"stoppage" poems
an average human creature should such a mythical exist
in a lifetime will celebrate about 2,200,000,000 heartbeats,
billions of heartbeats per minute (I prefer moment)
but like everything so essence human there are
those very few heartbeat moments,
the ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
that you total truly remember,
recalling the cream and sauce,
swell and the hell,
of the pounding so slow so hard,
each one a volcano of
a moment until that day
you don't remember-anything
when she said yes and you're shaking and beating in a
honky-tonk rhythm cause you were heart undressed unsure
and truly afraid of a rejection that makes a heart stoppage
disallowing visions, to be exponentially happy future imagined
you're feeling your heartbeat
in your knees going weak,
when the doctor says:
congratulations healthy swell
and/or
some years later,
I'm so so truly sorry, hell
when they hand you a long handle shovel no instructions needed and that scoop of earth weighs two tons and the sound of slow reverb in your head hurts like hell and you lack the strength to move and they move you aside quiet gentle like
but inside the temple of the two headed hydra-heart,
it's the rock and roll of slo mo, the violin crying, the drumming of
heavy metal chords plucked so slowly, it's you froze screaming
a billionaire of heartbeats you are,
but only ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
you total truly remember with the perfect clarity and
forever renders into your own unique orchestral symphony,
your true net worth, the stripes you wear
upon your shoulders skin,
the tune when you hear it and melts you into rigidity
you fall to your knees wherever you are,
that is where you will find me,
just listen for the cars horns blaring
cursing the man lying in the street, re-listening to
ten or twenty maybe forty heartbeats total in a lifetime
you alone total truly that concert set recall and
the win-loss record inherent, inhiment,
in both of them, tears and the rents, all there in the tunes,
of forty beatings you took,
somehow it feels like here is, there was,
the answers to
where is shelter for the heart,
the answers that have gone and come and gone and someone says,
I don't feel a pulse
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
It's oh in Paradise that I fain would be,
Away from earth and weariness and all beside;
Earth is too full of loss with its dividing sea,
But Paradise upbuilds the bower for the bride.
Where flowers are yet in bud while the boughs are green,
I would get quit of earth and get robed for heaven;
Putting on my raiment white within the screen,
Putting on my crown of gold whose gems are seven
Fair is the fourfold river that maketh no moan,
Fair are the trees fruit-bearing of the wood,
Fair are the gold and bdellium and the onyx stone,
And I know the gold of that land is good.
O my love, my dove, lift up your eyes
Toward the eastern gate like an opening rose;
You and I who parted will meet in Paradise,
Pass within and sing when the gates unclose.
This life is but the passage of a day,
This life is but a pang and all is over;
But in the life to come which fades not away
Every love shall abide and every lover.
He who wore out pleasure and mastered all lore,
Solomon, wrote "Vanity of vanities:"
Down to death, of all that went before
In his mighty long life, the record is this.
With loves by the hundred, wealth beyond measure,
Is this he who wrote "Vanity of vanities"?
Yea, "Vanity of vanities" he saith of pleasure,
And of all he learned set his seal to this.
Yet we love and faint not, for our love is one,
And we hope and flag not, for our hope is sure,
Although there be nothing new beneath the sun
And no help for life and for death no cure.
The road to death is life, the gate of life is death,
We who wake shall sleep, we shall wax who wane;
Let us not vex our souls for stoppage of a breath,
The fall of a river that turneth not again.
Be the road short, and be the gate near,--
Shall a short road tire, a strait gate appall?
The loves that meet in Paradise shall cast out fear,
And Paradise hath room for you and me and all.
3.5k
Wandering under
woodland leaves,
my mind confined
to winding suture lines.
Paths of pink nerve tissue
cherry blossom trees,
dendrite branches wave
in a heavy breeze.
Myline bark, an axon stump,
rooted contents of my skull
continuously growing,
a tangled plexus of
neural connections.
Twisting, turning,
a knotted blockage.
Pathways, rippled in roots,
a crossing synaptic stoppage.
A suffocating strangle,
choking corpus callosum
decaying mangle.
Branches atrophy,
shrivel and scar.
Root terminals suffer
hormonal harm.
Forest trails quick fainting
when lost in overthinking.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 11:29 PM UTC
Five for fighting
hands to the face
personal foul
player disgrace
Illegal contact
leap in the fray
willful head shot
leg astray
Encroachment defense
mouth guard out
roughing the passer
back field bout
Grounding the pigskin
mis-aligned
horse collar tackle
clip from behind
Knee on knee
offside end
unnecessary roughness
too many men
Gross misconduct
poke in the eye
hooking the shooter
sticks up high
Match ejection
over the top
face off folly
penalty shot
Unsportsmanlike conduct
chopping the block
slew foot infraction
hammer lock
Stick to the head
kick in the crotch
**** end jab
adhering the watch
Slashing the d-man
spearing the wing
running the keeper
back checking
Intentional grounding
stoppage in play
punching and hacking
delay of the game
Striking the ref
aggressor in fight
obstructing the line out
ear in a bite
Loss of downs
hands in the ruck
pinching and boarding
illegal upchuck
Rules of the battle
by the bye
pushing the limits
with a wink of an eye
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
Yesterday night I was there on a bus.
Road was jammed and was a muss.
Bus was empty, travelers were few.
Amidst the jam it crawled through.
Soon I got curious about two old chaps;
Sitting on seats marked 'for handicaps'.
They were different from common folk.
Without making any sound they spoke.
To talk some sign language they used.
I didn't understand and was confused.
Different ****** expression they made.
Lips and hands moved, heads swayed.
With hand they wrote on other's hand.
They savvied but I didn't understand.
On the next stoppage halted the bus.
Holding each other both left without fuss.
I looked but my vision came to a naught;
Mind got occupied with their thought.
Many languages recognized and known.
But their language had beauty of its own.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Wind,the agent of change,
you at first was far off and distant,
A constant drone of bees, not much!
they paid no heed to those rumblings,
Your power was counted
insignificant,they kept the curtain drawn,
Down, intact, trying to
keep you out of the house of darkness.they kept.
But the suppressed put
their ears close to the ground, listened,
Aware of your intent, they
patiently waited, watching your unhurried advance.
Giving talkative leaves ample chance
to speak their heart, first, tickling trees, caressing clouds,
You changed the speed,
rustling sound soon became persistent.
Shouting slogans, hand raised,
all the plants and trees expressed their anguish,
Insisted, a change, justice for mother nature,
stoppage of torture of , animals, birds and bees.
Wind, you act as an unswerving friend,
creating awareness , is your intent.
and fight the rot , naked profit motive, relentlessly,
by now every one knows the injustice,
festering fiercely in the core.
You drive the clouds and spin them about,
rain by and by gains strength
It pours now in torrents, all untruth
comes out in the open, face the ire,
the true power of the protests, eye of the storm.
Wind, you boom, give a clarion call to clean,
revenge all the injustices, perpetrated til now.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
When we were eighteen
sang the three women in chorus
and the bus burst into Spring.
When we were eighteen
they giggled and sang
the bus was a garden
the seats swings in the wind
the passengers angels and fairies
When we were eighteen
sang the three women
men beamed and the women blushed
as they broke into chorus
when we were eighteen
the ride was free
and they all stood up
their bones bellowing the chorus
their skin shining in the Spring
the child grew into eighteen
the old descended into that golden year
never knowing when their stoppage came
when one after the other they got down
and again it was a bus on the road
but with the whiff of Spring
eternal in the crimson blush
of the sun setting and rising
its engine and axle and tyres whirring in chorus
when we were eighteen
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
Sad corners
Dark caves
Fumed pits
Dark lagoons
Dead reflections
Caged souls
Black forests
Breeze turning
chilled whistles
Possibility of life
Bigger possibility of ghosts.
True that it
divides a face
Vertical divisions
First choices
Its stoppage
before the lips.
A small tear -
hideout of an
entire negativity.
Horizontal division
is day to day living.
A perfect rule -
we divide in different ways
we cross paths
for a cancellation.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
It will come to everyone, at some stage in their life, an instant stoppage of time, where images blur and fade away only to convescale into tight focus stabbing deep with a sharper pain.
That one thought that paints a thousand pictures of silent screams that no one heard. That instant when you knew all the words you spilled are only piling up as a mound of dirt.
A moment of clarity as clear as the centre of a bubble. That one moment in time when you ask yourself...
am I really that unloveable?
that will be the whisper of a small voice inside an empty space. It's the same question you'll ask of the mirror while looking at the same face.
That one inner warning that hits with piercing clarity. It will come to you, rest assured, when your lost and alone and you don't want charity,
you won't want pity or useless platitudes spilling from dead lips that leak poison from inside. You just want one person, just one, to hear what you say and hold your hand and not try to hide.
That one moment in time should not be a reoccurring event,
but when it is, the shock is less, you become just that little more hardened, and less hell bent,
to share your life and your feelings
and your heart.
It really is a lesson that should be learnt from the start.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC
City-bus is crawling one zone to another
Someone is recalling somebody silently
Entering into the dustless cool mall
I may dare to tell all the senior ladies love
May open the cellular phone.
Yellow champak smelling the teen-age
Passerby may suffer from unknown blunder
It's really an untold epic
Somebody feels someone
I may redesign my attributes
May write some lines on the corpuscles.
City-bus is entering into the yesterdays
Yellow neon-evening is moving from tomorrows
I may fall down to the stoppage
May kiss the air might touch your lips someday.
City-bus can't cross the globe
Can't find your cyber destination!
Poem 05
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
From two fiery souls, a being was yielded
With their ambitious love, it must be guided
Whose young soul, at birth, pranced at the brink of death
God heard his wish, granting the infant another breath
As the time went on and went by
The same star was the brightest in his sky
Riches do not kiss her feet
But his arms, more comfortable than the finest sheets
He was her protector, her shield, her warrior
She was his princess; To no one, she was inferior
On his shoulders, she stood on top of the world
All was perfect 'til the petals unfurled
She fell off from a bicycle and bruised her knees
He treated her wounds but ignored her pleas
The once loving embraces felt like a cage
Under his gaze, she was a prey on center stage
Goodnight kisses were no longer pure
His warm embrace, no longer secure
What used to be affectionate, now shaky and warm
Eyes that shone with love, now projects harm
Harm to the corporal being, to the efflorescing soul
To sleep at ease, she cannot be cajoled
At days, perturbed; at nights, in fear
She trembles and frets, her fright is sheer
Hands that swept hair away from her face
Left imprints on her skin one can never erase
Lips that pressed kisses on her forehead
Became the source of her every day dread
A princess' skin felt like filthy rugs
Her responses to concern were countless shrugs
Now every time she sees her warrior
Relief vanishes, she is filled with terror
She remained silent, hoped for a change
All done in vain, the protector is deranged
Indulged himself, appeasing carnal hunger
Drowning her in nightmares that will forever linger
No more time for beautiful dreams
For she's awakened by lascivious schemes
The following morning, his lips are stretched to a smile
Forgetting the night, the flower that was defiled
With much courage, the straight road became curved
She took the wheel and hastily swerved
The voice has been found and it finally speaks
A stoppage on his abhorred streak
Knees on the ground, he recites a contrition
The usual alibis, but his own rendition
For so many years, she lived in misery
Mere apologies cannot suffice for clemency
From this point, she can never get far
Why dress her with fabrics of adulterated scars?
I was your princess, your brightest star, remember?
Why did you forget, my dear father?
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Feast or famine.
The dry summer or monsoon season.
It’s not as though he had
murdered me.
That would be easier to
prove. There would be
no hiding
the blood of it.
And how I did bleed—
years later,
red all over it.
Improper.
Fuel for the fire.
Combustible.
But nothing trembles
as I weigh the being
of my existence against
what stoppage.
Order or chaos.
Black or white.
What has been spoilt
rotten can never be
golden. These are
the questions I ask myself:
Am I loved? Do I
love? Can I love?
While there is the story
he tells himself, reassuringly:
It was just ***
It was just ***
Jan 2, 2021
Jan 2, 2021 at 8:19 PM UTC
Spinning in its apogee this world has lost its rhyme
It’s denizens deflecting and defacing precious time,
Sidestepping crucial issues and responsibilities
While elected fools to office flaunt abused integrities,
It’s all integral to disorder running rampant in the street
Where shades of retribution lead to fear of those we meet.
Where production slows to stoppage causing systems now to fail
And the single voice of sanity is the fool who yells "Curtail" !!
Gone to Hell the Good Old Days, gone the repartee
Lost communication in this world of misery.
Aleppo lies in ruins, unconscionably true
And blame imparts it’s levity on all including you,
The sin of ******* conscience where we turn the other cheek
Where ignorance is innocence as kids die in the street.
Blame Syria and Moscow, Blame Isis and the Yanks,
Blame everyone who turns the other cheek …to mutter quietly, “no thanks”
Blame ignorance, intolerance, the hate and Jealousy,
Blame God for his indifference and mediocrity.
Aleppo lies in ruins and the world just doesn’t care
For as Christmas joy approaches, we switch our focus there.
Isis is the apogee, the focus and the fulcrum
Isis is the dark abyss that treads the path to Hell
A Caliphate catastrophe inherent in equation
A tipping point reaction as respondents toll the bell.
Where East and West throw shards of death to strut the stage of destiny,
Where man tip-toes the edge of an apocalyptic end,
The rest of us stroll corridors of detached halls of apathy
Intent upon a peaceful life where violence rarely rends.
Aleppo lies in ruins in a patina of concrete dust
Children die obscenely in the rubble of the street
Obsession paints the hatred bright, on faces of the warriors,
Oblivious to the carnage they cast at Allah’s feet.
Aleppo lies in ruins, unconscionably true
And blame imparts it’s levity on all….including you!
M.
Hamilton NZ
9 December 2016
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
Where the cookies crumble is where the sturdy will stumble,
Where the cowardice in brave men will surface
And the evil cast out from every crevice
Til' the day when only the honest and clean
Lay claim to this land purged of ill and made serene
By those who truly care for the future of their country,
The fair sharing of bounty,
The welfare of those they neighbour
And the stoppage of all bias and favour.
Where a man need not fear for his children
Even though their future is uncertain.
When behind your shoulder you need not look
For fear of a killer, ****** or common crook.
When the treasury is as transparent as glass
And the parliament seats men not snakes in grass.
When we are no longer short of teacher, doctor and nurse
and the needs of the people are met first.
This is when the politic of the future will carry corruption and incompetence to the hearse
and we will look upon our elected head as a gift, not a curse.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 11:19 PM UTC
There was this moment
and this moment was not like any other
In this moment, we became eternal
Like a stranger I fell upon this awakened feeling of longing
Longing to shake my feathers free and fly
But I clipped my wings long ago and the feathers sit at the bottom of the cage
Wasted delight in the stoppage of flight
So here I am, vulnerable and the cage within my cage, the bones
rattle out of place, finding refuge in the lost spaces of my soul
I believe in the blindness of fear, leading me into uncertainty
I placed my faith in the cathedral in my heart
Brick, stone, and stained glass, my frightful temple crumbled to dust
Let the rain flow and the mud sift through and I rebuilt that church of blood and bone to a finite state
There you came into this church a flower that has bloomed brighter than the rest
Your colors squeeze life from nothing and breathe into me
I'm a patchwork of failures and regret but there is a work of art that calls to me
Hammer the nails into the body and lift like a prayer to the sky
It's a terrible thing to waste the sunlight always breaks the day
And the past isn't going anywhere, but this moment is who we are
So let's live
Let's love
Let's fight
Let's fail
Let's fall
Let's wander
Let's forget
Let's remember
Let's live by the beauty that frees us
When this testament surrounds you, I'll be waiting in this church
Of wine and celebration
Because we have a life and let us bring it to the end and hand it to the next person and say, "I didn't waste mine, Now it's your turn."
So won't you dance in the mud with me and sing in the night,
I will cover you and never let go.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
Divine your soul's degree it is the sucker
Of rotting mind flesh off the bright light core
A red flashing neon exploding door
To heaven is causally over
Looked for excitements and anger little
Rubber hammers of perception tap mind
Tendons born formed or this life conditioned
And we **** **** **** our days away as chattel
To fault-full man-made process rationaled
Buy this! Get wet for this! Dream this! Consume your
HOLE LIFE CONSUME!!! and sigh the wish for more
Stoppage is not in time just now crafted
Body movements speak louder than words blow
Chunks!!! there's a full heap of actions to go
Feb 19, 2022
Feb 19, 2022 at 1:16 AM UTC
*philosophy: and yes, we all believed in the insane asylum in the first place... at least the theists are suicidal... the atheists are hanging-on, mundane boors... listening to atheists is like listening to someone trying to erradicate the thesaurus... like someone trying to sharpen a staff... atheism is case of: stoppage of synonyms... because no philosophy book i've read invokes grammatical words, i.e. nouns, verbs... no argument in this direction is cool... the *** knows Tai Chi... i'm just waiting for a ******* to say it's Chinese!*
and beyond the counter to worship,
the atheistic argument
is bound to a lot of talk and thought...
when atheism does do much away with
prayer...
then secularism does...
let's just say: acknowledge the idiot...
either pray... or think or talk
and subsequently acknowledge
that sort of ultimatum...
i can't agree on either pathos...
pray... or talk...
find enough Goebbels, and you'll
find enough like-minded manifestos
of Englishmen...
and esp. Jews attired as
such... cos you weren't gangraped enough.
if you were a friend of a friend... and a friend that
said: biology... via the pharaoh's gambit...
you still wouldn't
consecrate their friendship over a steak,
but you would.
atheists don't have an argument,
they still abide to arguing his existence,
by thinking about him, or talking about him,
prayer seems the most lazy escapism
to the caged compensated comparison,
given we're all caged...
and escapist... and bound to escapism...
you construct the pyramids!
you do!
a bunch of quasi intellectuals!
plainly stated: brick on brick!
you lay it down: down to: a word on word!
i can have an argument...
but i can't be even bothered to keep it...
it just gets boring after a while,
and given that i'm not keeping the argument
for a way to shove food down my mouth...
i just think atheism exists because
we have transcended so many natural obstacles...
personally? i'd rather hear a tsunami quake
than hear an atheist talk...
and that's because so few of us will have
the actual argument in this stratosphere...
since most of us will probably rather the thrill
of a tornado... than a **** on our daily commute...
even the Frankenstein monster will be more
attractive in experience than the roudabout of an atheist...
women are least likely to champion atheism...
might be a quest for feeling...
with all the pathology...
rather than that other quest for feeling:
apathy...
and that's really, truly, manly.
can we simply prescribe one label: i think?
no... evidently we need many more labels.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 11:46 PM UTC
In the frolics of a sole heart filled with joy
We boarded same bus as one unchained
Since for lifetime we won't die being a'boy,
Nor shall will be dogs unfreed from chained.
We fed our eyes with the modes of our lives.
And filled our ears with the songs of our pains.
We met drivers that carved fear in our lives
And loved coach who taught us without gains.
While we frowned our face at the endless road,
We got tired of faces we no more want to see.
While our bus lept like that of an hungry toad,
We feared we were stuck on another inert sea.
But as we each got to our bus stoppage spot,
Again await each, a ricket' bus to a final spot.
(A poem dedicated to any graduating class)
Poet Alabi Oluwatimilehin
Adejumobi
BabyLawyer
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
I'm so confused,
I don't know what to do.
No way to elude,
No way to breakthrough.
What should I do?
What should I pick?
What's my best option?
In times like these.
I'm craving help,
I'm craving knowledge.
I'm so confused,
But these feelings I'll stoppage.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
I see something beautiful about this earth.
The way It spins around endlessly with no stoppage time.
The way it allows us to create life and existence.
The way it allows us to find ourselves.
There is inner beauty in front of our very eyes.
Behind every corner you shall see how breathtaking
this earth really can be.
The cultural differences between us and them is something
so remarkable but so many don't comprehend.
The different aromas are so significant.
There is more to this world than what
your vision is allowing you to see.
If only you people
would allow yourself to explore in depth
because when the end comes there is
nothing worse than regret.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
Regulation time was up
and our team one goal behind.
At the referees sole discretion
Is the length of stoppage time.
How much time do we have left?
What difference can we make?
Already we’re shorthanded
And the playoffs are at stake.
We’re like a man whose heart has failed
a time or two before.
Each time nearly off with death
Until revived for more.
Or somebody whose lease is up
And headed for the door,
Waiting only for the truck
to take their past to store.
I heard my pulse race in my ears
As I penetrate their line.
I tuck the ball inside the post
And score in stoppage time.
Just ahead a shootout waits
which will decide our fate.
When playing games of sudden death
What a difference seconds make.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
one day you might show up laughing
and i’ll let you in the front door
and we’ll sit and talk about the way time passes
faster for me since the day
you walked out the threshold
some day i’ll have to dig up the promises
we have buried in these backyards
once when i was nine i popped a red balloon
and out came my seven-year-old self’s seventh birthday wish
wrapped in unsigned birthday cards
(the ninety-nine cent kind)
and two-ply kleenexes
i had trouble blowing out the candles and that’s when I heard,
“hey, dandelion mouth
you know wishes are better left alone”
i cried so much that year
2009, the rolling snowball
i, dandelion mouth, became the blockade
i became to stoppage
and sometimes i had trouble running so every now and again someone said,
“you ought to just let the sky hit you and call it a day because
we’re all made of rain anyway”
from then on I realized
i’m not the softest girl you’ll ever get to touch
but we both knew that from the get go
i’m just hoping to treat you gentle enough to make you want to stay
for a while
sit down
have some coffee
cream & sugar
we aren’t all made of rose petals and hallmark cards
you know that better than i
the concept of perfection isn’t an entirely insane idea
but it’s sure close
you might meet the rain the same way you do me
with open arms and a cold shoulder
try to catch the words on your tongue
it won’t always be sunny
sometimes the rain will rust the things you treasure most
but it’s okay
we’re all made of it anyway
one day you might show up laughing
and i’ll remind myself not to let the leaks show through
because after all
it’s just time slipping through the cracks
a reminder of all the blown out candles
of all the unsigned hallmark cards
it’s just the rain
and besides
we’re all made of it anyway
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 10:17 PM UTC
The nights are longer now than before,
always dark and cold, drawing in the mist,
clouding our vision through the prison
in which we waited. There was no stoppage
in time anymore, just the silence that
enveloped around us.
Only with the distant rumble of thunder
could any change in time - the candle of a
heart slowly being extinquised the only sight
to be seen through the yellow panes of
smoke and ash for miles, chocking the life
from the flame.
Clammy and stuffy don't even begin to describe
the horrors of where I am trapped. Encased in
the coffin of earth and rubber, always wet and cold
from the rain which ceased to stop, filling our boots
till they could fill no more. French ground is where
I stand, and French ground is where I die.
Life lives no more, only the rats see little hope,
nibbled away from frost-bite of death and disease,
only the strongest survive the month. Even the horses
could sense it, their long faces reflecting the horrors
that were to be expected soon, one last push they say,
one last push till it ends.
Repulsed by the tightness in which I was trapped I reach
forward into the yellow cloud, spiralling itself through
the wire which surrounded me. One breath was all it took
to wipe the life from the eyes, so thats all I took,
one breath.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 5:11 AM UTC
You are at it again, pretty sure, this time, challenging a wave, or a tension in space when from a vertical, trying to reach ground safe. You always were.
In deep collision of structures, the agent here is something that stops you from stoppage. You go, lessening the trauma, impelled by a similar origin to overwhelm and afterwards leave famished. As long as there is enough moving ground for you in a subtle field effect, it is very sure you will last longer than any rain in this moderate climate. I can imagine all the broken twigs you stepped on, making a dull orchestra out of. Your day-tired wander-wearied jacket after, and all the dust that remained within the sole of your boot when the Earth trembled – kept you still within the splintering of finite objects.
You are at it again, heeding the call of the world, assuming a shape of a moment you said you had in your hands, small enough to fit a chamber of a gun, and when fired, cuts through, is deep, meeting an attempt to touch secret parts but didn’t, only scored, and when realized,
taken as document within conversations.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC
Suicide to save their pride is what they said when they lied.
How it was to save face to not appear as a disgrace.
Sadly their claims hold no base when you see their life lost pace.
Instead they lived with fears and covered their face with tears.
As we call them selfish and a coward we do not see how they became overpowered.
While we live with the reluctant truth that things are different from our youth.
Life is dark and full of lies and selfish people ignoring our cries.
And when some try to reach out a hand they are reluctant to show they cannot stand.
It is not one person's fault, instead it is societies halt.
The stoppage of love and empathy which has discriminated sympathy and the birth of apathy.
So let us recognize the selfish few who cannot reach out to you.
Go to them and show them love because it is what they need from above.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC