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Mystic Ink Plus Aug 2018
Stranger crossed by
Stepping
Fast Forward
I kept on tracking
Who follows the next

A group of
People did

Though,
Each of them were
Their own,
The Third
The Second
The First

Building their
Personal  best
Genre: Inspirational
Theme: Health is wealth
Nicole Alyssia Aug 2017
crawling-
on hands and knees
     as i fight my way back
     to you
entangled
in a web of memories
dragging myself through
the dead and debry
amongst
mummified thoughts
and emotions;
now stagnant,
yet petrifying none-the-less.
i'm not sure how much
more of this i can endure
with each passing day
i lose a little bit more of
     my strength and stamina;
     faith, courage

     patience.
Why am I doing this to myself? There's a fine line between idealism and fantasy. If only the former weren't so exhausting.
To Sing a Song
Of Love, full of Life
Consumes your Inner Carefree
And Compassion.

A Distinct Act of Tones
Bond into One
Notes which blend those Tunes
And squeezes Music-Juice.

A Happy Sound for All
To which when Played,
And Played,
And Played again
It is Finished. But not all.

It stands Forever; Lurking always
In your Memory
A Dainty Feeling to One's Heart
From the very Start
Till the End of your Time.

A Magical Compensation
To Children, Men
Or even to Animals
And Plants who could Hear,
And Feel,
The Warmth of a Song.

The Feelings it Brings,
Is Now and Forever,
Joy and Happiness to All
To Summer, to Fall,
To Winter, to Spring,
And to Everyone's Ears can hear,
And wear,
Like a Ring.

A Gem from your Mouth,
Eaten in Past Times
As One Grows and Improves
The Stamina
It becomes a Jewel
Which can sparkle when opens,
And closes,
And opens again.

It's Fun to know
Why many People would Show,
And Portray,

A Song,
A Grace,
A Feeling,
A Wonder,
A Mystery,
A Medicine for Sadness to All.
KM Hanslik Jun 2018
I know it's just another day for you but for me it's all coming undone,
the world ends quietly sometimes and we don't even notice it happening until we
try to breathe or focus our vision
I'm scared of this feeling & how it runs me off the tracks, I don't have the stamina to keep
trying to outrun it, so my eyes are closed now & I breathe
heavy breaths through my poisoned lungs,
we always said we liked the summer but it never devoured us
quite like this, our souls are such
lonely places to reside & I wanna stretch mine out
to make room for you, move on in &
deck me out in new decor, god it's getting
stuffy in here...
I thought I might be a musician
Mom couldn’t afford my lessons
My eyesight wasn’t great
I couldn’t read notes fast enough
Practicing annoyed the family
I only managed last chair, 2nd violins
              But still
I got to play in High School concerts
In shiny dresses with glitter in my hair
              However
I haven’t held a violin in years
I loaned mine to a Bluegrass band
The leader died - and it was gone

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

I thought I might become a dancer
But my fingers can not touch the floor
I couldn’t kick much higher than my waist
Choreography was hard for me to learn
I had the stamina if not the skill
My partner wanted someone else
                But still
I danced on stage in a college play
And Morris Danced at the Old Globe Theatre
                However
I’ve forgotten how to keep the beat
And all the dance floor moves I made
I’m too self conscious now to try

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

I fancied I could be a singer
I knew the words to all the songs
And I could keep the melody in tune
But I had a voice with no vibrato
And the quality was thin
My range was very limited
              But still
I sang Blueberry Hill at a talent show
In a black lame’ dress and surprised a few
              However
I couldn’t get the hang of harmony
And found I fit best in a choir
My family wouldn’t hear my solos

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

I thought that I was born an actress
I practically got that one right
I had a lead in an Ibsen play
And toured the state with Macbeth
But Hollywood was one big casting couch
And I could see no way around it
          But still
I got to be on TV  shows
Winning games and merchandise
          However
I sold the Firebird Convertible I won
I needed rent money more than a car
And rules allow you only three shows in a lifetime

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

I always thought I was a poet
I started young and never stopped
But family ignored and scoffed
Then I got trapped inside my mirror
And only wrote when all was beak
Somebody said my stuff was dreary
          But still
I stumbled on the HP website
And found a group who like the words I write
          However
When I read the others’ writes
I realize how limited my skills
And fight the need to run away and hide.
    ∞
It seems I dabbled in all the arts

Looking for the one that fit me
And finding they all needed alteration
And I never had the proper needle
  ∞  
Still, a moment in the sun
Is better than a lifetime in the shade
I had a taste of everything
Though the banquet was not mine.
ljm
I give new meaning to the phrase "Jack of all trades, master of none" !
But I've  had an interesting life so far.
Poetic Eagle Mar 4
We could have lasted for eternity .
But we were short lived.
Guess it won't be true love if not painful
You left me *******.

But you didn't take my courage.
The painful memories became a motivation.
The emotions could have killed me.
But instead gave me unimaginable stamina .

I lost my senses l went crazy .
Never imagined myself healing .
But now my heart is like a singing bird.
My mind didn't just stabilize l actually got a sixth sense added.

Your love came as a volcano .
Leaving me totally shattered.                      And gave me a nightmare of a lifetime .
But finally l can say lm healed
She was broken but now healed
After all there is an ok in healed
@diamond pickle charmxy
Lexie Nov 2018
The inner workings of my mind have become lazy in their toil against the opposition
I am feeble minded and the legs of my stamina crumble
I am bent out of shape
I wish to hide, but I must seek
Yet I stumble about like a fool in the dessert
My oasis is dried up when my heart cries for a river to pour forth
Swallow me up in the night
I will surrender my self
As an angel of the night
Claim me as you do your own creation
Whisper to me where rest may be found
I seek peace above all else
Even as my heart thrums with the aching of the universe
I am so little to feel so much
MA Montgomery Apr 2018
you have the
nerve
to say that women are
squeamish

when we see blood
month after month

you say we are too emotional
to hold office,
too fragile
to be independent,
too unpredictable,
to be on our own

but you forget
we are bulletproof.

you forget
we have stamina
and fire inside of us

because we are fighting
twice as hard
to be recognized
as the amazing,
successful people we are.

we are fighting
to be seen
as more
than our appearance,
to be valuable
because of our brains
instead of our *****.

we are bulletproof.
I've been ogled too many times, and skipped because I am seen as less worthy to my male peers, and I'm angry and tired and I have to fight twice as hard when I am more qualified and ready to do a good job.
tinhearts Jun 2018
God has always had a plan
Written down through the ages
Paving His salvation through His chosen
Like a chain of events leading us

One seed traveling
Through conduits of human lives
The generations unraveling
Pointing us to inward vines

Man through man carry on
Knowing they were serving us
Holy men giving their lives bygones
As the futures consequences are their anticipated chance

All the prophets and holy men
Suffered in righteousness following Gods perfect plan
Can we even hold a candle to their courage by justice
Their dedication to secure the futures hand

Isaiah was sawed in two
Others were boiled in oil
******, flogged, crucified too
America should be ashamed being so spoiled

Does any of us have what it takes
Firmly set to accomplish
Whatever the Will of God has us face
Stability in controversies to establish

No shouting or speaking out of place
Holding our tongues to allow His Words to move our stakes
Willing to be slandered hated and disgraced
Only the Rock of Jesus Christ will suffice
By His Spirit within we can endure for His Namesakes

Does anyone even know why we are on this earth?
It’s called the human race
To save our souls and find our way back to our spiritual birth
We were given free will and look at our egg face

No stamina no enthusiasm
No thought or care about anything concerning God’s desires
He gives us everything and we return in sarcasm
Too selfish to seek after what He requires

Love and obedience
A hearing ear and an eye to SEE
Surely we can offer sincere subservience
To the one and only God who died so we can be saved entirely

Did you know that repentance is a gift?
It’s a touch on the shoulder giving the earnest requirements
Not everyone even Esau didn’t attain it
Turning our life around in sincere desire for forgiveness

Surrendering our souls to Christ
By the renewing of our mind
From an earthly mind to a spiritual mind
The transformation of the old  mind to the mind of Christ

No remembrance of shame or iniquity
All washed and forgiven by the blood of Christ
How blessed is our Holy Father and Son to give us this chance for victory

Once you’ve truly tasted freedom in Christ’s glorious capacity
Your feet never want to touch the ground again
Though being humbled and staying low is the only option
A constant communion of prayer will keep your feet properly placed in conformity
Christ in you our only hope of Glory
Growing through suffering
The gospel informally
*
tinhearts~©️
Lexie Nov 2018
Do you feel the desert sun as it pulls all the moisture from your skin
You barter for each breath lest it escape between your lips
There is smoke in the night
It stings your eyes and is full bodied in your chest
The sand is warmth between your toes
It burns with the heat of the day
Although the sun has just been lain to rest in her bashfulness, looking for her stamina to wear tomorrow
One would not think gravity would pull so hard
It does not seem fair when the stars look so beautiful and call so close
I shudder in the dunes
Oh that dreams were a grain of sand
That they were as weightless
It is not such
I cannot bury the tears
Even still they fall into the earth
A kiss that becomes a vapor
I will water the earth with my sweat and tears
My pores pour out and my spirit follows
She makes me toil and I am not above my humanity
It humbles me, my staircase of pride is a stumbling block
How does one face a new day
I bite my tongue,
To spit in the face of destiny is a fools errand
Yet she has done me no favors and I owe her no respect
A token slipped between hands, a bet and a wager that will not be paid
Unless blood is spilt
The earth claims all, as she bore all
The sand in the desert is burying secrets
The ground knows so much, she does not taste but swallows up
She is a scholar of sinners and will outlast the shudders of your spine
Patient is she
It costs her nothing to wait
Lexie Mar 1
Maybe touching was not a sin
But within these pillars
The temple of my body, I call home.
There are no prayers to be found
Between the dryness of my lips
And where you left me
With the wetness of my eyes
Still singing its hymn to the martyrs before

Their hands have gone cold
While still, in the silence of all my secrets
These martyrs knock their bones together
As if trying to make fire
Could turn back time
As if their ivory stamina could voice its plea

There is blood on the walls in their temples
And still I hear the foolish cry out
With a voice that has never known lack
That condemned buildings are only meant to be torn down
That the bricks of my house were only meant to return to dust
To be buried with the mortar of my memories and blown in the wind
Unbuilt with no remorse
Leaving mortar scars in the earth

If the walls of my temple could speak
If her concrete lips would part
Revealing her timber teeth
If her tongue was not sewn shut with shame
She would begin with a whisper
For she has never brought her voice up from the basement before

Yet. When her breath, still stumbling over the threshold found its footing
And a guttural cry made its way forth
A voice that blew the doors off its hinges
A voice that only does cosmetic damage
Even as it attempts to touch your heart where it has never been reached

It was then that the cornerstones
Also began to talk
It was to late for them though
And to dark
And I am always, almost crying
Why am I always a cliff
On the verge of tears

It was to late
I was to undone
Because you can't tether fingers
As much as I wanted to tie ropes
To the nerve endings of my extremities and pull with all my strength
Pull them back to my heart
So they could be safe
So I would feel safe
Yet I will carry to the grave
The words I could not whisper to you in the dark

What prayers could I offer
To a temple torn down in anger
What words would I give
To the grave of my being
Whose hymns still ring out
Into the night, crying
Dust to dust
And ashes to ashes
Kenji Jan 22
>The sky roars as the thunder explodes, the storm collides in my every memory of waking thought, I seem to clash as the change of season happens as abruptly as my change of emotion.

<I am plummeting to the bottom of the ocean
Drinking in the salty sip
Rising high as the commotion
Riding the low and the wavering dip.

>My focus seems obscured, scrutinized with every drip.
Drip drop...
Drip drop...
Lost. But still standing, the question is how.
Because every universal structure has me be-dowered.
The ocean holds many highs, ones that are forbidden.
Forbidden as the eyes can see.
But to me, I stare blindly, waiting to breathe.

<Unto the unknown
Unto the breach
Splitting at the seems
The why's
The where's
The how's
Are those my dreams?
Will warmth conceive?
O' come back to me

>Thoust lay beneath, I try to see,
I perceive with the eye of the cat, the mental stamina of a bird.
But lost in the eclipse, there's no looking back.
Pushing forward, I make my move.
Lips on focus, biting them as I inhale the atmospheric scent.

<Mystical indulgence
String of pearls diamond droplet around my neck
Gypsy traveler drifting between each breath
Spirit at the helm
Moon bound
Earth to the ground
Cat lives left
If I fall
Faith will stand again
Wingspan stretched out
Sun set

>Sun so far, it seems so near.
Sun so near, it seems so far.
Breathless, but still in sight, I reach over and feel the delight.
As darkness and pain is madness, so is light and healing.
Everything corresponds together and creates the balance.
But I write, "hello darkness my old friend''
The paper drifts away, as the sun rays hit my face
The string of pearls rest against your neck, as the master of puppets arrive, we soon begin our test.

<Our hearts write the line
Then,
silence.
A collaboration of two poets creating beauty. A new friend, Kate Rebecca Hopwood. Do check out her poetry.
> ME
< KATE
Johnny Noiπ Dec 2018
'Professor Simple, I can't draw
a straight line', said Eli's dark-
haired talentless protege, Her
look one of befuddlement. He
looked at her, & asking in all
honesty, What would you do
with it? she was into his arms;
their faces making monkey-
like contortions with breathy,
******* noises. 'But I want to
be a painter, she whined with
her Kievian accent. 'You have
not got what little Adolf has
got; stamina, purpose, vision.'
'I can so be a great painter! I
just have to spill enough paint.
He stood looking over her
scrawny arms. 'How much
paint can you carry in a day?'
'I'll use tubes,' she retorted.
'Then I Guess you'll brush ur
teeth with it too.' 'If I must...'
As soon as she said it, she
knew she'd be invited over
for dinner as penance for her
allowing him to use her as a
willing piece of warm meat.
Star BG Dec 2018
...you are my elixir of life.
The fuel that aids for stamina.

I drink your luscious mixture all day,
aligning to remember who I am.

I sip it with walking gracefulness.
I gulp it’s magical formula
so feet run cross fields
of grand mystery.

Intentions mix within,
focusing to feel the gentle breeze.
To hear birds bless ears in song.
To radiate my own heartbeat
divinely.

And as sun says farewell to moon,
and clouds part dreams align.

Breath oh breath you aid
moving me for harmony,
and bliss.
Saw the word elixir and thus this poem was born.
Johnny Noiπ Dec 2018
It didn't take long for Eli to
become the most popular
professor; he required only
stamina from his students.

Directing films from his hospital
bed and hiring the little Georgian
as his private nurse, Igor had six
projects going simultaneously;
barking scenes and directions over
the phone, the girl flipping through
a movie magazine at his bedside.

Ivan would give interviews
to anyone that would listen
& so smitten by the brash
poet the journalist decided
him to be her next conquest.

Typically, Ivan wrote all Igor's
screenplays but Ivan had gone
off to America to be a celebrity.

Igor's films were marred
by the fact that he was
never on set, thinking he
could fix everything in
the editing, but the rushes
he got were run-of-the-
mill ******* with
**** Russian girls barely
out of middle school.
Yenson Feb 28
" The world does not need any more white saviours. As I've said before, this just perpetuates tired and unhelpful stereotypes. Let's instead promote voices from across the continent of Africa and have serious debate. "

Ah David, oh David my son
don't you know by now that white supremacy is the old black
they don't want  the educated black like you
they don't harbour the progressive talented intellectual black
only place acceptable is the sports field, the drug den and their beds
but please remember.......
your only worth to them is your enormous member and passion
your hot chilli drive, your fabled great stamina and that shiny
gleaming mahogany hue, the stuff of dreams, no brains required
NOW YOU BETTER KNOW.......
if you dare turn down a bed invite in East London by cockney wenches on heat
Say good-bye to any life you had and welcome ****'s miseries
How dare you, who the **** do you think you are
You think you're better than us, you think you're superior

We will take you down a ****** *****, we will make sure you'll
never have another woman in your life
We rule the world, you better know it, you black *******
How dare you
We will wipe you out, erase you, swat you dead like a fly
We will make you wish you were never born

Bro, you're not supposed to talk back
Know your place even though you're an MP
You are still a TOKEN, still a minority, still a ****** blackman
Just thank your lucky stars and shut up!

WE are the Supreme beings and we rule your ***!
Rob K 5d
Beauty is something,
I didn't seem get.
It took age and children,
Wonder and regret.

But for those who also struggle,
In this word to define,

What beauty really is,
Here's how it works...  
For Beauty Over Time

At youth the physical,
Seems to excel.
Sometimes wit or humor,
Makes a heart begin to swell.

Often beauty,
Is very singular.
How he's so handsome,
How she's spectacular.

It.
Is the word,
That often comes to mind.
Like a lonely single thing,
Can make anything sublime.

And that's not to say,
Beauty can't be simple,
Like how she pushes back a loose hair,
Like my smile shows my dimple.

But over time...

Some things will lose their luster...

Let that not worry you...
For beauty has a great stamina it can muster.

Through memories,
Of laughter,
Of loving,
Of care.

Through weeping,
Of pains,
Of the losses,
We bare.

For beauty is actually,
The weights on a scale.
Telling the stories,
Of our beautiful tale.




"Her hair is so gorgeous!"
Beauty takes a weight...

"*** what a *****..."
****...  
Finds a mate.




In this simple example,
I try to provide,
Note that the scale,
Is leaning on both sides.

Beauty is very,
In the eye of the beholder.
But all those who behold,
Watch as we warm or grow colder.

What I'm trying to tell you,
In far too many words,
Is don't worry about one thing,
That might make your beauty burn.

There are so many,
Ways we can shine.
We can sparkle or glow dim,
Cast sunshine or moonlight.



But I urge you a caution.


Beauty is truly, weights on a scale.


One day, divine in body,
But on another...
Hells compassion gone pale.

All scales are sensitive.
Forever they sway.
It's you who it's up to.
As to where, you add weight.
I started largely with a vague thought, then the title.  As with most poetry I write, sometimes a title is better off coming last.  :-p
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.guess i must have hit the vein, nay, a ******* artery, must have gobbled down an oyster, muscle and brains altogether, simultaneously!

i have one, only one pet peeve...
that casual mainstream media
expression...

    but it's the 21st century!

i get the bollocking frizzle of
***** hair, translated into Janissary ******
attire... excited...

what the **** are you talking
about?

   21st century, what?
we're in our infancy!
            and what came prior?
you seem to forget the first half
of the 20th century,
and bulk in cultural
              expropriation of other
nations...

   us Poles had 100 years if liberty,
thank you very much...
we're not about to do the German
hip Berliner St. Vitus dance
magic, just yet...

******* hippies...

       Solidarity movement
pamphleteers, migrants of Florida,
bias, you name them...
yeah... "heroes"...

                    ******* usurpers,
Judases...
             and from the city i was born into...
where's the ******* metallurgy?
export of cheap labor,
originating in Spain!
      how's the youth unemployment
working for the Spaniards?
good? good good...
goof ******* *****!
   no say cheese in Swiss German
and show us the 42 teeth of over-perfecting
that schmile!

        Swiss guard, up & ****!
*******...

       i hate the sophistry,
loath it, baron over it...
this but it's the 21st century...
what sort of excuse is it?!
   there's not excuse!

                 reverting back to covert
popularization of prostitution?
even the Bulgar prostitutes lie,
about being Romanian,
i never tell them,
even though the word, dobrze...
   o.k,
    хорошо...
   is not a romanian word...
    you lie, you fry...
         i'm actually fond of making
chicken hearts, and pork liver sauces...
i can work the stoves...
             **** it... give me any meat,
i'll fry it... make a garlic onion sauce
out of it...
    nee bother...
   strawberries?
perfect fruit for smoothies...
tried it, just today,
with nein (nine) passiot fruits,
and an arithmetic for the one hand
including strawberries...
         crème fraîche replacing
yoghurt...
                          milk,
milk milk milk milk...

but...

what's the ******* excuse,
for making excuses of the 21st century
as the ******* pinnacle?
will the 22nd century look
fondly on us?
  
i'm only looking fondly for the death
of Lizzy II with much
anticipation, because of,
what i assume will not be the case
of Chuckles III,
rather, Georgie VII...

the 20th century passed...
what sort of excuse, in liberal terms...
is there to posit,
for keeping the Greenwich Mean Time?
frankly?
  the ******* excuse i've ever, ever,
heard!
         it's the 21st century...
whoop-tee-doo-daa
                        (H)    (H) -
told you... without the (YW) -
a god that's a vowel catcher...
or pivot for laughter...
can't get more hebrew-philic than i.

i ******* loath the: but it's the 21st century
argument...
    lost the italic lettering and the colon
from the use of bold -
monarchy?
  well, suit up & boot up
for the transgressive pomp & circumstance,
that alternative
to pride & prejudice...

  ha ha!
            god... laughing at oneself
is probably the only cure there ever will be...

but come on!
the: but it's the 21st century!
  
what sort of, argument, is that?
  it's not like ontology begot
an x-men algebraic variation,
an exponential derivative,
    a Holmes' hound of a bag of
necessary excuses!
      some ******-evolutionary leap
of benevolence
to excuse a connection of peer-to-peer
connectivity,
somehow erasing the 20th
century, and ennobling a... "fresh start"
with 21 as the fore!

i might be a peasant,
and i might drink to excesses some
people would wish they could
muster a stamina for...

  but please, leave the fairy tales to
the Danes,
  hans christian andersen and their
Grimm bro. counterparts...

but it's the 21st century...
**** me...
    you mean the ****-up century?!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.does the concept of a misnomer, exist, within the confines of synonyms?

                       poets began complaining:
if we're not rewriting
         the brother grimms'
fairy tales...
   we're writing: about reading...
so what the ****
is up with the modern revamping
of journalism?
  journalism about...
journalism?
   and this legalißation of
homosexuality...
and the standardißing of
of transgenderißm?
i'm living inside a society,
that has abolished the concept
of the asylum...
      and i'm like:
oi! garçon! noch eine tee
   für mich...
             an dis verrückt
                  engländerteeparty!
- since writing about reading
is the consequence of
a landfill site ergonomics...
what is alt and Samson
journalism?
            oh look... another set
of people, who've entered
a problematic posit of plagiarism,
having to wrestle with,
yet another cul de sac scenario...
the nuestasi...
      i agree, there's a healthy
canvas of competition...
but... after a while?
  it's basically people slagging
each other off...
    journalists "doing" journalism
for the front-liners -
journalism as simply
     the editorial sections
of newspapers...
     opinion avenues, rubrics...
there's no longer a journalism
within the regards of:
what's happening in the world...
but...
  there's a journalism,
within the confines of:
what's happening in journalism...
the day had to come,
when the times newspaper...
had to run a page 2 story...
about a Toff Tinder dating app.,
about pseudo-eugenics -
minus the strict Nazis,
and more:
   those annoying English
aristocrats,
   who received, much more
than a circumcision when
     ruling over the Indian Raj...
mind you... it always bewildered
me...
   most european languages...
do not actually allow noun ascription
to letters...
   like the greeks might with
O being omicron,
   or A being alpha...
    hence me, among the "losers"...
well... because i have
a roof over my head,
and there actually exists a class
of employed
people in england,
that are, nonetheless, homeless!
    the latin alphabet,
with its Ah Be(e) Ce(e)...
                      ****...
just before they cut his ***** off,
the castrato at the Vatican: sang!
sang! ****** sang like a
Modena tenor... having his *****
squeezed, before having them cut off...
sung the alphabet...
   and... couldn't fathom
ascribing a noun... to a single letter
in the encoding metric...
            no surprises...
but it's not like tyrants didn't
need eunuchs to keep harems...
back when the plastic industry
wasn't in full swing...
   and you wanted to keep 200 women...
you basically needed walking ******
to keep the women occupied...
     so... a walrus bollocking
within the grasp of a, "sudden"
loss of stamina?
                 evolved...
like a tree made into a toothpick...
because... only some make
it into the kingdom of god,
imitating the monogamy of
the nobles, that are... notably swans...
the concept of
     widowhood exists among
swans...
                 sometimes...
among people...
        but ****...
                      this Bulgarian
******* asked me:
do you have a girlfriend?
   nope.
              - and the "affair" was over
within the confines of an hour...
the same emotional investment
as one might take...
   in killing a mosquito -
   omni corpus - nulla cor vel mens...
was that said, plaintively?
not really...
              no bogus drama -
   the sheep was still intact,
when the wolf left, satiated.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.how else? with a variety of histories clinging to the focus and exerting the stamina as coordinator? there's the historiology of Darwinism, there's the historiology of the Big Bang theory (with "god" as a, end of sentence "after-thought", dot, , there's the historiology of scholastic efforts of the study of history of history, then there's the personal history of the individual: as nostalgia, then there's the historiology of journalism... then there's the historiology of your immediate predecessors... at what exact point, are you supposed to begin with, to create a rational creature? i suppose the easiest answer is... ? to have children... and construct a shadow, to hide all these focal points of genesis... never mind the historiological study via the biblical narrative, or archeological historiology; so, as you can see? time is not exactly the replica of space, a beginning a present a past... space is not three-dimensional outside this atmosphere of the grand Orb... because all scientists know that... this, supposed motivational claim of... "thinking" outside, "the" box... at the end... there's no "box" to begin with!

such a recurrent thought,
it stalks me like a shadow,
but i just... never seem to be rid of it...
i was 21, she was 18...
love...
                love...

but an unhinged desire for death
to boot,

******* her for 7 hours one night
in St. Petersburg...
didn't really matter...

a vague similarity to
incubating a cushion...

there was no accident...
if only talk took the place of telling lies...

i could have explored
the latex ***** *** **** outside
the realm of a ******...

sure, i write about Hebrew
theories in terms of phonetics...
but i could never be circumcised...
a caduceus of protruding veins
envelop my *******...
so... no mushroom head
of a phallus to boot...
i'd bleed out...

               but was it so bad of me
to suggest an abortion to
a teenager?
            would she still possess
a masters degree?

she married later,
then "divorced" her husband
and i met her new boyfriend,
when i randomly traveled
back to Edinburgh,
and watched her playing
video games with a slashes
hand...

no... not at the wrists...
along the veins,
from the inner side of the elbow
right down to the wrist...

my ex, my one true decency of
womanhood once said
to me: stop trying to save
these women,
to which i should have replied:
i'm not! i'm trying to
save myself!

sometimes the night creeps in,
and i think of the 21 year old me...
she, taking contraceptive pills,
then stopping,
and then, becoming
pregnant... or at least that's
what it sounded like:

matt, i think i'm pregnant...
it didn't register that well
while on a construction site...
industrial roofing never really
does give you the luxury of
pondering...
i was either about to move
some canadian tar into the boiler,
or cut up a roll of mineral felt,
or transfer some insulation...

she came from a Novosibirsk
oligarchy,
two apartments in St. Petersburg,
one in Moscow,
a mansion in Novosibirsk,
etc. etc....

     just left uni, and was doing
what any son of a manual laborer does,
being utilized in his father's
profession...

but it's not like i could afford
to give her what she expected...
a flat in central Edinburgh...
i might have said:
you might think about getting
an abortion /
you know what you have to
do? get an abortion...

            21?! seriously?
so i'm supposed to drop a job
in London?
the only sort of job i could
get out of uni?
a job i... to be honest...
yes, it was hard... but i enjoyed it!
it would have been a job
that would cover the years
my father went "missing",
from 4 through to 8...

but this Russian lass wouldn't
ever move in with her in-laws,
or to the outskirts for that
matter...

plus... what happened later?
she married...
supposedly divorced,
and there, i met her new boyfriend...

to be honest...
i don't even know if
there was ever a child to begin with...

see...
  hmm...
  the existence of god is not so much
an issue of me that serves
the diligence of plating up a proof...
i have too many personal
certainties in my own life,
to give the concept of god
the "benefit of the doubt"...

agnostics doubt a god,
atheists deny a god...
  big difference...
         i can't do either...
i know so little of my personal life
sometimes, if not all the time,
that... at least:
there's this coordinate
i can focus on...

as ever... it's not the freedom
of speech that bothers me...
i'm more inclined to serve the purpose:
give me the freedom
to think, from what i've said...

and what i have to say?
is found in the comment section...
not here... this is me...
thinking "aloud"...
don't come here expecting me
to be found talking,
you'll only receive a reply
of keyboard clicking...

i can think of a deity,
but, sure as ****: can't pray to one...

deus est cogitatio,
                    non est sermo
:

god is thought,
                         isn't talk.

wow... i didn't even shed a tear
writing this...
ah...
               when i once played
my muse... my ex-girlfriend's
younger sister the song
solitude by black sabbath,
and then we washed the dishes together...
it's playing now...
and it's raining...

    a pristine English October.

a conundrum question...
did i chose wisely?
i didn't chose wisely at all...
i made a post-existentialist gamble...
i gambled...
   i simply... gambled...
  although as aversive i am
to casual gambling... on horses...
dogs... football matches...
i made but one gamble,
the result of which,
is confined to me writing, this.
Lexie Aug 2018
I melt down your body like wax
It is a painful descent
And a slippery *****
I made the mistake
Of crawling inside your head
I can never look you in the eyes again
For when I was behind your sockets
Sweat marathoning down my temples
I saw things no man should see
It was beyond me
And now this evil
It is a part of me

What have I become

please

Please help me.

To see is to know
Though believing is another thing
And that changes naught
And I have seen
Oh I have seen
More than my eyes were meant for
Is this why I am cast away?
Is this why I'm a castaway?

I have lost all composure
And my solutions worth as much as the pennies in my pockets

Still I melt
And my wick grows shorter
As does my stamina
I am a wretch
And still it would be a mercy
To pull my eyes out through my skull
And let them rot in the sunlight
Even this is better than the dragons
Reigning fire in my mind

The earth
She would swallow me whole
Oh that she would eat me up in a moment
Rid me of this meandering
Take me from this ****
Still I wander
Though I lack perception
Still I tread on
Blind, foolish one that I am
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
. what the **** happened, how did television become more entertaining than cinema? how?! ah... primarily it's the whole binge effect... but... this is us discovers mundane ****, and yet... it's enthralling, perhaps the cocktail of very impressive juxtaposition of past and present... it's engaging because of that, esp. for people with short attention spans.. personally? i don't mind the disorientation, very much akin to the t.v. series: sharp objects... which is probably why the genre of still life, in terms of painting is dead twice over and not even, remotely equivalent to rolling in it and screaming like a banshee... it's not... modern cuisine has killed still life... namely? paul cézanne is dead... the whole: fruit bowl, glass and apples, "thing"? with what moderns express their culinary skills? and how a Michelin star restaurant presents a dish? **** me... edible art... more importantly, the former observation... television has managed to **** off cinema... wherever they are, i'm pretty sure it's not Hollywood... cinema is dead, and dead in the sense: not even steak dead, something you could eat... dead as in decomposing dead, gangrene flesh.

.                every single time...
   the groove is just too good...
come nighttime
you'll probably find me dancing
a deserted night avenue...
yeah, white boy dance...
who would have thought?!
i thought that white men
can't either jump, or dance...
angry in youth,
resentful in old age...
    no, i'm not jealous
about some Arab harem...
don't have the ******* stamina...
but whenever
     foster the people's song
pumped up kicks,
my mind doesn't listen,
and my body reacts,
chooses to mingle with the rhythm,
even sitting down,
  the pigeon walk...
dum dum dum... blah  blah...
and a few minutes later -
  the dance?
something akin to
that famous Pulp Fiction dance
of: girl... someday you're gonna
be a woman and...
    mr spastic fantastic
riddled by an epileptic episode?
somehow my pelvis becomes
detached from the body,
and does a comet orbit...
the song gets me...
   every single time.
AditiBoo Sep 2018
It’s not about the past

Much less about the future

A second now is a minute passed

The butterfly’s wings change the picture



We bring yesterday back to today

And make tomorrow today’s plan

So when do we live for the day?

It’s a rush to get everything on instagram



Statistics about the last three years

And then forecasts about the next three years

Somehow today got lost in between

And real time data is still transiting



Memories bring in nostalgia

Ambitions kick in the stamina

Take both away and there’s the fragile present

Half past, half future...half caste stuck in an instant



A single moment’s pleasure

A childhood treasure

Oh how I would give anything...

To have time to enjoy everything
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
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Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
no, i didn't exactly throw a frisby
to my mate with a dog in between...
what did i do?
occupied a window-sill...
   dipped by *******
into a *** and mixer...
then said  vague *******
to my shadow,
   averting from dipping
my finger from the brew...
then licking it clean...
                     the problem being?
oh, right, a three word..
YOU.
can these men stop gloating about
how
much ***** they're getting?
i'm just, getting bored,
of feeling jealous...
like i have some sort of stamina
incapacity
working me off...
                 death does expire,
when authentic life begins...
              and that means what?
don't know... i said it...
you figure it out.
Lexie Nov 2018
You are a smokey memory
It brings a light to my eyes to think of you
What could I say to the leaving of my life
To ask you to come back home
Would mean everything to the shallowness I wallow in
Mindful in my retreating
It does very little for a wandering mind and stationary feet
I have found my humility in begging gods dead and lost alike
Though wherever I find them it seems their ears have been shut with the worries of the world
This storm has stamped my skin and the ink runs wild in my veins
Time will check its reigns
A wanderer is never lost
A spirit restless never sleeps
This to shall pass
I bite empty promises into my lip
I dig a grave for my stamina into the palms of hands with my nails
There is such an emptiness to be found in tomorrow
Your hope for her is not a dangerous one
Yet we forget the wisdom of yesterday as quickly as she is lived
Oh the mutterings of my mind
It is worth pennies in the street

— The End —