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Dave Hardin Sep 2016
The Butler Model of Tourism

I come back year after year
cracked black valise, busted zipper
spring-shot lobby divans drained of color,

to press crisp bills into Monte’s hand
come up for air from the tortoise shell
of his thread bare uniform, ease myself

down on a sagging mattress
wait for the clatter of ancient bones
his creaking cart and shuffling feet

to recede into absolute silence down
the dimly lit hall, broken only by a spate
of conversation between the couple

I can just make out in the water
stained fresco above the bed
two of them lost in a heated row

as if I couldn’t hear their bald appraisals
shockingly frank in this flocked walled room
with musty corners and milky windows

disagreeing only on the degree of my
progression through the dismal stages of
“The Butler Model of Tourism”

him making a half-hearted case for
Rejuvenation, the woman straddling
the thin line between Stagnation and Decline.
Q Mar 2016
the future is a black hole i'm not ready to observe
stagnation; fear, get me out, let me flee
it follows me, stays out of reach, i don't want to hear it
don't want to see it, escapism, cover me, hide me

i'm terrified, what is this, stop asking questions
i don't know, i don't know, i hate it, i don't know
what, when, where, why, how; too much, too much
scratch at the walls of the cell until it lets me go

find it, find something, find anything, a purpose
a meaning, a cause, a reason; i have none
find fun, find joy, find desperation in the correct sense
and for all those born with it, the battle's half-won

are you happy, are you content, are you living your best life
are you intrigued, can you make sense, are you ready to go
are you working, are you motivated, are you productive
no, the answer is this fearful, no

the future chases me, im running in place, let me get away
escapism, stagnation, terror, and terrified apathy
the future is now, it is later, it has already past
drown, suffocate, sprinting and always coming in last
this is less than i wanted it to be
but then its just venting
so im posting it
Tiffany Case Jun 2012
Oh, crees tu?

Te consagrare

Estoy sangrando para ti

Oh, eres mio

Estoy muriendome para ti


As Peter stands alone in the battlefield
He prays to God, his only shield
But the shield
Was not blessed

Who will walk by his side
When he marches into the crusade
A King not fit to wear his crown
Who rested on the Judgment Day?

Recuerdas tu?

Los angeles tuvieron

Ojos negros

Oh eres mio

Yo capturare tu aureola

Y la llevare al infierno

Loneliness, as told by Peter
Is an illuminated script
Just worn through years of long stagnation
And hangs upon a crucifix

How does it feel to feel nothing
To strive, to fear, to achieve something
You know will never reach the end
Just darkness around the ******* bend


Oh, yo no creo nunca mas

Yo no te quiero

No tiene sentido

Oh, yo no te adoro nunca mas

Estoy cansado de perseguirte

Y me duelen los pies


And as I grew, I always knew
That I was disillusioned
For footprints never followed me
To Babylon or Galilee

Oh, I betrayed them all three times, three times, three times, three times
While singing hymns and stupid nursery rhymes, rhymes, rhymes, rhymes

About walking with that boy to battle
I saw his flag in the light
And I regret, not being there
To watch the disciples fight

A smile, a smile, a cross, a cross
Across the hill
Towards Paradise Lost

2-3 part harmony:

Part 1: (No te quiero

No, I don’t want you

No te quiero

No, I don’t love you

No te quiero

I don’t want to fight for you)

Part 2:  Paraiso Perdido, Perdido, Perdido
Paraiso Perdido, Perdido….

Part 3: He stands alone in the battlefield…
He stands alone in the battlefield
He stands alone in the battlefield
We all stand alone in the battlefield
Q Dec 2017
It feels something like leaning over
The top of a tall building and staring down
At all the people who are and will do
The things I could but rather wouldn't

Perhaps it's the introduction of happiness
That's robbed my ability to express in words
When I am no longer feeling content
And can only reach for poetry as an outlet.
This poem isn't finished now, nor will it be later.
Sieve Dec 2013
when you hear politics
you usually think
poli-tricks
as in
the man in the suit
who stands up on stage
speaking false words and
reaping false prais
or the election promises
to End the War, Save the Children, Create More Jobs
Pony's for Everyone.

or the media pundits
who bicker and argue and flaunt
their superiority, their cynicism
over the public nightly
in Prime Time and technicolor lighting
you think of the pyramids
of the gods and the masters
imploring and coercing and driving
us,
faster, faster

of all the wars and drilling just beyond your control
of a separation and distance
from the actions this very instance
which are taken in your name
and worst of all, for most of us
politics, is Out There.
beyond your domain
or beyond your care

but politics is more than
an anonymous ballot drop
in an anonymous ballet box
politics is in the way
you step out your door
and follow that yearning
for something More

politics is in the way
you treat the Other
be it your next door neighbor, the stranger on the street,
or your lifelong brother

politics isn't being politically correct
but it's about having a level of respect
deep enough to accept
that your Words,
shape your World

politics is in connecting the
Me to the We
so that together we might
Be
something more than the sum of our parts

politics is in the conversation you had with
the person behind the cardboard sign
and whether you let them remind
you that God Loves You
and I don't mean God Above
sending you love letters on the wings of a dove
but the God in you and in me
the God we can all feel and see
the God of perfect unity

politics is in the linking of our arms
because although
we may have retreated
the People, United
Will Never Be Defeated

politics isn't in ivory towers behind closed doors
or strictly for super-powers
politics isn't in the oval office
any more than a sarcophagus
because politics isn't a photo op,
kissing babies, or a meet and greet
politics is You and I, together
in the streets
and in the parks
before, during, and after dark

politics is reclamation and restoration
regrowth and renewal
it's in the invisible fibers
which bind and align us
in how we redesign Us
to encompass that which must
become part of our moral compass

because it seems to me
that hierarchy
is a bunch of malarkey
a system of oppression and exploitation
compounded over millenia
of violent suppression and spiritual stagnation
until, Today
where we stand divided
by color class creed
****** preference
and gender id
enframed and maimed by bureaucracy
each of us, alone
doubting our own efficacy
so I tell you,
stand up, and smash your TV

because you won't find revolution
inside of a box
or get it from attending
inflammatory talks
because revolution is more
than overthrowing capital or the state
revolution is in the relationships that we create
within the rotting shell of this system of hate
revolution is in discourse and public debate
in neighborhood assemblies
and Occupations of late
because power, true power
isn't where they told us
power is, and always will be
with us in the polis, the people, el pueblo, rejoice!
and as we begin to awaken,
to this most true realization
remember,
We,
Are Unstoppable
Another World is Possible
KM Jones Oct 2011
Oh love,

we're drowning in the monotony of motionless.

forget food, air, coitus

Maslow forgot something- movement.



not even, relocation.

simple movement.


Oh love,

let's pack a bag- buy a map

I feel like falling asleep to east coast sunsets tonight

waking up to Rocky's



wind through hair

sand between toes


let's fly a kite

ride a bike



*let's move *


seated, we die a thousand times


let's break in a pair of new shoes

to an afternoon hike

pack a picnic basket of pb&j;'s


move, darling, move


until our legs give out

and slumber wraps us sweetly in her arms...

in one another's arms...


somewhere far from where we began



move.



conclusions and origins are separate for a reason


life may have symmetry, love

but let's make sure not to mistake that with stagnation.
meanwhile Nov 2017
it is important not to set the bar too high
to reach a peak so soon
it burdens the mind

the mind is like a field
continuous rich harvests burden the land
a poor harvest is required to allow the land to recover

if one continues to raise the bar each time
only disappointment will ensue
to find yourself in a position where you can’t satisfy even yourself
it truly is distressing
but stagnation is important for prolonging one’s creativity
so you can slowly improve
and eventually bring yourself closer to that bar you raised so high
until you are ready to raise it once more
being new to poetry, i have found myself frequently setting the bar higher for myself. with my last poem, "Bridges", i personally feel like i have stagnated - so i decided to write a poem about stagnation in general, as a way of getting my thoughts down somewhere
I am victim only to constant distractions,
restrictions, prescriptions, vicarious factors,
as various factions of elitism prescribe defeat
to the common man; the hard working talented
beaten upon by the self driven commerce land.
Businessmen, crooks, warlords and bankers;
victory purports itself the higher moral ground.
******* the world, lie on the crimson sand.

The brevity of riches in led laden ditches,
trenches v armistice; one man’s control over
cadets and lieutenants. Equality it seems
is general ignorance, propose roll reversal
and receive corporal punishment. Capital
interests will be met with bursaries, bail
out the banks and return to your knees,
put out your hands and beg for your feed.

If the top three percent own more wealth
than the lower half put together while
politicians claim to be fair-weather,
conclude that sincerities amiss, that
your representatives are on the pay roll
of profit driven lobbyists. Career crazed fat-cats
couldn’t care less if you're in tattered garments
or there’s a hole in your dress, their polished
boots carry them from vault to vault
while we fill another with oil-baron asphalt.

As social repression pushes populations
science progresses, enabling armed forces
to kettle us, cut us off and circle on horses.
Power-shifts across the globe become jaded
by investment with private militias and fascist
supremacists seizing resources from war
torn villages to fund their crude sourced
morality, migrants and refugee families
are vilified by ignorance forged in cynicism
caused by the inequality of education.

Here lie the symptoms of infinite regression,
hold mirror to gene-pool as it replicates
the same flawed equation, as populations
expire and conspire so does the problem.
Bombing a country without repercussions,
is as likely as a breaking the waters surface
without sending ripples to the adjacent atoms.
These are the dark ages of social stagnation.
SWINES OF CIVILISATION

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)


Hypocrisy, sycophancy and snobbery
Are the three swines of human civilisation
All are social and power oriented
Cradling from egomaniac fibre of human cowardice
Complementing one another in to a social blend
Of betrayal, despair and stagnation

Hypocrisy removes authenticity brick
From the mall of civilisation
Sycophancy add aghast deficiency
To the mall of civilisation
Snobbery removes justice and fairness
From the mall of civilisation
Kelly Hogan Jan 2017
Where has your passion gone?
Is it buried down deep?
Are you only letting it out
In the safety of your sleep?

I'm tired love,
Of being your energy.
Find something that fuels you
Since I fear it's not me.

I wish I could ignite the flame
That you've let die
But I'm holding wet matches
That refuse to dry.

Please dear,
Just try...
Annie Potaktos Dec 2011
Art is food for the heart and like food it is often hard to find.
It might come from a source that is renewable,
yet how many have forgotten that the brain is even usable.

The inspiration we seek comes from inside our own mind
where the fairies wait, having fed on our own experiences, wishing to unwind.
But as full as they may be, one can clearly see
that they cannot make art till they jump on our heart in hope of making it start.
They first have to tickle it with their little feet
before it can even begin to produce an audible beat.
Maybe giving an idea for a visual treat or a literary feat.

These fairies each come from different locations
as imagination is not limited by any dimensions.
In the world of creation, pain has long been a mighty fairy-nation,
the muse of separation, the dictator of desperation,
the soul's frozen animation, a generous, fugly frog of inspiration.

So next time you feel blue, channel that blue stream into a pen
and you may start to feel better again. Blow a kiss to that frog,
clearing the misty lake from fog. There is no call for divination,
simply let the frog jump in celebration all over your pond(ering)'s stagnation
and it will stir the waters in its elation.

Embracing pain not only does wonders for creation,
it also helps dull that cruel yet just sensation.
14/06/11
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
you see, i came to england when i was eight years old, and i still retain the primitive early structuring of being born in poland, e.g. i identify my father from the ages of 4 to 8 as a voice on a telephone and the odd package of gifts, my mother between the age of 6 to 8 as a mad doberman a parting gift... and the fact that i can't read philosophy books in english but in polish, whereby i translate what i read into english... the english language is terrible at expressing itself philosophically, too much shrapnel (i.e. too many little words in between graffiti like usage of the bigger words: conjunctions, prepositions, articles over-burden such catchphrases like zeitgeist, global capitalism etc.), i read poetry and fiction in english, but philosophy i read in polish; and i do speak four languages in that i can speak posh anti-essex-accent english, speak a polish accentuation of english, speak plain polish and speak pleb village-idiot polish; polish immigrants are overweight to soar like canadian geese introduced into england because of the trill of the r (mind you, introducing grey squirrels mirrored the seemingly perpetual overcast of the english weather) - indeed, the english use of the letter r is tongue-numbing-curl - instead of trilling the r the english curl it like an apprehensive turtle / hedgehog - and too the oddity of the h, hatch hay-puck-itch hey-a-haystack? two of the many more linguistic anomalies in the english tongue included.*

that's the problem i have integrating
into a post-colonial multicultural
society, i know i should celebrate
the english defence of poland should
a war with germany take place,
the short lived re-emergence of poland
quickly gulped up by the joint
expedition of **** german and soviet russia,
the exported government of poland
to london, the plight of polish and english
pilots over the skies of england in
the battle of britain, i should technically
be experiencing a great assimilation sensation,
but multiculturalism has really complicated
things, esp. when you turn on the radio
a first hear things about the emergence of
recorded sound, the gramophone,
the iconic jack terrier before the machine
and a very old acronym of music outlets:
h.m.v. (his master's voice),
or that in poland - knowing of the mass emigration
of poles to england the tabloid newspaper
the sun is cited with the highest credibility
(never mind the toned down **** on page 3
of that newspaper, which prompted *******
to do likewise) - currently i'm sifting through
the power broker pages of the newspaper
the times, i.e. the editorial pages, just
after the opinion pages... you see, the editorial
pages are almost anonymous, they're filled
with a major investment, high profile
people (usually professors and sirs and what not)
seeking attention of the editor, beginning with
something like: sir, at a time when european
challenges of security... and then indeed about
three articles of unchallenged dialectics by
the editor himself, e.g. (monday march 7 2016)
headlines: an autocrat in ankara; plan obsolescence;
cripes! (https://goo.gl/EzCbDO),
as i said, i find it overbearing to integrate into
english society, it's paradoxical actually,
so i have to integrate (tick), speak the tongue (tick),
become eloquent and gentlemanly (tick)...
but i can't acquire the history (a prime social
relation coordinate), and i certainly can't feel
pride... unlike those from the colonies integrating
and feeding this strange strange national pride
of identifying england as if by them originally
possessed; maybe three years in scotland fed
my alienation, i really did love mingling with
the scots, the only place on these islands where
the presence of the irish is limited by that
funny existential curiosity of a sikh speaking
a wee trill here, a wee trill there...
maybe that's it... because, you see, the oddity
comes after hearing the story of rash behari bose,
the one who was the shadow of peaceful gandhi...
who spoke like adolf ****** who actually
collaborated with ****** to no avail, who
then collaborated with the japanese -
how am i to assimilate into english society if english
society is a barren wasteland where newton
and michael faraday used to roam?
i'm just too bewildered in this sense of integrating
like a prerequisite of becoming a chameleon -
it's nauseating just to think of it - all this
psychological complexity to simply use a tongue
that's favoured for commerce and political
stagnation into the iron stage of a status quo
of russian and chinese oligarchs creating
a mortgage inflation from their power-source
that's london? this immediate sense of what used
to be mass propaganda has turned into
mass political correctness, same ****, different cover,
i really don't know how to integrate fully,
esp. with faked results that disallow falsification
because they're already false in that would-be
"science" of psychology which is just a crippled
humanism... how can you be a serious psychologist
when you focus on the interchange of the invading
barbarian word self and then become pompous
with so many theorisations of a single sound, ego?
after all we're, in the majority using the sound self
as an affirmative of 'i'm here, yes, check the utility
manual of my spine moving my fingers typing,
no descartes wasn't trying to prove he existed,
don't be stupid, what, because such a proof is
not compatible with you after his death proves
he was trying to prove himself a recipient? i too
buckle on the nonsense of some people, even my own
is worth a rusty door hinge and doorknob.'
and poetry will always remain the safeguard medium
of abstracting, poetry isn't a happy science as one
man suggested dying at the dawn of the 20th century...
poetry's eager spontaneity makes it an abstracting science,
there's no point arguing truth, in that abstraction is
required to cite a momentary pigmentation of
the everyday grey realism with a poem.
Gaius Normanyo Mar 2017
I do not want to be a fishing float
adrift on the waters of existence,
allowing myself to accept stagnation,
bobbing ever buoyant to
the ebb and flow of the mundane.
Reel me in and cast me again into living waters.
Wash away doubts and anxiety —
the fears that snag my line, my vexation.
Give me peaceful rest in fresh water
that is replenished by Your rain.
10:45 PM, 3/14/17
Inspired by a lakeside photography escape after class, the fishers that I met, and the following verses.
John 4:14
Matthew 4:19
Isaiah 45:8
Check them out sometime.
Jeremy Bean Nov 2014
I don't have much,
when it comes to ownership
Most of my earnings
were invested in experiences
Instead of possessions
Most of my time
Was spent on building a soul
Instead of a collection of objects
I honed my skills on creation
Instead of consumption
My concerns lie with
personal contribution
Over financial status
My allegiance is to brutal honesty
Opposed to comforting lies
I chose the mindset of evolution
Over stagnation
A mantra of the status quo
I have fought a life-long battle
against being jaded and apathetic
Instead of embracing it
For the acceptance of my peers
Because I chose to make a life
Instead of a living
and with everything I've lost
a little more is gained
Kriti Gupta Nov 2017
longer apart than ever together
caught in moments
bittersweet weather
true to form
am calls
cutting the magic
ending your hold
Drifton A Way Feb 2013
Is it infatuation combined with the new lovely scent
With saturation would the hail begin to make a dent
The flirtation fades with each and every hour spent
The deflation sets in on our slow inevitable descent
The stagnation creeps up like another month's rent
As temptation calls out wondering where you went
A Castration can't compare to this type of torment
No frustration in the world like time"s resentment

If you could only flaw less in your never ending search
Go back to the drawing board or maybe even try church

History repeats itself, feelings of heartbroken violence
As you lay next to me breathing a beautiful soft silence

She"ll never truly be free, never let down her guard
Ironically we can never be, both emotionally scarred

Shared memories framed by another fleeting exposure
Shall never come close to providing adequate closure

No matter how this ends my soul will still need a cast
Smiling big as it mends, for moments lived like our last
Optically delusional to the pastures of greener grass so vast
Finally destined to arrive yet can"t stop longing for the past

Tragically we are meant to be, only if we are actually apart
Insane levels of pain tearing through the veins of my heart

Today we are again away, but our time I shall forever cherish
Tomorrow"s just another day without you until I finally perish
Poetic T Aug 2015
You kept me entombed in a coffin of thought
Never free cockroaches of doubt crawled
Around my chained thoughts.

The nails rough on my mind, jaggedly etching
oxidized stagnation of my embalmed understanding.
Why would you keep me in the dark.

I am solitary in this shallow wash of waning moments
Could I just crawl in to this sea of disbelief and
Drown slowly in my entombed darkened thoughts.
Some times my thoughts are deep down locked away
Erica Jan 2015
Like snow,
a blank page tantalizes me
fantasizes me
luring me into the vastness of its grip
and asking
What will you do with this space?

But unlike Creators,
my art provides no function,
serves no definitive purpose
other than to sit in awe
and appreciate
the Art of Others.

It's hard -
I'm overwhelmed by the potential of
the unexisted,
by the grandeur of what could be
that I sometimes slip
forget
that I don't have to do anything with it;
I just have to witness.

That,
that space between
Standing
and
Wondering if peeing my pants is a work of art
is slick.
But as the place between
Stagnation
and Movement,
Sanity
and
Peeing your pants,
Grave is only achieved by Balance.
If
One is
unwilling to change,
One cannot expect
One's life
to change
Lindsay Drew Dec 2012
Stagnation has set in
and that old friend misery has come around
"sit down old friend, I say
"whats new?"
"Misery loves company
and holding hands is for lovers and aren't we lovers?" I say.
Satisfaction eludes
and frustration reigns.
Heavy hearted I say, "I feel like melting into the carpet, and you?" but misery doesn't answer.
I'd puff away on a cigarette if I smoked in an overly dramatic self masochistic way
but I don't so I eat chocolate and ask misery if there's any ****.
But we settle for the bottle of cooking wine in the back of the cabinet,
"so its come to this, whats next? girdles and bingo?" I say.
Dissatisfaction sets in
and anger wins.
I see a picture on the fridge with his **** eating grin.
There's still beer cans in the trash and on the counter from the day before;
hes in the other room.
Misery and I sit in the kitchen together indefinitely
Peter Kiggin Jun 2016
Stag-nation

This world is in stagnation
From all the cruelty and deprivation
No one to be trusted in organisation
Disciples rocked to the very foundation
Only love can be our one true salvation
No fuel in the future to feed the ever frustrations
Come together ; Come together; come together now
You want to be a king but your crown is your mind alone
Without that you might as well return to dust and stone
Our lives are not our own to live
Our towns and villages are not long to give
Our cities become wastelands of a society that once did.
society, civilization
brian mclaughlin Sep 2015
They live in boxes
no doors to pass through
no windows to accept the light
the world has to offer
their meals never change
and no longer have flavor
Craig Verlin Jun 2013
I'm stuck
and my poetry
reflects it
life is getting
a little stagnant
and when you aren't
living well
you aren't
writing well
and it burns in my stomach
and aches in my head
because I know
how much there needs
to be said
how much I've got to
let out
before I lose it
and go mad
maybe already lost it
and its already gone
and this is only the
repercussion
only the consequence
I'm not sure
but I need
to figure out
a way to
create again
a way to
live again
before it's too late
and all of those
books
and poems
and *******
good for nothing
pages
go unread
and unwritten
and my name goes
unknown
sprinting headfirst
into the callous, crowded everything
of forever
Olivia Kent Nov 2015
If time were mine again,
whatever would I do?
Would I contemplate a straight run of keeping my precious pearl for longer.
My mind often wanders to what might have been only lust ,
My virginity safe until I was sure.
Wouldn't ever be left sore.
Would I have married long ago?
Lived in a stagnant rut?
Perfect security but, happy?
Maybe not.
The flowers around the garden gate invited me in.
A pair of doves perched on top.
Billing and cooing.
Discussing us with each other, don't let them stop.
They stared at us almost envious of the love we shared.
Birds, they don't often  notice  people  who so obviously   care.
Marriage not made in heaven.
Nor was it made in hell.
Like a millpond, still and silent.
The sun caused love to evaporate.
Nothing left but friendship but, friendships sometimes best.
(c)LIVVI
The swing set was an old thing
like the brittle bones of an elephant
so worn that it had started to forget;
that's what her Gramma said, at least.
But Calpurnia Gray loved it
sat in it
till the seat sagged before she sat down
inviting her to rest.

Calpurnia Gray preferred the city
but the suburbs were what she got
and the swing set looked over some deep gulch of the woods
where even the suburbs ended.
Wilderness.

It filled her with such strange fantasies
of leaping through the trees like an ape
tearing off her clothes
and chasing down game
like some odd Tarzan with cobalt blue painted toe nails.
That would be the life for her if only she could go back
back
to the wilderness on the other side of the suburbs.
To the place where concrete monoliths lit up the sky at night
and rivers of asphalt carved always changing paths
for some intrepid explorer
to find a new bookstore
or museum
or something strange.

But Calpurnia didn't have either.

She had the suburbs.

And the swing set.

The swing set that always sat there, that never got away
the swing set that was crumbling with time and stagnation
but at least it was what she knew.
Joel A Doetsch Dec 2013
I bet you thought I didn't have anything left in the tank.  Bet you thought that I was done giving mind blowing advice on how to approach this crazy thing we call life.  Well...you were wrong.


1.  Often cases, how good a story you end up with is inversely proportional to how good a decision it was that led to it.  Don't be afraid to make some bad decisions every once in awhile, because those are the stories you're gonna be telling for years to come.  Even when you know it's a bad decision.  Sure, you might wake up naked in a ditch on the New Jersey turnpike with a some blurry memories, a hangover, a tattoo of some girl named Francesca on your chest, and an ounce of black-tar ****** shoved up your ***...but you know what?  You started this little adventure at a black-tie dinner party in Santa Monica, so I'm willing to bet some interesting **** happened between here and then.

2.  Don't be someone who never breaks the mold.  When you're lying on your death bed and someone asks you to tell them about your life, do you want to lean over and whisper to them that you always did exactly what people expected?  That you carefully listened for society's cues on how to represent yourself at every point in your life?  **** no.  You want to tell them you broke off the road and went searching for the oddities that this world has to offer. You want to tell them that you gave the ******* to society and did what you wanted because, you know what?  It's your ******' life and you only get one shot at it, so you might as well make it memorable.  Being normal is boring as hell.

3.  Talk to everyone.  Talk to them about uncomfortable things.  Talk to them about their hopes and dreams.  Talk to them about their fears.  Just ****** talk to them.  Real conversations always leave you with something you didn't had before.  Real conversations make you think about your positions.  Get passionate when you talk.  Challenge their views and allow yours to be challenged as well.  Do you think you know everything?  Yeah, I bet you do.  Why aren't you out solving everyone's problems then, you selfish *******.

4.  Whoever you are, be proud of that.  If you're not proud of who you are, chances are you arent happy with yourself.  If you're not happy with who you are, change something.  If you're still not happy, change something else.  Still not happy?  Guess what.  Change another ******' thing. Are you happy?  Good.  Now change something else anyway, because an interesting life isn't built on stagnation.

I hope you've all learned something today.

Also, I'd like to remind you to never take advice from strangers on the Internet.  That's just stupid.
Monica disappeared
She told me she might love me
I told her where to meet me
But when I got there
She was gone

I had become enraptured
By her cherubic face
Elfish, tomboy haircut
Law-breaking smile
I should have known there was something lurking
Behind it
Some secret or some thing
Some One
Some dark, ugly lie she’d found herself caught in
Fly in a spider’s web, vulnerable
But it was easy enough to see
She was too hard to let anything hurt her
She might as well have hurt me

I never told you how
Her kisses left me breathless
The music of Cocteau Twins came alive
In her ethereal expression
As our lips reluctantly let go of each other
Her sated smile told the story
Of happy endings and serendipity
The Fates had other plans
And maybe she knew it.
So somewhere in her heart or her head
She had conspired with the Great Unknown
To break my heart
And so she disappeared.

Lost, flawed goddess?
The woman kept her fair share of secrets
And most likely a greater lot of lies she’d fed me...
Cotton candy to a baby

Grim acceptance of the brutal reality
Brought home by her disappearance
And nailed shut by the knowledge

That I would never again, in my life,
Here and in the Great Beyond,
See her face, kiss her lips, relax in her embrace
Never again dance to Springsteen’s slow songs,  silently surrendered to sensuality and the staggered stagnation of sense and sensibility and I would drive all night just to buy her some smack…whatever she wanted

Hear her voice
In this place I will call her “mine”
In this place
She would confess, "I'm yours"
So much like a dream
In this place
Look into her eyes then
Wake
Wail and moan for the miles that separated us
The sackcloth and ashes well worn in the years since
She vanished into thin air

She’s as dead as if she’d stopped breathing
As if her heart had actually stopped beating.
The period for grief and mourning are long past
And yet here I lie
Overcome by a tsunami
© 2010 by James Arthur Casey
Ralph E Peck Dec 2011
The castle walls are feeling thick and formidable,
This window seems blank, as night begins to fall,
And the fires of those outside burns in the still darkness,
The moth, flies, flutters by, inside then out,
As it feels a piece of the moment, fading away,
Knowing that in its reclusive movement, it will find its way
Awash, with knowing  much, trying to find its way back,
Outside, to the fresh air, where stagnation hasn't set
Where the feeling is still fresh, where the night moves.
Sarah Apr 2016
I forgot to tell you
that I'm not happy-
today when I was
walking and
an hour in, my
neck was
sweating in the
overcast heat,

I saw a patch of
wisteria, painted
with a stirring
of bees- I thought about
the silence
and the blanket of
sadness
and how I
cannot share with you a
quiet agony
of stagnation.
Vi Aug 2022
Sleep deprivation

***

Guilt

Sense-making and maps of meaning

Revisiting memories

Crying

Staying away from scary corners of my mind

Deliberately going toward scariness

Not resisting

Yes resisting

Respecting resistance

Compulsive tv watching

Dropping or letting go over and over again

Exploring

Curiosity

Forgetting and then remembering that it’s all happening on its own, noticing this, knowing this, realizing this

Realizing that realization comes and goes on its own

Being in love with everything

Crying

Playing with time and concepts

Craving emptiness

Love

Catastrophizing

Ranking what "works" (i.e. sleep deprivation is effective), noticing that the metric of “effective” and "works" is = resulting in greater illusions of "forgetting" with a capital F

Loving everything

Being everything

Self-flagellation

Not really believing any of the stories or narratives

Procrastinating

Being irresponsible

Getting off on self-loathing

Forcing intimacy

Compassion, large, whole, unrelenting, everywhere

Oversharing

Falling in love with a homeless person at a traffic stop

Being bored and sad and hopeless and desperate

Remembering inherent wholeness

Being stubborn

Getting out of the way always feels like dying

Loving dying

Loving mourning dying

Dramatizing dying

Wanting to be seen and loved

Self-loathing

Intensity

Craving intensity

Hating craving intensity

Knowing that nothing is a problem

Suffering

Being impatient

Being very very patient

Feeling like I don’t belong in the world, like people and things and money and social media are alien, foreign and scary

Feeling like I am the world

Forgetting that knowing how to verbalize isn’t the same as knowing

Wanting knowing with words to be the same as Knowing

Wanting knowing to be a Real, solid thing

Fear

Mortal fear

Bewilderment

Constant background anxiety

Hating this body

Not caring for this body

Being burdened by this body

Feeling trapped in a body

Feeling more trapped in a mind

Wanting knowing to resolve everything

Wanting to be saved

Thinking that I probably don’t need to be saved

Thinking or knowing(?) there’s nothing to be saved from

Knowing that I can’t be saved

Feeling open

Feeling vulnerable

Feeling exposed

Feeling bad

Feeling like I'm doing it wrong

Believing it all

Wanting to both believe it and have a choice about when, where, and to what extent I believe it

Not knowing where the edge is until I've fallen off

Feeling violated

Feeling like existence is non-consensual

Somehow trusting all of it, totally, exactly as it is

Watching the panicking

More crying

Being one

Being very very aware

Noticing and letting go of effort in one swift move

Compulsive clenching

Compassion

Dissolving

Disillusion

Dying without the novelty

Being ok vey very briefly and for no apparent reason/because of no reason./?

Wanting distraction

Respecting needing distraction

Getting out of the way of intelligent coping mechanisms

Villifying coping mechanisms

Understanding only in retrospect

Frustration

Compassion, deep, like warm water

Compassion, hard, like being ****** vey very slowly

Torture

Life-giving torture

Never wanting to stop

Marveling

Abundance like grace, like not deserving, like not needing to be deserving, like deserving is perverse language

Tasting everything

Endless kaleidoscopes of being and tasting and knowing

Non visual seeing

Clarity, brightness, nothing is a problem

Being alive

Being sososo tired

Wanting to rest, to die into void and nothing

Wanting to hibernate

Wanting to still

Dying to get off

Begging to get off

Finding the edge more thrilling than the center (because then the center can be anything at all?)

Loving all the previous versions of this being

Needing to hate, loathe, earlier renditions of this being

Hating repulsion

Trusting repulsion

Getting stuck because resisting repulsion

Knowing that there's no way out

Knowing that the way out that I'm seeking isn't a way out

Not wanting to do the work

Dancing around the center, constantly

Feeling dizzy with chaos, with knowledge of power

Feeling comfortable with mediocrity

Hating mediocrity

Waking up with jaw tension from the enormity of my own suppressed power

Telling stories about sensations

Relying on self-bullying methods I know don't work

Perfecting the art of pretending

Perfecting the art of self-deception

Wanting to make the stakes higher

Being overwhelmed by my own storytelling

Not wanting to give stories credibility by dispelling them

Naval gazing

Loving philosophy

Feeling dried up, tired, stagnant, disinterested, not engaged, not here.

Sleepwalking. Sleep writing. Sleep talking. Sleep caring

Not sleeping

Vivid dreaming

High weirdness

Questioning my sanity

Romanticizing insanity

Wanting to blur all boundaries

Wanting to smooth the edges of reality

Questioning reality

Destabilizing reality

Feeling destabilized

Feeling irresponsible

Guilt

Feeling sick and tired

Feeling scared

Feeling hopeless

Wanting to reach out

Feeling like everything is inevitable

Feeling like suffering is inevitable

Recognizing kindness

Discerning well (properly? Clearly? Well.)

Fearful trusting

Thinking too much

Not wanting to love my dad as much as I do.

Chasing the intellectual high

Disappointment

No need for resolution

Feeling caught in existence

Feeling caught up. Like in a potato sack; I can explore the exact measure of my confinement, the sensorial elements, the scratchiness, the filtering light from the outside, the stagnation, the wanting to stretch.

I love this being.

This. It's not a problem.

Confusing familiarity with comfort

Confusing comfort with peace

Reifying confusion, but not really

Yielding, on my knees, heart to the sky

Seeing through, like pinholes in a perfectly realistic backdrop

Dispelling everything

Stripping away the Stripping away

Trying to stand still and feel

Wanting to be convinced by rage

Always loving Sad, not despondent, just sad

Feeling continuous

Feeling fragmented

Feeling like motion, like flow

Feeling like thousands of still frames, constant flickering

Grasping at impermanence

Resting in the middle

Dancing down the tightrope

Knowing perfect poise, so so brief

Everything is hysterically funny

Hysterically

But also just plain humorous

And absurd

Loving people

Feeling grateful for people

Seeing beauty everywhere

Always coming back

Like an epic

Like a great love story

Like a violin solo in a forbidden song

Like the last wring of that silk dress you're not supposed to squeeze dry

Knowing the inside of my hand

Knowing teenage shame

Knowing being yelled at, towered over, by my dad, in a narrow
hallway, eyes glued to speckled floor tiles, feeling small, nowhere to go

Loving with my body, with my hands, with my mouth, with my whole entire strong soft body

Crying with tears, and snot, and heaving

Becoming one single, concentrated point

Wanting to envelope everything. Really. Actually. With my body.

I am not this voice

Or this writer

Or this narrator

Though I am also all that
Joe Cole Jul 2015
Trolls may rant and trolls may rave
But they have hollow minds and little do they gain
I've not yet seen a single troll get the daily poem
Perhaps it's their ineptitude caused by stagnation of the brain
They choose a victim without conscious thought
Then attack with words of bitter bile
But then forget the Wolf bites deep
But still retains his smile
Now trolls are big and ugly
With the foulest words and breath
But, oh yes trolls remember
THE WOLVES ALL RUN IN PACKS
In support of my good friend Quin
Liam May 2015
Liberty perched on a pedestal
balancing progress and evil
Holding high the palm of peace
over those who hold it so dear

But peace comes dropping too slowly
with all due respect to you, William
An unsettled and urgent promise
cloistered within vows of possibility

Willing victim of romantic culture
betrayed by the keeper of souls
Romance is no idle distraction
Intimacy, a vocation

Long afflicted by...
the sounds of music
the scent of linden blossoms
the taste of sea salted skin
the feel of sultry midnight air
the sight of sun through closed eyes...

Dreams once silently withering
liberated to wander freely
Uprooted from the stagnation
of emotionally depleted soil

Transplanted to aimlessness
where all roads lead to roam
Preferring the role of explorer
to the vagrancy of a lost soul

Strolling through this beautiful city
as having traveled throughout life
Observing without participation
part of a whole yet not wholly a part

An accomplished failure on a quest
to achieve simplicity of purpose
To savor those moments of stray peace
that ephemerally cross this path

...all the whilst searching for that bee loud glade
ThatSynGirl Feb 2016
Location location location*
Vocation vocation vocation
Des'pration
Des'pration
Des'pration
Cliché decay, is summation.
Dictation Fixation; Damnation.
Let's pray, son.
**** Nation- stagnation, frustration.


Creation.
Creation, salvation, elation.
Let's play son.
This isn't my usual style of poem, but it came to me and I'm all for branching out, so here you guys go. :)
Cate Apr 2015
I'm still trying
to kiss girls
In the doorways
                              Of the bathrooms
                                                        Of these same few bars
While their boyfriends
Wait intrepidly outside

Since wanting something
I know I can’t have
Has always been a source
Of undeniable temptation.

I’m still binge eating
                                           and chain smoking
                                                         ­                 and getting ******
Since gaining weight
And the mounting pressure,
  Of the thickening
soot in my lungs


Seem to be the only things
that feel similar
To the stagnation
that accompanies
                                Filler friends
                                                  and dead end outings
That leave me pouting
Not in the corner
But just off center


C.e.M. 4.10.15
edit 4.18.17
This ones rough guys. I've lost my touch lately.
Darison Strange Aug 2018
Monday, August 6, 2018
11:33 PM

Time slips away with hardly a second glance,
it slips silently into the void of forgetfulness and busyness.
What moments pass us by in those forgotten seconds,
hours,
days?
Our busy lives striving for that next dose of the drug called comfort,
Of a sip from the pool of peace and quiet.
Those glimpses into a reality so unlike our own.
We long for one more moment,
We sacrifice so many forgotten seconds on the altar of our discontent.

To survive,
to persist,
we allow our lives to slip through our fingers like sand through an hourglass.
What battles have we lost without stepping foot on the battlefield?
What victories have we forfeited by never entering the ring?

Have we forgotten who we are?
Did we ever know?
That question gnaws at the core of our souls like unrelenting rain on a tin roof.
A tiny pinprick in the armor of our psyche.

Will it grow?
Will our discomfort of stagnation overcome our infatuation,
With that alluring mistress called safety?
Will our quiet hearts break free from the cage of our own design?

What if it did?
Could we rewrite our souls,
To enjoy every moment like it was our last,
What would that look like?

How many people have thought these same thoughts,
And gone on with their lives like they've never heard them.

When we look in the mirror,
And regret our inaction,
Dont worry, it will fade.
To a memory, and be lost in the void,
Of forgotten seconds and hidden regrets.
Struck with conviction for driving on autopilot for so much of my life, I wrote this one morning to process those feelings of regret, and anticipation

— The End —