"succeeded" poems
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation. Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
Kudos to Kaepernick.
I just cannot drown all my beliefs and ideas, even if it contradicts my flesh and soul. When I heard that not standing up to the tune; that has always succeeded on sweeping all of the messes underneath the sad reality, to be deemed as subversive, I know that Rosa would definitely clench onto the seat tighter than ever.
Kneel, my friend, kneel.
To drag our body out there, all over the precious hills and fields, while acting as if the scale has always been set fairly beneath you all this time, will hurt you more than myself. How can a mere matter of things decide our future, our destiny? We shall shape our fate, you shall shape your own fate, and to be judged on the perception biasedly built in the name of order for thousands of years, is a situation that should not be endured by anyone or anything in a tiny dot within this vast universe.
Kneel, my friend, kneel.
And for that, I cannot stand proudly and profess my love to you as of now, even though I will always wear my heart on my sleeve for you to see. To be cheated, to be manipulated, to be deemed as surplus, by those at the tip of the plateau, that cunningly asked us to forget all the tangles and wrangles for the love of this sacred land, while unashamedly distribute everything off the land, off the ocean amongst them, is the last thing that we should allow to happen. I am one of those people that are not able to put on the mask on top of our meant-to-be honest faces, to say hail to the thief is worse than the eternal grief. I have never dreamed of burying the hatchet with them, not even for a second and if I ever do it, I shall be condemned and dismissed for forgetting the roots, the fons et origo of mine. To love you does not mean to stand still to the soulless melodies, to love you does not mean to bow down to the meaningless piece of cloth that has overseen countless infiltration and bombing over the years.
Kneel, my friend, kneel.
To love you is to fight for the rights of many, by any means, even by not standing up. When black is no longer the symbol of miserable, filth and calamity, we shall then breath with ease, stand on our feet and fully embrace the real meaning behind all those majestic words.
Kudos to Kaepernick.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
I can't get out
I'm stuck in this cycle
Over and over
Again and again
I make the same mistake
Because I'm too stupid
To realize
That it's my own choices
That caused all this pain
Well done, me.
I've succeeded at ruining
Everything
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
I was 15,
And you were 16.
And we met through a computer screen.
And we instantly connected.
And we talked non-stop.
And we became best friends.
And we shared our deepest secrets with one another,
not caring that we were two complete strangers.
That never really mattered.
We were just troubled kids,
longing for someone to talk to.
Someone who felt the things we did.
Someone who wouldn't judge us.
Someone who might possibly understand.
We found that in each other.
You were my solace.
And I loved you.
I told you about how my family was no longer a family.
And you told me about how you didn't know if you could handle much more.
And I was worried.
And you occasionally disappeared for days on end.
And I became frantic.
And you would tell me you were in the hospital.
Those ****** pills again.
And I begged you to stop,
To try and get better.
Because you were my solace.
And I loved you.
I was 16,
and you were 17.
And you had a girlfriend.
And she didnt like me.
Or maybe she just didnt like what we had.
So she made you choose.
And it broke my heart to see you choose her.
Because you were my solace.
And I loved you.
Six months later.
Six devastatingly long months later.
I heard from you again.
And I didn't know how to feel.
So I cried.
Tears of anger, sadness, regret.
But mostly joy.
Because you were back.
You were finally back.
And you were my solace.
And I loved you.
I was 17,
And you were 18.
And we met face to face.
After two long years, it finally happened.
And it was the best night of my life.
And I was so sad to see you leave.
But you had to return to your broken home.
And things got worse for you.
And old habits picked back up.
And your depression consumed you.
And it ate me alive to see you that way.
Because you were my solace.
And I loved you.
I am 18,
And you should be 19.
But you never got to see that day.
Because old habits die hard.
And you finally succeeded.
And my heart feels like it's been ripped out of my chest.
But the rest of my body is numb.
And my mind is darker than ever.
Because now I have no one to share my secrets with.
No one to listen.
Because you are gone.
And you were my solace.
And I love you.
~kns
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
Because I have had nothing, I am generous.
Because I have been mistreated, I am kind.
Because I have been lied to, I am honest.
Because I have been foolish, I am wise.
Because I have been hurt, I am happy.
Because I have made mistakes, I have succeeded.
Because I have endured, I am strong. ♥
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
The girl behind the mask wasnt who she seemed
She made everyone fall and come to believe
That even the saddest people could be happy
Just for a while until things became sappy
The girl behind the mask tend to laugh alot
At jokes she found were funny, or maybe not
She showed everyone how lovely she could be
But in reality all she wanted was to go and leave
The girl behind the mask was bullied all day
Very few times would the kids let her play
But as the years past, this just proceded
And made her think that death should be succeeded
The girl behind the mask was soon no more
She discovered the ropes would make her soar
Through the clouds in heaven that would go so high
Now she was finally happy to really be alive
The girl behind the mask was living the dream
While everyone on earth soon began to greave
Even though she thought no one cared for her
Life without her quickly became a huge blur
The girl behind the mask looked down one night
To see that her sister had goined the flight
She came up to her and asked why she was here
And she answered this is suicidal girls only good fear
The girl behind the mask did not understand
Why her sister had goined this holy heartland
Then she realized that because of her choice
Her sister decided to leave earth to hear her voice
The girl behind the mask began to cry
She ended her sister's life so that she could come to fly
She discovered that maybe instead of having to say goodbye
She could've gotten someone to help her stay alive
The girl behind the mask soon did find
That maybe suicide doesnt help fix the bind
She went down to earth and gave it her charity
And said im sorry to all including her family
The girl behind the mask looked as she saw her mother
Clutching to the robe of her suicidal daughter
The girl had finally saw what she had done
So dont make the same mistake and dont grab the gun
(k.b)
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
The Years have passed by,
In the blink of an eye,
Moments of sadness,
And joy have flown by.
People I loved,
Have come and have gone,
But the world never stopped,
And we all carried on.
Life wasn't easy,
And the struggles were there,
Filled with times that it mattered,
Times I just didn't care.
And now as I grow older,
It's become very clear,
Things I once found important,
Were not why I was here.
And how many things,
That I managed to buy,
Were never what made me,
Feel better inside.
And the worries and fears,
That plagued me each day,
In the end of it all,
Would just fade away.
But how much I reached out,
To others when needed,
Would be the true measure,
Of how I succeeded.
And how much I shared,
Of my soul and my heart,
Would ultimately be,
What set me apart.
And what's really important,
Is my opinion of me,
And whether or not,
I'm the best I can be.
And how much more kindness,
And love I can show,
Before the Lord tells me,
It's my time to go.
© Pat A. Fleming
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
In the murky depths of muck and mire
hope flickers in hearts
courageous enough to believe;
sending out ripples in the waters
like a domino effect rewound.
Insignificant seedlings to the cruel eye
filled with light and promise
as yet unseen turned
Fragile sprouts in healing green
reaching up and out
to rest hopes on the water front,
as if to console one another -
we are not alone.
Against all odds, bean of India,
Keep going –
Power through the sluggish resistance
Of this darkened plane.
Though life seems lost in loneliness
Listen closely,
Hear the Whispering rumours of life beyond the deep
Of basking in light and life
beneath the welcoming heat
of a dancing sun.
A triumphant act of faith indeed,
to content oneself with growing,
never really knowing
what lies beyond the darkness.
I weep for you
with joy, O little pocket of hope
as you propel yourself forward -
such strength, such courage
for one who as yet knows not
of that rosey happiness,
that snow white purity
that lies beneath your shell.
I stand in awe of you;
You with your absurd elegant beauty
tracing your journey
accepting it as part of yourself
embracing who you once were.
The original rags to riches tale;
Roots in putrid, ravenous foundations
yet you yourself remain unstained.
The journey every bit as beautiful
as your glorious destination –
a testimony to your essential self.
I see you take up your stance
Front and centre, finally ready
to declare yourself to the world.
Budding beauty of new life
awake! open your eyes, your heart,
you dont have to hide anymore
the world is missing who you are.
And time births healing and growth.
Every flower blooms at her own pace;
Tentatively unfolding - delicate and fragile still
with gentle colours begging will I do?
Caught up in a lighter life
becoming bolder, blessed, nurtured
blooming bright, opened out
hello world, here I am.
Your wary days drowned, you claim your space,
Fill your space,
Make it your own.
The ethereal splendour of your gentle petals
Succeeded only by the loveliness within,
As you build up your legacy of hope
So wonder will not be lost in the falling petals
but made more beautiful still
in the healing gifts,
in nourishing others,
in the gifts you give of yourself
back to the world.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
Long days have passed
Since I tried to forget you last.
Pain and resentment have seceded,
Yet the vile melancholy has succeeded.
And part by part,
it chokes my heart.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
She was always
Simply
A
Lock
Away; all they needed was the
Key.
Those who found it
Lost it soon enough too.
But those who fashioned it,
themselves
Without deterring from the task
Without trying to replicate a lost key
With nothing but a
egami euqinu
In their minds
Of what the lock looked like
And what the key should look like
Only those few,
Few, very few
Wizards
who toiled to work their magic
Succeeded.
And they never lost their key
They necklaced it around their heart
A symbol that was now etched into
their existence
Entangled in the life of the veins
That this heart so solely depended on
Becoming one with them
Those were the lucky ones
The others, the ones she wished mattered
Were still only searching
Searching
Meandering
Probing
Ferreting
Still only looking for
A key that had once been used
And whose lock was now
Rust rusting rusted
With time.
Still searching
But never creating, of course
Always only searching
Until they found it
And then lost it again.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC
This is a tribute. A goodbye letter, whatever you wanna call it. A thank you, I guess. Thankyou for saving me. Thank you for keeping me. Thank you for watching over me and teaching me and preaching to me and thankyou, thankyou, thankyou for making me see that I was gifted with a life. This is for you. Everything I do, everything I write, everything I say, is for you.
One month ago tomorrow, you died.
One month ago tomorrow, I checked my email expecting to find some spam mail and a few notifications about something I didn't really care about, maybe even a reply from that person I emailed a while ago.
One month ago tomorrow, I checked my email and found an email from your mom saying that you were so sorry, so so sorry, but that you had passed.
One month ago tomorrow, I collapsed on the floor and mourned for the loss of my best friend, my soul mate.
One month ago the day after tomorrow, I walked into school and I kept my cool but I saw you there in front of me. I could put you there and I could see you and I could hear you and you haunted me and my friends all said "You're different."
That day, I had an anxiety attack and went home because I COULDN'T handle it.
Tomorrow, I will walk into school and I will keep my cool but inside I will be dying and sobbing and weeping and mourning for the loss of you.
Tomorrow, I will sit in the same place I did one month ago the day after tomorrow and stare into nothing and see you and hear you and smell you and my friends will say "you're different".
Tomorrow, I might have an anxiety attack. I might go home but I will try not to. I CAN handle it.
When we first met, you told me your worst fear was that you were afraid to die.
3 months ago, you slit your wrists and by the time you realised what you were doing and sane enough to stop you tried to save yourself.
You succeeded.
You got better.
1 month ago tomorrow, you died of natural causes.
We were supposed to become psychologists together and go to New York and study at the same university and open a private practice, where did that end up at?
Goodbye, and thank you, and I'm sorry I didn't say I love you enough, and I'm sorry I didn't take more pictures, and I'm sorry I didn't say what I wanted to say, and I'm sorry we fought, and I'm sorry we wasted so much time planning for a tomorrow we were never going to have.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 3:32 AM UTC
What if I told you
I want to die?
That I'm tired of living,
of being alive?
What if I said
it gets worse at night?
The thoughts get louder
and everything seems wrong
What if I told you I lied
when I said I was fine?
When I said I'm fine, how are you,
I was actually crying on the inside.
What if I lied
and said everything is alright
No, I'm not crying,
I swear I'm fine.
What if I tried to take my life?
Would you send me to rehab?
Hoping the doctors would fix me,
and everything would be fine?
What if I told you hope is dumb?
That hope is a stupid thing to have
Because when I have hope,
everything falls apart.
What if I told you I lied, again, when I said I was better?
That I only said that so you wouldn't worry?
Well,
I did.
What if I said to you,
I've hated myself since the age of 9?
That I wish you could've helped,
before it was too late?
What if I succeeded in killing myself?
I doubt anyone would cry.
Would you even care,
If I took my own life?
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
Trump sat in his tower, supreme in every way
Whatever he wanted, he only had to say
The President to the press corps, of him, one day made fun
I’m gonna replace you bud, when your term is done
He started his campaign, they said he was a joke
But he became popular with all the common folk
The stuff that he spouted, was more and more absurd
But the stupid morons, swallowed his every word
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
There's no such thing as climate change, everything is fine
Burning coal and shale oil is perfectly divine
Those lefty enviornmentalists love to yell and shout
(making lots of money is what I'm all about)
The Mexicans are gonna pay when I build the wall
And I’ll lock you up Clinton, guaranteed next fall
No one could believe it, when the count was done
The blonde haired, orange faced, nitwit, actually had won
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
It’s just that he was used to, always getting his way
He signed executive orders, on his very first day
The Judges over ruled him, and put him in his place
They threw the executive orders, right back in his face
He’s having lot’s of problems, with the phoney press
And though he tweets daily, it’s still causing distress
If he bombed the Syrians, maybe it would make amends
But all he succeeded in doing, was **** off his Russian friends
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
The FBI investigate, so he fired their chief
The replacement just carried on, Trump got no relief
Congress is thinking, let's put Trump against the wall
Pence is in the wings, just waiting for their call
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
He walks through a wood once every month
He takes the same route near The Wishing Pond
He meets with the Collector in a secluded building
Who never fails to purchase every new painting
The man was an artist, the Collector was a fan
His works and his reputation was known throughout the land
The Artist had it all: a nice house, a loving wife,
friends in every town and city, and wealth to last his life
Every month, another painting
Every month, the Collector's money
His life was set, his life was perfect
All he needed as an artist was a self portrait
So this next month's painting would be special
For when he would pass, this will be his memorial
He started on an early morning, standing in front of a mirror
With skill and patience, shading and texture, the first sketch was done
The painting process took a few days
Without sleep or food, for hours in his room he stayed
Near the end of the month, the portrait finally done
Proud and exhausted, the artist exclaimed, "This is a special one."
The next day, he readied his portrait to take
To the Collector, who was expecting to be amazed
With a glance at the picture before he could leave
He noticed many flaws and said, "I want a perfect me"
He sent a letter explaining the delay
To the Collector, disappointed, he lessened the pay
For days, the Artist fixed each flaw
The big ears, the small nose, the feminine jaw
Every day he found a new imperfection
But after months and months of fixing, he achieved satisfaction
He took his self portrait on his once monthly walk
To the Collector's house, pass The Wishing Pond
He tripped on a rock, dropping his portrait
Falling into the pond, his art was ruined
The canvas had sunk, the water grew murky
The paint spread around and clouded before him
The cloudy colors swirled in the water's waves
The Artist, distraught, sat in heartache
A figure rose from the water, the colors had faded
He recognized it immediately as the perfection he painted
His portrait was alive for to not be was imperfect
His creation looked back at him and exclaimed, "I am The Artist"
Throughout the years, the portrait had adopted The Artist's life
With perfect skills, perfect fame, and even the love of his wife
The Collector, impressed by its own work, gave it double the pay
He also terminated his contract, he and the Artist had made
The Artist was left with nothing
His life stolen by his painting
Embodied perfection had taken it all
Living wishful thinking, alive from The Pond
He tasked, and pushed, and berated himself to achieve perfection
He succeeded, but lost everything to his perfect version.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience .
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation . Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Book Review Poetry - The Lady's Guide to Celestial Mechanics by Olivia Waite
Feminist queer historical romance
How could I not give it a chance
Science and art plus love as needed
This daring book sweetly succeeded
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC
In Spain -
where cheese-making stretches back
to centuries
is a medium sized lump of
Sweet ******* Christ
blessed is the ******
whose womb merited to carry
our small herd of
hand-milked cows
providing milk, cheese, butter, and ice
and to Christians,
the lamb is the symbol of when
the pope and all the christian leadership
will be succeeded by
Moo Jesus
The Good Shepard draws not milk
not liquid from his sheep
but
an overview over Greek pagan
and Christian pastoral deities
then Christ went and
made the exorcism and
he sold in town all his
rriegitha cheese, his curds, his milk
I mentioned that The Green Sheep
had an ad coming out
in the body and blood of Christ
how could the shepherds resist
the temptation?
I was refusing the sacraments
mysticism is cheese
Christ is cheese
better still,
mountains of cheese!
Is your cheese killing the planet?
The Wedding of the Dead:
Celebration and Restraint
Christ stopped at Ebola
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
*they would've seen various city lights
danced under the stars
in the middle of the park at
midnight
they would've embraced each other
on a daily basis
palms colliding as their
fingertips intertwined
they would've exchanged secrets
without hesitation
snickering to relieve tension
they would've dreamed together
grasped opportunities
whilst remaining side by side
they would've grown old together
admiring how drastically their
surroundings changed
and how they succeeded in staying themselves
throughout everything
they would've lived
breathed
cherished
laughed
appreciated
loved
if he hadn't changed
if he hadn't noticed that he did*
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.
Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.
To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.
What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.
4.6k
“The executioner’s face is always well hidden”
a Bob Dylan lyric
<>
mine own “ex,” in chest encased, silent, with grimacing smile,
happy to be of sir-vice, sent home unhappy, cause his cut,
not quite deep enough
this time,
though nearly succeeded,
but his biz is an-all-or-none inclusive Swifty tour, disillusioned,
he don’t get paid unless he brings my punched ticket to a glorious
sadness conclusion
someone asked (axed in local accent) if I’m nearer my god
having survived despite my best efforts at self destruction,
to which I’m smiling when uttering a “heartfelt prayer” of
Hell No!
cause the channel always been open and either side can initiate when so desired, the gates of love always open,
so wasn’t surprised when playing with my matches,
he went silent, but knew fully well, Mr. G a risk taker,
put his roulette chips on a “basket bet,” (1)
needing a double 00, to collect,
because, shoot, the timing was good…
Me?
ain’t naive enough to hope that a prayerful request
would not be met with a “now you want some intercession?”
and a heavenly sneer, cause we always been perfectly clear,
with each other, ask and you won’t receive, and none of that
what have you done for me lately razzamatazz,
nah, the record impurities gray
and no pencil erasures allowed…
knowing that the executioner will be back’ round someday,
my wounded heart too tempting to pass up twice, and
that’s ok, this old man learned to live with
a not entirely pleasant uncertainty,
*”This old man, he played one,
He played knick-knack on my thumb;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.”*
but he didn’t play two, having no kazoo!
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 12:24 PM UTC
The absence of relief deluged my existence,
My hands trembled with a fear of defeat
And with my legs about to give away,
I stood there, trying to fix my broken pieces.
My bones felt like cracked crayons about to shatter,
into infinite irreparable fragments.
Stillness, silence, loss and sadness,
Strengthened the demons residing in my mind.
Yet I tried to fade the reality
with flashes of soothing memories.
Hoping, that the lost silvery rays of my past,
would overpower the dark entities residing within me.
Although I knew quite well,
they were feeding on the darkness I myself created.
Now I was nearing my end,
Like the moth nearing the alight candle.
Happiness, contentment, love,
And every little soothing emotion
was lost in the silhouette created by the dark entities who claimed my mind their home.
Adding to their darkness were the shadows of eerie disappointment.
All relief was now hidden in some unreachable fraction,
of the dark labyrinth my mind now was.
I was deluged in insecurities,
finally accepting my worthlessness.
Yet a latent emotion called hope,
still managed to swim in the dark waters
of the abysmal pit of despondency
which was engulfing my mind like a black hole.
I moved my fragile body and tried to stand.
And with the little strength that was left,
I tried to calm the demons residing in me,
like a mother trying to calm her weeping infant with a soothing lullaby.
I succeeded for a silvery moment,
but the momentary relief was lost again.
Alas! I knew they were now awake for eternity.
Then finally, defeated and hopeless,
I shattered like a house of cards forever.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
the priest, whose tomato face looked like it might explode under collar tension,
gave the valedictory at the friday night execution
the yellow-toothed, combover'd serial killer buckled in electric chair
kept staring at the door, expecting an ally to crawl in late but not too late
the mother of one of the victims rattled on about
how she didn't care that the killer had an allergy to the anesthetic used
in lethal injection he's going to die either way what's it matter?
buzz of fly crack of rolled program against empty folding chair
(yes, there were programs, and whoever laid them out knew their typography)
buzz of fly raised upward, toward the black, magma-cooled ceiling
audience chin up, pupils circled fly as the priest droned on
about everlasting life like a Paul Simon song from his youth
like a catcher's mitt from his youth like a youth from his youth
the boyfriend of one of the mothers of one of the victims
said he was hungry pancakes sound good, don't they?
I love it when syrup gets on the bacon, you know? love that.
a pudgy guard with bleary eyes and 12 a.m. shadow
rolled his index finger lowered his brow, telling the
priest to wrap it up so the priest wrapped it up
by reading the names of the victims
Tara Barnes, 17, Rachel Lythe, 10, Julie McPherson, 13,
Serenity Strongman, 15, and Mary Beth Williamson, 13
the priest said something about judgement as
the boyfriend of the mother of one of the victims
took another swat at the fly missed
any last words? the priest asked
where's James? the killer asked, he was supposed to be here
did you guys give him the right time?
the guard nodded to a lab coat by a black box
then a hiss then a hum then an inhale
the first jolt of alternating current for
instantaneous brain death
hard to tell if they succeeded in that
for the second jolt came only a moment
later this shock's aim to fatally damage
the internal organs, overstimulate the heart
and the killer's face looked like a horse's leg
then an exhale then a hum then a hiss
and the killer's face looked like the crinkled
skinmemory of a cicada
it was late most of the best restaurants already closed
but we could go to that diner off 63rd, the boyfriend
of the mother
of one of the victims, said
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
Forgive, the two Joyeous Athletes Robust
And leave this Artist consigned and confessed
His Leaves have matured; But Duty he must
Remember the Gladness they each Possessed
Now I know why I never read his Book
Of I's and Me's so favoured by the Youth
His Grinning Plastic took long seen afoot
And his Spy's Kiss succeeded on its Cue
How much more will the Hell of Lover's Fair
Pour Molten Syrup to Souls, who, in spite
Swallow Stubborn Sugars labelled Beware
And the Green-Eyed Monster roared in Delight.
Now I know why your Picture flashed within
The Secret lies on your Pre-Olympic Ring.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
In a world of goblins, orcs and the likes there lived a hero. This hero was a person of peasant blood and a friend to the weak. Every day the people of his little village would go to him for help. The hero would never turn them away, and always solved their problems. However, the day came for them to ask of a task too large. The hero was sent out to fight a battalion of goblins, orcs and trolls. This battalion was well known for being the most ruthless and devastating in all the land. Everywhere they went they left a trail of destruction and despair. But the hero being bound by honor went to confront them head on. He sliced through the goblins with his expertly crafted sword. He pierce the flesh of the orcs with the precise shots of his bow. It was truly a sight to see, one man taking on an army. But much to the villagers dismay, by the time he got to the trolls, his quiver was empty and his sword had broke. He still took them on with his bare fists. As if possessed by a beast, the hero tore through lines of the battalion slaughtering all in his path. None stood a chance until he reached the one who lead the battalion of death. Without saying a word, the hero grabbed the leader by the neck and lifted him off the ground. Squirming in his iron grip, the leader begged and pleaded for his life to be spared. The hero contemplated this for a time but the leader had tricked him, he pulled his dagger from his sleeve and stabbed the hero. The hero succeeded in saving the village that day, and that's why we're left with you. The son of a hero who gave his own life to save his people. The fate of the village left in the gauntlets of his son prodigy. there's only one problem with that: you don't know how to be a hero. You can't fight, in fact, you can barely pick up a sword. The mere chance that you would've failed to get even one of your fathers traits is amazing. With you being the best "hero" we've got left, you're being sent to a larger city to train. The shining city of Miridas, a cultural capitol and center of innovation. There you will me the man who will cultivate your potential and temper your skills. That is, if you have any skills. You leave tomorrow at dawn, to start your new life.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC