure,
There’s never been a life that’s “similar”,
And I see things in my life that will occur,
Pretty lady, baby don’t you close the door,
With other opportunities of loving me more,
Arkyi, Dondaycee, keep my knees from the ground,
In times I forget to stand, and am feeling less than a man should when his woman’s aroused,
By another… that feeling’s profound.
“-Jealousy found, that energy is not allowed when there’s confusion around.”
Where’s that soothing sound that moved me in dreams,
That had me chasing angels confusing chicken with wings,
Searching for permission in missing some things,
Like the giggle or a touch that slowly faded through change,
Like that love at first sight that never made it to name,
Those “unspoken” relationships that never made it to name,
Those misunderstood moments I forgave and delayed an encounter because I couldn’t forget the feeling she gave before  pain.
Those hideaway hearts is where my shelter remained,
Because they kept the love pure when it was easy to drain.
It isn’t easy to contain let alone obtain a power source linked to the brain and refrain from allowing an equivalent vibration; being fear, creep into the domain and create a disease of insane.
“-Insanity is just as contagious as stupidity-”
-Please explain how to maintain love’s stability when hostility is blurred into a thin line.
Inhumane is humane when the word justify emerges in a reign of ignorance which solidifies the moment the sane become repetitive credited to an infection that dried the terrain of perception,
Unreceptive the brain becomes when love is trying to sustain which leads to strain that results in pain and fear burst as a supernova leading to actions in vain again and again,
Oh lord, the power of a woman.
If men could be before doing, we wouldn’t often do things we “shouldn’t”,
“It’s not a matter of wrong or right but evolving into light.”
Is it odd that I acknowledge you, voice inside my head?
“Just as odd as the words left unsaid before night.”
This solitude thing, it isn’t enough anymore, I need something new.
I learned to love myself from red to blue,
And I just reached purple, now all I see is white,
May that energy continue to heal and rise,
Frequency, continue to create shorter and steeper hills, so that I am able to write,
Documentations of this experience  discovering love that’s unforgettable,
Because self hate should never be unforgivable.
That illness is always hospitable,
The existence of love is aboriginal,
Individually being is medicinal and additional if traditional.
Through ourselves is how we connect to all, an adventure to,
Dive within thyself but too many times I forget myself.
Every time I learn to stand, I project and fall like I forget my shell,
Because it’s easier to live life as light than with the body, odd of me to dismiss my health,
Physical problems; wanting love, a senseless touch; tempted to rush a manifestation of her beside me.
That’s the biggest lie when all I need is I and the being inside me.
If this is a human experience, neglecting the body is a serious condition, mysterious as if ID.O.M and 3D have been misspelled,
Then what is hell?
“Death.”
I thought death doesn’t exist?
“It doesn’t, it’s a reality when the state of being is no longer well.”
To be… or not to be…
“That is a question of wealth.”
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
you know what i find funny? the phrase: i could eat you. juxtaposing vide cor meum against... this is the part where punctuation marks are never collision prone diacritical marks... but then again, there's that dietary joke... i could eat you... dependence on your bones not being properly disavowed within a langoustine broth... and there you are: a grey area mindful of Stalin... *****! i'm trying to humanise ******, stop interrupting! where once a moths' flutter, later a rainbow in the nacht! mind that niqab... nicht would mean nothing. some insinuated cappuchino, some cackles... some said cutie-pies invoking rouge cheeks... every time i watch these culinary shows i get thinking about cannibalism to counter veganism... and then i laugh... i don't want to find stinking socks and political correctness as "my way, did it to suit Lascaux cavern graffiti"... i preferred wanking than keeping up with women... it's the song i heard before lambs stiffened and muslims became muslims, and falafel was mince... ******, get under the hosepipe and you're there, all freely gagging for the fizz... a touch of tinsel... vide cor meum... return of policy... as half-heartfelt kaleidoscope returning to define a rainbow... i love that phrase given the palette opportunity... i could eat you. it's the demonic encouragement that solidifies the stench into what's to be seasoned properly... i don't know.. the phrasing: i could eat you sounds more formidable in delayed practice than: i can **** you... plus the gazpacho... which means: Batman ate cold cauliflower soup and slurred to slurp the question: but it's cold? Baldwin replied: it's supposed to be! they said orthography as a rigidness of aesthetic, i said... that's questionable whether any is applicable, given we're talking about graffiti.

i got tired of sensing other people's jealousy,
and tried to love them,
which ended up to be as much as a matrimony
toward one woman, ambition-bound
to incarnate the matrimony of swans...
  and the poor old ******, left to fantasy in
his days as a widower...
   every time i look at a lonely swans
i try to duck-quack the thing into existence...
            but there are variation of marriage...
a west london accountant can speak terrible
crap against an ethnicity i try to not identify with...
but i am courageously borne from,
    and therefore have to express some affiliation...
as a matter of principle...
  i rather not, but iu must, even though i sprechen
a host tongue... and am, therefore,
embedded with claims of socialite elitism...
                 but then i compare...
and these these comparisons are the due phrase...
Marilyn Manson's *a minute of decay

is a chance to hear the bass guitar overpower
           the drums... a bit like a culinary pistachio
moment in a risotto...
   i want room to breathe in!
     i want vaughan williams' fantasia on a theme
by thomas tallis... i sanctify the need
   for prokofiev's lieutenant kíjé's suite...
(dots are optional, the syllables aren't,
a classical dot above the iota might revel in
being the defining moment of tonguing /
dissecting a word... but it doesn't have to be so)
i need air to breath in, a moment to whimper...
why do the **** love Chopin and not Liszt?
   a bid ******* odd... i don't like either Chopin
or Liszt... because as Kaiser Yoseph said
in amadeus... to many notes...
and i agree... vivaldi made violins into cherub
       pumpernickle sparrows -
you danced, you joyed, you came across St. Vitus' dance...
   you were doing arithmetic as concord speed
within a framework of even (white) and odd (black)
numbers... once you played the nocturnal Fabergé -
someone suggested you move the ******
  goose to the Hermitage, and frame it!
why are the Japanese are the only Europeans in Asia...
      never mind, they just are,
hence they compete for playing Chopin like they consider
sushi to be a culinary exception of the tartar -
minus the influence, obviously, hence the stress to
impose Chopin... but never Liszt... odd...
          template virtuoso and you think of Liszt
than you might conjure Chopin...
           better than that... conjure champagne
bottles blundering to the volcano's worth of fizz...
still... the Japanese are a curiosity...
first of all: they abide by Chopin and chopsticks
not being utilised when gobbling sushi...
   they have the ambassadors of kimono,
samurai, origami, karaoke, bonßai (zye, rye),
          Fukushima... Hiroshima... yep, that place
were stanley lee derived the concept of x-men...
          still, they have permanent ambassadors in
opur midsts... words that can't be "translated" due
to etymological puritanism...
       finally the Portuguese sailed away, and founded
Brazil on the promise of an infinite supply of toothpicks
from the Amazon -
or? hai sensei!           hatch that with the catchphrase:
     kajagoogoo: shy-shy, hush-hush, eye-to-eye.
          we're storming the labyrinth right not,
and i still can't believe that poetry revolves around
the rhythm of rhyme... play any ping-pong, lately?
     no wonder poetry is a peacocking dollop
of clogged-up cow dung... it's just asking
for a *****-slap in a playground.
           but why Chopin and not Liszt?
the **** are what Napoleon was to the Duchy of
Warsaw... they love that arithmetic of
a pebble-dasher's *******...
       wet dreams... some authentic curiosities of
civilisation still have them... i wouldn't recommend
listening to them recounting the fables, personally...
i'd listen in on the succubus jerking them off...
  and just recently i was walking the deaf streets at
night with a bottle of beer and felt the bottle
of beer almost being tugged from my hand...
  and some say that eating a woman's umbilical-chord
is what's necessary to live as a man to later
sing some aria; or like drinking a pregnant woman's
**** will ensure you don't become myopic...
             i don't like Chopin,
i don't like Liszt either... i want a room, and a chance
to breathe... at the end of the classical expression
summarising the wind, we had a return
to the rooting in Africa... earthly delights
and a grumbling stomach in need of feeding,
  jazz did the work for us, jazz still had
an orchestral element to add a Lacan of all things
worthy of deconstruction...
       but then the French came along and shoved
fondue into our ears... and we said
alight with an eureka moment... pop!
             n'ah... the moment when the bass overpowers
the drums... i really have this wild fascination
with the bass guitar...
                 because i don't get Mozart,
and i do think that Handel did much more than
even the sacrificial lamb that Beethoven is...
                  listen... poetry doesn't have to be
music... rhyming is ping-pong anyway...
but as long as you feel in debt concerning music,
the music will come on its own accord...
today i was rattled by a mix of dub (without a step)
and beck's odelay... cruise-missile dylan...
give or take...
      well, given the italicised pr.s. (pre scriptum) -
much later an aged blonde boasted about snorkeling
******* and young ****... and missing out
when she teased me coming back to her abode...
           moth steals from a butterfly,
butterfly never turns into a daisy...
                       you're still a **** and i'm about
half of the total worth of being a ****...
which makes as equal... or queue more.
           variably condoned to be synonym with
mosque...  but i said mannequin...
     it's this **** with the five a day....
Christendom mentioned fruit & veg...
Islam mentioned variations of a murmur...
   is prayer classified as fruit, or vegetable?
you're as bewildered as i am...
   i too thought tomato is a fruit...
turns out it's a vegetable...
primarily due to basil, feta, and the mediterranean.
               herring belong in the baltic,
******* attempting that sort of ballistics...
ask about the relationship between
              a. yan sobieski
         b. ******
                    c. window on arabia (vienna,
counter st. petersburg) -
     oh you'll get many thanks...
sure... you'll end up becoming assured
that dogs don't need petting, but training,
and that you have to make all friends bound
to be kenneled, because they won't learn otherwise;
it's a bit sad...
          for about a minute...
                   you tried being peace-abiding,
peace-mindful...
   you wanted to state compassion...
  in the end people need a slap... or as 2000 years of
history proved... a crucifix.
Canaan Massie Nov 2012
I feel your love,
Yet your marksmanship is poor,
For towards me your love aims not.
Your intentions aimed elsewhere.

A past lover.
And I am not he.

Malicious Misery pushed you too far.
Too far this time.
Your life is precious to me,
Yet a treasure you seek not.

It dwindles within these machines,
Like a strand of seaweed.
Being crashed upon by the waves,
Of this poison you endowed yourself with.

Much a tragedy this is.
Yet not that of Shakespeare.
No, this much too real,
To take a form of fictitious imaginings.

This, much more complicated,
Than a Shakespearean masterpiece.
For if so,
Your love would be aimed at I.

But it is not,
And in resent, I mourn this tragedy.
Yet, I must let love,
Travel upon its everso hellbound path.

My eyes lie upon thee,
And my heart within the feeble hand of yours.
Yet your mind lies elsewhere,
And your desires lie with your mind.

Upon he.
The one currently at your arms reach.
The one at your desires demand.
The one you truly love.

I must not resent this,
For love hath struck thee as it struck I.
And Cupid's arrow hath stuck he as well.
I can see it in his sorrowful stare.

He loves you in a way that I cannot.
A consentful love.
For I am just a scapegoat.
Temporary.

Well now you've quenched your desire.
You've acquired what you sought.
Love of he.
(And I, for whatever its worth.)

His love is a precious gold,
And mine a mere coal.
Black, unwanted.
Only able to provide temporary warmth.

Pardon me for obstructing.
Love hath stolen my precious vision,
And wandered, I,
Into the meadow in which you hunt.

As a poor marksman,
Thou cast thine arrow of love upon me,
And realized I am but a scapegoat,
When the white stag is what you seek.

Once before,
you lined him in your sights.
But evasive is this mystical creature.
And once, he escap'd.

If your life so solidifies,
I shall replinish my vision,
Banish my love,
And obstruct thee no more.

Instead,
I must prosper in silence and patience.
Shun my hearts desires,
And let thee hunt.

I apologize for my inconvenience.
I shall groom each of your horses,
So that you may ride into,
The meadow of love together.

Hence, beware of hunters,
And wandering creatures.
Teach thine unsteady hand,
And this time...

Don't miss.
SE Reimer Jul 2016
~

each intersection, a crossroad made,
every answer, a question began;
each wrong, a right opposing,
every song, a note composing,
after darkness, the light again!

angry words won’t heal the pain,
apologies like ointment’s rain;
flood-washed roads a crossing need,
no line in sand, a bridge instead,
points me north, your heart to claim!

i am no island, though often seems,
my pained retreat, a blood trail leaves;
i find my greatest strength of all,
within your heart’s loving embrace,
held firmly in your grip of grace!

there is no strength in platitudes,
cliches are weak, like worn out shoes;
the darkened bank cannot hold sway,
o’er lighted bridge that leads the way,
points me north, and back to you!

~

*post script.

learning something of
defense mechanisms,
mine in particular;  
sadly, when brokenness
is too acute to hide,
the retreat is not bloodless.
bridges built of simple
three-word sentences
greatly needed ...  not a
crafted flood of well-worded,
defensive responses.

“i am sorry!” and “i love you!”...
two, eight-letter, three-cord ropes,
requiring no word-smithing,
yet are sound-ly engineered
for mending souls and
building hearts-bridges
not easily broken...
each capable of bearing
(baring) great weights.

and yes, there are notes composing here,
for it is said, “a song solidifies
the heart’s passionate decisions!”
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                   as i am pretty sure all americana
feels about "us":
oh 'ook, 'ere comes old man
europe,
           no hemmingway,
and no so: as the casual english
expression solidifies exchanges:
just across the atlantic:
                            the, pond...
haven't the foggiest...
     i'm "new" here,
   and even i find these english prims
& pomps and idiosyncracies
a bit debilitating...
today i walked from my home
with a knife in my pocket...
why... why?!
                         apparently it's worse
than new york,
a belt as a qusimodo boxing
glove won't cut it,
   given that that:
   requires a formal introduction,
prior to a fight...
    guns guns guns...
     over 'ere we 'ave knives knives knives...
and politicians can't exactly
ban them... no, not really...
ban knives, soon you'll be banning
forks, then spoons...
   and then...
   the whole ******* kitchen...
we'll all be eating out,
in public, cheap cheap cheap,
cheap restaurants
like the slovakians eat in...
    can you even imagine that while
in st. petersburg i didn't see,
not one mcdonalds...
    same so in moscow:
                   not a single mcdonalds...
it was like a: relief...
  a bit like only seeing africanos
only, but not elsewhere other than warsaw;
erm: afro-saxons?
            sure! we have them in england,
plenty of afro-saxons...
                so now afro(x)
is not pop-up frizzy hair,
bundled into a french bun...
                    type of... "thing"?
**** yeah!
                                hit the spot!
oh old man europe...
      tired and yet, and yet tired
of his riches,
   how craving the old trenches
of Ypres...
the belgian mud, the rain,
                        the rats and crows...
europe: lament over libya...
or even pseudo-neo-rome
lamenting over carthage being destroyed...

in reverse -
              abbrv. into - orior carthago!
was it cato the elder
   who persisted counter to this?
   as heidegger would have put it:
            that's not even question-worthy.
Andrew Rueter Sep 2017
I'm not special
I'm just one out of seven billion
And we're all interconnected
So why am I the only one driving down this road?
You don't have my address
Or my wifi password
Have you found the bat in your gazebo?
I found mine
And named him Bruce

The leaves that fall on my vehicle
Touch no other's
And the rain that pours onto me
Soaks into my skin
It becomes a part of me
That sets me apart
Subjectivity solidifies separation

Like Saturn's rings
A planetary population of particles
That create something beautiful together
Our species is special
Sam Nov 2016
Rays shimmer off, like the sun on the water,
reflecting its beauteous stature.
Amber captures the moments,
holds them forever.
Soft, smooth, and unforgettable.
Confidence glitters within,
Elegance dazzles the exterior.
I kinda changed it to crystals?
I might go back to the red serpent, but i think the crystals describe this better
so two series at once i guess haha
Owen Phillips Apr 2013
It's all gone out of me, the hammer falls and I'm not ready to answer
Trembling, weakness supporting a tub of jelly
The pollen-filled air flies past like the
Pelicans at the edge of the harbor
Taking us gliding for an unpleasant ride
Down the corridors of plastic colors
Through the one word answers that bubble forth from
10,000 years away in hyperspace
Where the mechanisms of language become so convoluted
That they disappear completely out at the vanishing point
Coming up behind you again to drag you into that smoky allure
You remember hating and pinching your nose from
And hiding in the car, but the new fear is of becoming addicted to it
Just like your addiction to ego games and
Intellect, just like your addiction to pleasure and constant validation

The validation's there in the eternal self, they say
But I'm an intellectual
Too impatient for meditation
And lost along the way to enlightenment
That I truly want,
But then I'll never have it if I continue to live this way

It's wilderness calling from a tame fool
Sticking up for you the overgrown horoscope signifies
The shapes of skydives,
He comes in and out of our dull lives
And there's an electric current that solidifies between
Him, Us, and his music
Iron rods jutting up from scorched earth
A broken paradise
Crumbling in a whisky tumbler
Blackened by fiber filters, creations
Unlocked by flowing ontological
Caricatures, open wounds gnashing
At attention-seeking osteopaths
Fortune seekers clamber down
Soccer field bleachers,
Somebody lost his sneakers in the woods
Once there was a set of barbells along the trail
We fell in line and started
Counting each other
One by one it seemed like the green apples would never fall
It was up to us to wait for the shower
It would feed our kin
We'd begin to rise up together
But it could never keep up with our pen
We wanted the ghosts to follow us and overtake our mortal foes
But we couldn't command the armies of the dead
We derive all our pleasures from films and campfire stories
We contrive our adventures but we wait for them to happen to us
We take a passive role in finding love
And it blinks lights at us across suburban streets through windows in the dark
The mind begins to writhe with new memories it composed of old
An idealized time of a child with the perverse mind
Of a hogtied adolescent
Guessing that the course of existence
Isn't determined by the speed of your calculations
Testing the warm water on a naked toe
We could dive in and forget to breathe
And the water could carry us forever
Alleviating gravity
All the obstacles we perceived in past lives
Remain with us like
Chimney swifts on the bottomless April days of a
Klu Klux **** telephone operator
Who believed in the spirit and the holy ghost
And burned a quiet altar to Satan's minions every Sunday night
Drinking nail polish and
Obscure references to the films of the
Ancient Greek philosophers, who
Saw the medium as a means to a message
And patronized the elitest filmmakers to study the ancient Runes
And reveal their findings to a power-hungry public
That would not outright reject it
But that would have to follow it down the rabbit hole
Through the wide mouth of the trumpet around brass fixtures
And into the tight hot moist mouth of the trumpeter
And the elemental warriors would strike oil beneath the whole affair
Ending the time we spent hoping for any entertainment to create itself before our barren psyches
Busying ourselves with incomprehensible tasks and letting our indolence take the reins until we found our heads again out there amid the vapors of
New car chem trails and old railroad bunkers where spruce and cedar grow through cement earth, they force apart the ground with just their roots

We weren't ready to keep watch the following weekend but we
Had no choice when the government bond expired
And we had only technological solutions left to hope for
And wrongly we abandoned our research posts to fight the enemies
With giant weapons and uncreative slogans
Our drummers played so fast we marched along and killed all that remained in record doubletime
Rendering the events of that victorious day immortal in the ingenious accounts of
Philosopher/poet/historian Michael Jackson
Who gave one final performance
To save himself from what must not be
thinklef Sep 2013
Assalamu alaikum, may peace be upon you!
I'm Islam,
The religion of peace & ease
Islam is not hatred or adversity
or a course in the university
Hold on a minute,
I'm sure you are familiar with me,
Oh yes you're,
You see me everyday in the news,
Been accused of things I didn't do,
Are you amused or transfixed
Cause I'm been abused?
Lol let me break it down for you,
Like my brother kadir rightly said,
In his last poem,I'm not a terrorist,
They say,
I have become a threat to the west to the world in wide,
I have been black listed,
Among the list of the rest to the west,
You know,
It sounds so funny when I'm been addressed as a terror,
Some even go far calling me an error,
They say i terrorise & create tension
that's not my intention,
I don't give out such instructions,
I have obligated you to fast & pray,
& not discriminate,
I have obligated you not to hate & lower your gaze,
For lustful eyes crystallize Into habit & habit solidifies into circumstance,
I tell you not to use harmful substance,
For the pain won't subside,
it will only lead to suicide,
I tell you to respect others religion,
and play with your wife during your leisure,
I tell you to be kind to others & never raise your hand on a woman,
I mean if I tell you that,
Why would you raise your hand on a human,
I have given you a holy book of truth,
Sent from up above your roof,
Yet you go from root to root searching for truth & then you end up been used,
I tell you not you **** unjustly,
You may call me a saint,
Yes I'm,
Cause i've been sent by the creator to the creations,
I'm not a preacher nor a teacher,
But I'm here to preach to those who are wretched & rich,
My message to humanity is that vanity,
creates insanity,
So to those who are sensitive,
Take up the responsibility to defend my name ,
In time of shame,
Some i permit ,some i do not,
For you will have a shade in hereafter.
#misconceptions
Caroline Oct 2012
The clock ticks, a persistent sound
So timely, predictable, comforting
Straight like a board, simplicity is complexity
The small hand is their conductor
Pup-petting their very motion

The walls creak the sound of despair
Longing to be relieved from their shackles
Hollowing out their insides, Revealing their holes
Concrete, stucco, asphalt  
Solidifies their existence

The board mocks their silent screams
An empty canvas to be scribbled upon
Steered by the gestures of its very strokes
Tainted by the smell of the ink’s sweet high
A reflection of their inner thoughts
I am an African,
Just like you are,
Here I am in Africa,
From Africa,
I may speak,
Not your African language,
But a cataclysmic African,
Who speaks my African language,
I am.
An inferior African,
You may as you do,
Regard me,
But still,
African I am,
African I cry,
African I laugh,
African I sing,
African I live.


You have made me feel ashamed,
To be in this part of Africa,
But never,
Will you make me feel ashamed,
To be African,
Whatever derogatory labels,
You may stick on me,
No matter how unAfrican,
Kwerekwere, Grigamba or whatever,
But still,
I will be an African,
Even a much better one.


African,
Like my father,
His fore fathers,
And their forefathers,
African,
Just like I was yesterday,
African,
Just like I am now,
African,
That is what I will always be,
And African,
Forever.


According to the author, we are all foreigners in any country on this earth, more like tenants. No one has any claim to any portion of this earth for it belongs to God. The barbaric, self-centered and intolerant demeanor we have recently witnessed in South Africa tells the story of mindless teaks on a dog that are claiming to own the dog and solidifies the myth that Africa is a dark continent and Africans are still stuck in the animal kingdom. How do we dispute what is becoming more of a fact that “you can take Africans from the bush but you can never take the bush out of Africans”. Fellow South Africans (the perpetrators), you have proved to be more disgusting than ***** and the most befitting place for you is the sewage dump that is far away from Africa. If there was another Africa that is not this Africa, I would have done the obvious and most logical thing – to completely disassociate my dignified African self from the brainless, destructive, inhuman thugs that you are. Today, I am an African who is dead ashamed to be African!
According to the author, we are all foreigners in any country on this earth, more like tenants. No one has any claim to any portion of this earth for it belongs to God. The barbaric, self-centered and intolerant demeanor we have recently witnessed in South Africa tells the story of mindless teaks on a dog that are claiming to own the dog and solidifies the myth that Africa is a dark continent and Africans are still stuck in the animal kingdom. How do we dispute what is becoming more of a fact that “you can take Africans from the bush but you can never take the bush out of Africans”. Fellow South Africans (the perpetrators), you have proved to be more disgusting than ***** and the most befitting place for you is the sewage dump that is far away from Africa. If there was another Africa that is not this Africa, I would have done the obvious and most logical thing – to completely disassociate my dignified African self from the brainless, destructive, inhuman thugs that you are. Today, I am an African who is dead ashamed to be African!
Paul Butters Aug 2017
Let’s go to an antimatter universe
Where hot ice solidifies
Under the black light of the freezing sun.
A world where short giraffes hide beneath
The tall grass, amongst low trees.
See those high plains, watery deserts and low mountains.
Slow flies crawl over red skies
As turtles and tortoises speed around.
Here, hot sun is an oxymoron
And everything is downside up.

Or if you prefer we could visit a realm
Like on “Red Dwarf”
Where time flies backwards:
People formed from dusty death
To live and grow youthful
On the way to an inevitable birth
And death again
When parental **** parts from *****.

Paul Butters
This was fun.
Dalton Bauder Nov 2012
each moment perceives new ecstasies through me,
as vision locks on every shifting road
still leading home, most fervently.
percolated dreams reveal
the seeds that have been well concealed.
as each moment waves so delicately
mimicking a cloth in the breeze,
in the breath of an exhale 
a future is foreseen
within me.

boiling from me is
the steam of my awareness,
as the torch within now flares.
flowing gently into the air I breathe,
consciousness solidifies chemically;
vibrant harmony extends,
as minds eye stares.
at this place inside me
where I will dwell eternally,
embracing all I've made.
despite a razor thin gaze,

all roads lead home.
never forget
JJ Hutton Apr 2011
the leaves of my mind die,
without rustle, without why,
an incessant new season of direction
of spring, of beauty, of need,
orthodox and counterclocks
of bathroom stalls and
desperation calls--
in the tile we prove our worthwhile
as the hounds and haunts of yesterday
test our haul,
and I'm a magician and a *******,
a lover and a shotty terrorist,
the mad house rings,
sing, sing, sing
of yesterday--of fever dreams,
make me levitate to heavens,
push me away for doorknobs
and summer screens,
those are temporary,
lionesses in heat,
to be appeased
for the watering hole
and mouths of summers sought to soon--
we can romanticize the afternoon,
we can romanticize the mundane gloom,
but in the end we are nomads,
bouncing off shoreline and magazine subscription,
confused of endings
and brave in the face
of annihilation.
Rewrite the histories of our forefathers,
rewrite the reinventions of the wheel,
until it's all progress and simmering,
until the *** is full and festering,
when the now is soon,
and yesterday is dead,
the magnificence of misery--
hits like a runaway diaper truck
to add injury to insult,
to add scorpion to sting,
and if your mother is a dancer,
be not ashamed,
but praised,
she filled a primal need,
more than can be said about
Hemingway or Artaud or Bonaparte or the spring,
I have mountains to climb
and ****** rhymes to satisfy--
if you feel love,
boast,
if not welcome to hell,
a perpetual ****** roast
of ego,
of soul,
of every lover you let go--
the luck lies at stoplight kisses,
the luck lies in ***** sheets
and clean sneakers,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
heaven is my fix,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
I'll buy two hells a week for
the rest of my endless years,
if you love me,
do it,
don't doubt,
don't simmer,
ignite,
burn  brighter than former,
than the mourner,
than the funeral singer,
and make dinner on the ground,
we'll howl as the gravestones depreciate,
we'll howl as the stock market
solidifies in ice,
we'll howl as we realize the trite,
and I'm wrong often
but mostly right,
ask the machine gun,
and the sparrow hauling the olive branch,
ask murderers and the stain on your pants,
time is a circus of the three-ring variety,
too much to focus,
too much to bore,
too much to whine,
but under the cover of freedom--
enough to die in contentedness
and lie in the pangs of eternity
with a sigh, a slip of the tongue
and a pair of rolling eyes--
let not your daughter drown,
let not the horns on your head weigh you down,
the tomorrow is soon,
the now is ancient,
the promises to be fulfilled
will leave you begging-
bring on the fantasy,
the daydreamed celibacy,
the marooned integrity,
I've got a moon,
fourteen clouds,
and a headrush from nicotine--
drink of my youth, it's light, easy, cheap--
enough to get you drunk,
but lacking the dexterity of luck--
the burden, the burden
of always giving a ****.
- From Anna and the Symphony
Healer Dec 2021
For a moment you a moonlit dream,
me a grounded reality got intertwined.
You the best of good,
me the worst of bad
met at the right corner of the round world.
However, like a flame finding fuel,
my fear of the lovely dawn solidifies.
Alas, the dream that can't be grasped has finally disappeared.
Sarah Mann May 2018
I want to be in a love like this forever.
With your eyes grazing my skin,
Following your circling fingertips.
You touch me in a way, so delicately,
So lovingly, like you actually care.
Your kisses that you place on my forehead
As I’m drifting off into paradise
Remind me what spring love is supposed to look like.
The grass under my toes pull me into the present
While we dance across the lawn with our hands intertwined.
Butterflies zig zag across my vision and you spin me around.
The music drowns out all of our other problems.
And life feels beautiful.
When I’m in my sundress and
You’re watching me from our picnic blanket
You tell me you love me, and my heart begins to flutter.
The last days of cold are erased by your beautiful laugh
The warmth of sunlight and the soft cool breeze
Further pushes our passion and solidifies our feelings.
You grip my waist and lift me into the air.
Time feels rosy and fair, while the birds chirp and call.
With no real agenda, without the controlling menace of time.
We hold hands and spend the afternoons enjoying the bliss.
The newly bloomed flowers and reappearance of green
Feels like a long awaited, highly anticipated surprise
As does our relationship.
We take in the pink skies together,
Hoping we will never have to say goodbye,
Affectionately kissing one another.
Knowing this is a time we will always miss.
Spring, is a time for new beginnings.
It is the perfect time, for a love like this.
Written over spring break during a time when my life was a little more filled with light.
SassyJ Apr 2016
Rushed by the stormy ‘purple rains’
Crescendos that picks in all peaks
Softness of the male energy portrayed
Prolifically flamboyant and eccentric

Ambiguous, mysterious sensual reciter
Classically unconventional and different
Shedding the specifications of gender roles
Crowned by dark shades of violet pizzazz  

As the rain settles on the dusty grounds
As the soil solidifies and paste the others
As the dove wails looking for its nature
Rest in peace as the mascara waters down
Rest in Peace Prince
Bob B Sep 2018
We hobble along with outrage fatigue
And watch as nothing ever exhausts
Our Machiavellian leaders' use
Of the media to win at all costs.

False story lines prevail.
To hell with accuracy and precision.
Sowing distrust of higher learning
Solidifies their paranoid vision.

Watch how their destructive disdain
For expertise gains vitality
As people's opinions and feelings stomp
On any form of objective reality.

Watch as they rewrite history;
Notice how data can be erased
As they become suspicious of much
Information that's science-based.

Language becomes weaponized:
Hyperbole, salacious lies,
And slippery superlatives
Celebrate truth's demise.

Party loyalty: that is key.
All that matters is the sale.
Hijacking democracy
Becomes the goal: the holy grail.

Mobilized by grievance, they
Inflame fear and anger. They hope
That we will find scapegoats to blame
When we are at the end of our rope.

A general illiteracy
On issues that affect our lives
Keeps us all in doubt while they
Create fake news and sharpen their knives.

Ah, how they want you to fear
Government, which is ironic,
For they themselves are government.
Look at their smiles, cold and sardonic.

Give equal weight to both
Sides of arguments, they say.
That's how they can justify
Bigotry and lead us astray.

While extremist views go mainstream,
Blurred lines make life hazy.
Keep watering narcissism,
And you will see it grow like crazy.

Their careful manipulation of language
Proves how much their rhetoric's swollen.
The people find it hard to accept
That basic freedoms are being stolen.

As we lament the death of truth
And wonder how it came to pass,
Before we cast blame we must
Peer into the looking glass.

-by Bob B (9-28-18)

°Inspired by "The Death of Truth" by Michiko Kakutani
Trey Evans Jan 2015
not even my skin is as black as they
following me step for step
we all possess them
but only when the sun shows its face
letting us know that they’re seen any chance they get
the brightness from the sun solidifies their loyalty
never to let us forget they’re behind us
it’s a shame how that same loyalty
dims to darkness
just as the sun does
just as they do
written 1/10/15
Brian Goosen May 2017
Days like today bring me to reminisce,
of the life we shared, now an abyss.

Recent life has been testing,
this lonely Mother’s Day solidifies your resting.
Today it feels more like you were never here,
what type of life is it that I’m now investing?

Posed with the question of happiness.
what is this meaning without you?
living today admonishes the truth,
only former memories allow me your bliss.

Mixed feelings of love and hatred,
circumvent in this current conquest.
As I contemplate reaching out I'm reminded,
that your remains are all that is left.

Be at peace with the truth,
is the message you conveyed well.
I question God about this new reality,
a life filled with constant duality.

Your loss is permanent,
& recognizing this is pertinent.
This daily battle without you,
I cope because your gift of a DNA armament.

“Time brings perspective”,
were the words that escaped from your soul.
You are still my everything,
and today I escape into your memory.
What you love you must love now. RIP Cynthia Goosen. Your memory lives on! #love #depression #longing #sadness #mourning #pain # mothers-day
Leigh May 2015
An insistent past solidifies a present crumbling at my feet --
To rubble so fine it rains through desperately cupped hands.
20W
SassyJ Dec 2015
Dear one,
As the domino, I fall cascading on the drawing board. Why would one deny progression? A furtherance , the ebb and flow. I remain up beat and spirited as I read your letters. It's like a barred barricade is being lifted.Your glowing light is charging me. Certainty is liberating, the riding of the waves have become a skill that I have engrossed. The tides spread from shore to shore and I must anchor. I am ever grateful for your deliberation in regard to my current affairs. Your magnanimity is greatly appreciated.

                                           As I am
Enormous, bountifulness of free spirit. Episodes of  taciturnity alternated by sequences of  thrill are remarkably felt. The higher level linking is simultaneous , coordinated and equidistant. As life propels, years progress a resemblance of energy is greatly congruent. The conforming compatibility of the absolute is evident. Transpiration of what once known yet unknown surfaces, erupts and consolidates a new meaning. A renewed existence, a recovered emergence solidifies. These moments are so evident, abundantly and vehemently felt on every fibre,bone and muscle of my being. Right to the core of my soul, my very existence.

On the tangent of thoughts........"J" the jewel... the forgotten treasure. What happened to the nature trueness that stroked your mind? The non win compromises aren't spontaneous. We must realign.... we must.

Vous êtes magnifiquement merveilleux et excellent en tous les moyens possible.
You sure do give me the butterflies......
You hold me in skies high above.
I can't control the butterflies.........
Is it just a flutter ?

To progress as you progress.....
SassyJ

Inspired by........
Natasha Bedingfield (Soulmate)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P27MPi3ZhCg
Vous êtes magnifiquement merveilleux et excellent en tous les moyens possible.


Translation from French:
You are wonderful and beautifully excellent in all ways possible .
PrttyBrd May 2017
My fortress of solitude
solidifies regret
counterbalancing justification
with waning self worth

It could be worse
and I am imperfect
so I stay in this place invisible
seen only in degrees unworthy

But here alone
I can pretend I am strong
the truth hidden
by what I cannot show

Words are my friends
where my thoughts
are my enemies
Still, I remain

Not bad enough to leave
Just horrible enough to keep me hidden in this isolation
ashamed to show my face
afraid to be free and learn...

it's all true
5617
JJ Hutton Apr 2011
coldshoulders abound,
the gowns gather moss
on the carpeted plains,
with a snaggletooth
and a plainface,
         I kiss your blue lips--
         I kiss your blue lips--
         I kiss your blue lips--
if you love him,
why do you spend your time with me--
if you love to dream,
why have you been overindulging on grief,
we can build a family,
a torrent,
a tree,
a yellow bird,
and three graves--
call it real estate,
call it legacy,
just call it more than it seems--

coldshoulders abound
circling like vultures,
circling around the maypole,
taste turns mundane,
so we bite with sharpened teeth,
so we pull hair with renewed vigor,
         I kiss your blue lips--
         I kiss your blue lips--
         I kiss your blue lips--
until the hot red liquid of time solidifies.
© 2011 by J.J. Hutton
R Saba Jan 2014
we place so much importance
on words, don’t we?
like these black lines
define us or something
like these speech bubbles can represent
the real thing inside
so why do we find words for things
that do not exist?
and why are there some things
that we cannot describe?
four letters, four words
an entire book isn’t enough
to explain how i feel right now
when i hardly know myself
and that’s just the thing
we place so much importance on words
as if they can say what we can’t
as if i could just reach inside myself
and pull out this feeling, confused and unheard
and words will fill in the blanks for me
but it’s not like that
we place so much importance
on something we created ourselves
and we write words down, like love
and hate and everything in between
and it seems to me like putting pen to paper
just solidifies the definition
tattoos it into reality’s skin, and it sinks in
and that word takes hold
whether or not it was true
of course, here i am
hypocritical as usual
tearing down the one thing
that lets me speak my mind
but i guess i just wish there was some other way
to figure out how i really feel
feeling boxed in
the moment when you met was rather insignificant
but then someone told you that she liked you
and you realized that – hey – you suddenly liked her too.
and so you expectedly courted her
kissing her at moments that you did with previous girls
telling her old sentences
recycling plainly hidden stories from your childhood:
one showing your good heartedness
one about your embarrassing marching band days (without forgetting to mention your pop-punk band now)
and, of course, the first girlfriend tale that makes you seem vulnerable.
and through these, you reveal things to her that other girls, now decaying in your mind, have known for many many months.

yes you hook up
and the *** is up to par
and there’s some appeal to the overall lack of trying involved.
you date as obligation
and you somehow convince yourself that you love her
because feeling wanted feels so **** pleasant
and her lack of intrusion on the rest of your life is pretty convenient overall.

and out of complacency this love takes hold
or at least solidifies like an algae bloom
and you grow tired for settling
and she gets exhausted from caring
and everything stagnates to a perfect balance.
your blood hardens to plastic
so the your muscles can no longer fight
against the unsettling comfort of the life
you said you’d never lead.
© David Clifford Turner, 2010

For more scrawls, head to: www.ramblingbastard.blogspot.com
Stargaria Aug 2015
Him
He creeps in,
Makes no sound.

I feel him,
As he exhales his crystallising cold breath,
Cold to the touch yet warm.

He holds me,
Helps me,
Saves me.

His blue icy lips gentle kiss,
My neck is frozen,
My spine it shivers.

A tear flowing down my cheek,
Slows as it solidifies,
To cold, icy dust.

I'm stagnant,
Immobile,
Scared.

He slowly moves,
Icicles are forming on my chin,
As tears flow.

My eyes are shut but I feel his blistering, cold breath,
As it embraces my face,
I can breathe.

His lips move closer,
I can feel it.

They meet mine in perfect alignment,
And then it was blue,
As they joined mine we formed a lilac sea,
Cold to the touch,
Inviting me in.

My eyes opened,
He was gone,
Again,
I was alone.
Sometimes imagination is real, sometimes life is subconscious, and sometimes I love it.
Olga Valerevna Jan 2013
A weeping willow grows inside to take the place of me
For I cannot identify with any other tree
With branches frayed and leaves to clothe my sappy human bark
I cling to roots that planted me before I made them dark
And so I wait, my patience worn, til seasons pass us by
And bring you back to water me with saltiness divine
Open up your cloudy sky and let yourself come down
You need to know that all this time you've nursed my shallow ground
I'm ready now, much more than I have ever been before
And your delay solidifies the rings within my core
title inspired by a song by Future of Forestry - Horizon Rainfall
Brian Oarr Jul 2012
The abscission of  inner voice comes,
storm from a vein of clouds,
cut that bleeds a profusion of thoughts.
She trails a finger through confusion,
seeks coagulation, anything that solidifies.

Free but lonely --- an epitaph signed
by empty arms from lip to heart,
extended to a faithless world.
Something more than silence ---
tears form a haptic prayer.
Christine Sep 2010
The warmth
Of steamed, solids turned liquid
Thaws my frostbitten throat.

My solar plexus heats
Recalibrates my needs
And diverts resources.

Coffee provides what I do not receive
From a warm body gone missing.
My core solidifies, as clay in a kiln.

If I cannot have a hand to warm mine
A mug will do.
But if I cannot have you
Liquid is a poor substitute.
JK Cabresos Oct 2011
I am young man, conquered a few phrases
And my name is never pronounced by others' lips
I condemned myself for seeking words to rhyme;
For I've been in poetry, years after years of my life:
I may have not those qualities to be a renowned poet,
I will still write even Shakespeare stoop at me upset:
I love composing poems, whatever others may say
For I am prone upon this kind of art, day after day,
Poetry; is where my heart and my my mind solidifies
Tho I may have not a motif for others to be inclined.
He (Shakespeare) is already a diamond; I am not!
Dreams are where it all began, so I will never stop:
There are many prolific writers, better than what I may
Yet my hands will still write even Shakespeare detests me.
© 2011
Carmelo Antone Mar 2013
Running through the forest,
Beyond the intruding trunks,
Over roots that reached from the soil,
I've been snapping twigs,  
Only to leave a trail blood,
Staining the forest floor crimson green,

But it is his nature to go his own way,
To tear through the pain,
To become the greatest thing he can perceive,
Draining the decadence from his veins,

It isn't like he is a thief,
Just a minuscule entity,
Till he solidifies his being,
So that others can learn of him, even by turn pages on three rings,

Dripping,
Drooling,
Confident he will be confined to the history books,
Despite being destined,
Despite living with the acceptance,
Dredging the evidence,
Of being fit for a grave someday,

Staining the leaves,
We might as well strive,
To leave our mark,
To sight our sites for the sake of a dream,
Whatever helps you and me sleep,

Not seeking violence,
So bless you all,
I wish there was a god,
Because I’d pray,
I beg,
I’d follow the one who could tie the unknown fray
Uniting us all
Bring the silence to my lips,
And peace during your stay,

But demanding an almighty beacon will not help right now,
It is just us my friends,
On a world siphoned from stars,

So we must insure the change,
Because there isn't an chance a deity could save us from our social decay,  
There is no need to cover up your granddad’s scars,
The pillars of our personal rise ,

Not a loss cause but on course for an evolutionary delay,
That is why he’s running through the wood,
Stumbling over roots,
Spattering chromosomes all over the place,

He's you and me,
Just sprinting through an existence,

Only to be sliced by those that brought you into this natural cage,
Captives unable to escape a fate,
Invisible stage, my arrival was set to a predetermined date,

Pleading pity, I was conceived without a say,
We must avoid those twigs they consider the vines of divinity,
To show them your just another human,
Potentially the ending to our plight through a naturally nourished might.
Craig Reynolds Jun 2010
Upon the dry afternoons,
the heavens tremble violently,
thick with a fathers fear,
that condenses into anger.
The sky must some day fall,
and i think it knows that.
The sun blisters its back,
and the mountains splinter its side,
but still it lurches forth,
the chained gardner to earth,
content to look down and see,
his lover still shares his suffering.

Among the muddied morn'
Gaia quivers indefinitely,
full with a mothers worry,
that solidifies into pain.
The ground must someday slip,
and i think it knows that.
Time has curved her posture,
and weather shows her age,
but still creaking forth,
the spinning ballerina's curse,
and the infidelity of the truth.
Copyright 2010
Becky Bergstol Sep 2010
the world melts with the sun
every morning at sunrise
melts under the heat of golden rain

but when the sun goes down
and the liquid world cools, solidifies
the renaissance begins
and every night
a whole new world is created
a mysterious world

one night, the world created had no greed
and wind was as real as wood beneath the figertips
because they appreciated their surroundings for more than their worth

another night, the world formed into nothing but one mountain
with millions of people who had no method of communication
besides varying the twinkle in their eye

yet they were happier than we have ever been

every morning, a world melts
every night, a world is born
I don't know where you are right now.
It scares me a lot.
Worst case scenarios scream into my head, logical ones being shoved away in a last ditch attempt at cynicism.
The fact that I'm crying and falling apart so solidifies your existence in my life.
You mean more to me than I ever meant to let a friend mean to me again.
Not after him.
Not after he made a mockery of our friendship.
Not after everything that changed because of that, because of him.
The fact that I don't know what I'd do without you now, only proves your worth.
I want you to stay.
I don't want you to be like the others.
We've spoken of broken promises and how actions scream while words make no sound at all.
I've found explanation and cures for unknown, fatal viruses.
And this clock that keeps ticking, is mocking my anxiety and fear of your safety.


I know where you are now.
I know you're safe, at least safer than I thought you were.
You'd be safer if you were here, but then again so would I.
Without your contact, I've let the others step in easily and consume me.
Without your consent, I let myself slip back into times when I was vulnerable and weak.
Without you, my memories are cutting deep and I'm unable to sew myself up quick enough.
Marc Hawkins Sep 2017
CURRICULUM

Blood seeps
It curtains their eyes
Rendering them
Temporarily blind
Semi-scalped
Skin folded back
Exposing of skull
Ready to crack

Holes drilled
An access to the mind
Pumped with liquid knowledge
Which then solidifies
Conventional learning
Soft subjects barred entry
Too fluid to be controlled
Deep fear of creativity

Kicked into touch
With confined education
Sent into life
Into great expectations
3R certificates
Irrelevant to some
Force fed on dictates
From the seed to the crumb

For some who think outside the box
Of the language of academia
Why have knowledge forced upon
When it’s free on Wikipedia?
Stifling ideas
Kettling free thinking
Those and more values
Lined up for the shrinking

You will think in the ways
That we want you to think
You’ll sink into rules
And you’ll fall into sync
You will follow the norm
You’ll adhere to the rules
Of stagnated teachings
In stagnated schools

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
ERR Dec 2011
You are your own consequence
Every action of yours
Is a board in the floor
And every lie or trick
Is another brick
Your shaded thoughts
Are furniture stains
Stories and secrets
Are window panes
Crimes and cons, both large and small
Become the plaster in the walls
Every time you wanted more
An extra lock on the cellar door
Even if you manage
To avoid detection
Your darkness solidifies
Transcending dimension
For you are a master architect
With a lifelong monument to *****
A house of sin that has always been
A grave with your bones trapped within
Founded on memories that disturb you most
You haunt yourself as a lonely ghost
Built by guilt, your sick abode you will infest
Among echoing halls your soul will find no rest
Get out of the house while you still can
Such is the plight of man
Cassie Mae Oct 2011
I'm too young to be stuck in this town
the laundry mat
the liquor store
aren't enough to satisfy my yearning soul.
If you would have stuck around
I wouldn't be here.
Even thousands of miles away
your memory makes this isolation suffocating.
Every heartbeat
breath
and tear
solidifies my loneliness.
(c) Cassie Mae Writings 2011

— The End —