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igc May 2015
I saw the best minds of my generation congested and
polluted overdosing on irrelevance

Abandoned abused replaced
Fed to the thought police
Corrected corrupted
Declining the potential to be heard in
exchange for the opportunity to be documented

Lives being lived according to unfeasible standards
You either make it or you don’t
there’s no in between
there’s no maybe
there’s no equal

Left to meander through the conceived thoughts of others
decisions being made
moves being made
eulogies being made

nothings real
nothing’s right
nothing’s honest
nothing thought up matters


Who in the safety of their homes were taught respect
are told to mask their emotions
Identities saved for the weak
Only to be showcased when conducive

Who pump iron into their veins
looking for an angry fix of acceptance
Sweat streams surge down their backs
Failure prominent in their thoughts
Motivation blessing their features
the Devil clever in disguise

Who see little white fields of fairy dust
a never ending landscape of courage
giving them superpowers beyond belief

Nothing beats the freedom of being told
You can fly

Who dream of equality behind closed eyes
But render to imposed birth rights when open
The upper hand implying more than height
and executing more force than necessary to move them

It’s all about the cause until you’re indubitably
the effect

Who tuck monsters into their beds
Forgetting to check closets for skeletons not quite left behind
in the path of carefully chaotic self destruction
Conveniently purging themselves of words whispered
in the throes of passion
Forced upon the ears of all naive enough to listen

Who carelessly expend countless hours playing with
condescending pawns disguised as adults
All grown up with no where to go
Replacing quality with quantity
Leaving long dull trails of breadcrumbs
leading to hearts long since lost
Never to be recovered again

Who follow sexuality by the book
doing this to get that for this him them who what when where
Why does the finish line have to be covered with brightly colored lace and muffled drunk cries chanting no

Who stare dead straight into the soul of love but never
Never into her eyes
Told she is not worthy of being addressed directly
Fingers itching to cop a feel
Only to discover the body is but a passage to her straight dead soul


Who trade in their voice mind and individuality
for half assed smiles and superficial men
As the face of a leviathan nicknamed acceptance
hands them a paycheck they’ve worked too
night day night night hard to refuse

Who idolize the feel of phantom limbs of lovers past
Twisted words convoluting their heads
Forcing on masks of pure heroine
at the sight of scars left on the soul
Scratching at the need to feel wanted
But cowering at the ability to truly be heard

Who have perfected the art of parallel painting
Elegant red streaks hidden beneath layers of
choppy dark colored hate covering pretty pale limbs
Seeming to fade as colorlessly caked on insecurities susurrate bitter-sweet nothings that curl themselves just inside her mutilated skin

Who scavenged their looks from the bottom of holes
they’re expected to clamber out of
Smiling pretty smiling
Being treated to complimentary meals
Only to be served plates full of disappointment.

Who crave companion’s flaws
in ruthless attempts to satisfy their hunger for compassion
Selfless beings dedicated to less than noble attempts at vanquish
The call for heat too satisfying to refuse the trade off forever uselessly launching themselves into razor sharp blades
aimed at ***** sleeves

Who see soft lips as cushion enough to fall from towers built of fear
Dragging moist palms across pavement thighs
Tearing at the seams holding their
hearts together

Who cower behind brick wall appearances
fruitlessly clutching on to ideas reserved for the most fortunate
Scaring away potential with claws that seemingly only come
out to play in the face of acceptance

Who’s sick stick thin limbs trail their worn down
fingernails in an effort mar skin no one can see
Streaks titillate their bright red scalps
A reflection of their underlying journey

Who disgorge yesterday's meal from stomachs long before empty
Blood spewing from the mouth an open wound
Continuously sewed up but never stitched tight correctly
Wiring shut opinions but never gorged enough to
muzzle their Howls



Ideas, calm and collected have long been hijacked and invaded by Hestia

Hestia! Consent! Content! Acceptance!
Long nights and roid rage men!
Two faces fighting a losing battle!
Girls playing mom! Boys playing war!
Ill ridden parents still pledging to the
United States of Controlling Media!

Hestia! Hestia!
Overall reign of Hestia!
Hestia the beautiful!
Incarcerated Hestia!
Hestia the ******!

Hestia twisted and shaped to form the voice of conformity
Hestia constantly watching over and monitoring
Hestia being told what to ******* think

Hestia seeping creeping sneaking into the
darkest crevices of our minds
Hestia when least expected coming out to say
Hello

Too late! Hestia’s already made herself at home
Wedged between the rooks of your biggest fear and
burrowed deep into the folds of
Your  Worst  Nightmare

Stuck in a constant battle between
rejecting Hestia,
and accepting her.
This was obviously inspired by Allen Ginsberg's "Howl."
Considering it was, at the time, the voice of that generation, Welcome to Generation Y.
This is a work in progress.
I feel like I don't belong here.
I can't place it--
Maybe too pure,
Maybe too evil,
Maybe too ill.
Its hard to say
When every word flung
Wildly around is a
Contradiction.
Too sensitive,
Too changeable.
The balance causes so
Much cognitive dissonance,
And the more I approach my heart,
The more it alludes me on the horizon.
Colorless,
These words ignite a
Flame
Stronger than any pigment.
I am worthless.
I am a treasure.
I am worthy.
I am pitiful.
I am beautiful.
I am a fool.
I am genius.
I am every word they say to me,
Yet I feel like
I am none.
Their icy words spoken with
Frozen hearts
Set my teeth chattering.

Nothing can protect me from this
Impeding cold.
The energy is inexhaustible.
Their ranks are numberless.
The fight goes on,
Teaching me the person I am
Is ought not to be.
Destroy the anguish
Mistaken as beauty.
They take my heart from me--
Brutally beating the bruises,
Formulaically tearing the
Gashes open with silver knives,
A gray harder than the
Silver of the moon--
Harder than the silver of my heart.
I am bruised,
Broken,
Wanting to be gone.
And they laugh at my pain.
They don't believe me when I say
I have nothing to live for.
All I need to do is to
Live up to the low bar they set,
But that's never good enough.
The words bleed out of me,
Yet they remain unsaid.
They would taunt more
If they knew their wickedness.
Sleep saves me from this endless cycle of
Torture.
Engulfed by
Vivid of imaginations of who I am,
I forget for a time
What they told me.
Meet me in this innocent state of existence,
Escaped from the pain.
I wish I knew how to
Avoid their toxic remedies
And the poisonous reminders
That they own me,
And will decide who I am.

But poets tend to exaggerate:
Tell me how it really is.
Susurrate Definition: To whisper
Tommy Jackson Oct 2015
My hands go over her body
Like soap with the suds
Daddy's coming home baby
Be ready, fed, dressed, and good.
Do I want to, will we? Should?
All the shoulds in the world
Undressed my baby girl, on a
Melodic string I hold her heart
As she susurrates more of the good
Stuff baby.
abysmal Sep 2013
Waking up next to you is scary.

And before your vehement self-loathing causes you to interpret this as an insult; I'll explain what I mean as best as I can.

I'm scared because I always wake up before you; and I know that all I'll want to do is watch you.
That's dangerous because it only makes me love you more.
The way you heavily breathe through your mouth as a result of a congested nose, the way the relaxing and contracting of your intercostal muscles cause your small body to bounce up and down in a perfectly rythmatic manner. The way your heartbeat fills the entire room. So much so that I have to susurrate the bed sheets to mask the sound so my unforgetting heart doesn't fall any deeper into the enigma that is you.

Then you wake up.

You look at me with disoriented green eyes and matted brown hair and smile. You smile at me exactly the same way I've been smiling at you for the past ten minutes.

It's scary

Because by that point the clamorous sound of your heart beat is quickly replaced by mine. Sometimes I'm scared that you'll hear it. And you'll know.
Rachel Cloud May 2016
This world hums at your presence,
For like things resonate in soft, susurrate sounds while all else fades.
This world is damaged and beautiful
Beaten by the men on its surface and haunted by those long since gone
With scars and with secrets and subtleties buried
With an aching aloneness hid deeper yet, still
But so gracious and warm and eager to help.
To save.
To support.
While whole stretches of void hold it away from its kin.
These voids are safety.
Protection.
It knows what it needs, doesn’t it?
Separate and safe, blooming only for those held so close as to not lose them
But never close enough to reach its core.
Blooming with color, with life, with song
In moments, nothing but a collection of seconds, of minutes,
A bundle of time and feeling.
Regret. Fear. Sorrow.
Trust and hope.
Pirouetting around the sun.
Listen to the humming.

Listen.
An elegy to someone still alive
emlyn lua Sep 2019
She stutters on the threshold:
a sun fixed on the horizon.
Bodies susurrate as she wades through them.
A daily routine – but what are days?
The cavern underneath the world admits no light from sun or moon,
Sight granted by the fragile luminosity of the pale, pale once-alive.
She walks through the dead:
has always walked through the dead
will always walk through the dead
Or – her mother was life, is life, above –
She stutters on the threshold.

Clarity.
She no more meanders, but strides.
The sun creaks and groans, and rises.
Breaths short and sharp, she runs:
A tree, an illogical tree in an illogical garden,
In this illogical cavern.
(but this was before logic)
Hunger pangs do not slow her,
She is hungry for change, for resolution;
For conclusion to dim the gnaw of uncertainty.

A globe gripped in a quivering hand.
She peels back the membrane
(like the skin of the earth as it opened to swallow her)
Scoops a glistening fistful of rubies
And gulps them down,
Blood of the fruit painting her chin like a child at the close of October,
Play-acting, false horror, for the sake of cloying sugars;
Her eyes are not that of a child.

She kisses the mouth of He that stole her.
They ascend, hand in terrible hand;
He sits, gestures, to Her new place beside him.
With a smile of crimson certainty,
The Queen of the Underworld takes Her throne.
Star BG Feb 2018
From little seeds of evergreens
a whole story can be learned.
Ovule's dances in Gia’s soil
bonding with dirts cool blanket.
Pips move in a weaving
stream of germination
as Gia sings and sun calls.

From little seeds of evergreen
a song of love pulsates with grace.
Echoing as it's filled with blessings
Whispering softly as it rises
to hum with Gia’s heartbeat.
“I can. I can grow tall,” is earths lullaby.
“I must. I must grow with prosperity of leaves.”
rings out tickling seedlings dreams.


Kernel susurrate’s slowly underfoot
assured to break ground.
Expanding in every moment,
as bugs in dark landscape step aside
as insect kingdom recites earths secrets
encouraging growth
to speaks of oneness.

From little seeds of evergreens
plenty a tales are implanted.
Spun so it gathers power to break ground.
And as it grows taller to meet sky,
tree begins to share to birds
its journey from earths soil.
Tree starts to vibrate with yarns
to sun and clouds
Its narrative of confidence makes it reach heights divine.
Tree stands welcoming all to hear it’s testimony
to life’s gifted from Gia’s love.
We all have seeds of thoughts within
waiting to sprout and gain power.
We are walking trees of Divinity
capable of knowing trees treasure of secrets.
IF WE LISTEN.

Inspired by chat with Wordsinthewillows  THANK you so much.
October – November 6th, 2020

I.
To Channel the Wisdom of a Prophet
While Reading Elegant English Sonnets
It Would be a Wonderful Power
One I’d Long to Share at Every Hour
With My Gift – Every Poem I Peruse Would Transcend
Far Beyond the Dead Laureate’s Pen
The Eras of Ancient England – I’d Showcase their Scenery
And My Listeners Would Fantasize with Me
II.
Together, We’d Stumble Atop the Rocks of Wales – Where Cuts & Scrapes would Scar Our Ankles
We’d Witness a Sea of Mist, & Get Lost in a Labyrinth
During our Crest to the Summit of Mt. Snowdon
But We’d All Prevail, and Entail the Trail
We’d Rub our Goosebumps and Click our Teeth – Until We Reached the Final Peak
There the Sun Would Strike My Voice – And All My Listeners Would Rejoice
Warmth would Melt the Water off Our Clothes
The Shock of the View would Scare Our Shivers Aside
We Couldn’t Help but Be Wide-Eyed – Seeing God’s View of the ***** Incline
Serenity would Blanket Our Essence, as We’d Gaze at a Hundred Hills Below Us
What an Adventure We’d Be On – A Present from the Pantheon
We would have Explored a 19th Century Endeavor, One of William Wordsworth’s Treasures
III.
Soon We’d Watch Nightfall Descend
Having Gone Beyond the Mountain’s Climb, We’d Give Ear to the Evening Chimes
The Ringing Wind Would Chill Our Cheeks, and it Would Whisper to Us . . . Look Over Our Brows
Ensconcing on the Stones & Grass, My Concertgoers and I would Sit & Rest
We’d See the Solstice Moon Above – In a Blend of Agate So Lustrous & Loved
Clouds Made by Masons would Veil Luna’s Light
A Silver Paint-Stroke would Streak the Sky – Twinkling Our Sight with Great Delight
Translucent & True, the Haar of Adam’s Ale would Act to Capture Our Visions
Our Joys Would be Leaping, Our Features All Beaming, Our Lips Endlessly Grinning
A Zephyr Would Cast Every Care Away
The Breath of Rain would Susurrate to the Top of the Mountain
And the Breeze Would Murmur, Frost is on the Horizon
Then With that, We’d Give a Few Involuntary Shudders
Cascading Snowflakes would Descend on Our Starry-Night Shoulders
Its Water Would Pierce Us Like Pins
But in the Serenity of Selene, an Unseen Star-beam Would Warm Us
In the Lake of the Lost Sword Beneath Snowdon’s Feet – Steam Would Rise like the Ring of Fire
Its Heat Would Give Us the Strength to Endure the Chilly Weather
The Eerie Blossoming of Darkness, Created by Percy Shelley’s Madness – Would be a Blessing For All of Us
IV.
My Stanza-Seekers & I Would Gaze at the Celestial Maze
Dwelling in the Time of the Evening Tide
Smiling & Enjoying the Moment, Awaiting More Community Bestowment
I’d Grasp My Breath, and Look at the Rocks Below
And in the Moonlight, A Spiderweb Would Catch My Sight
My Concertgoers and I Would Bend to Our Knees, and Watch it Bob in the Breeze
Our Eyes would Seek the Spinner of Silk, and We’d Find Her in the Center of the Ilk
Envisioning the Land, Each One of Us Would Stand Upon her Soft Yet Sturdy Sand
For Life on a Spiderweb would Never Be Dull – We’d Be Captains Always Making Our Calls
Recognized as Keepers of the Protein Warrens, with Memories of Each & Every Direction
Flies would Be Our Fish & We’d Hunt for their Meat
When Caught in Our Mesh, Our Prey Would Always be Fresh
The Daylight, Sky, & Stars would be Our Sundials
Living in the Open Air – Wind Eternally Blowing in Our Hair
Raindrops would Spring Mountaintops – Building on Our Pathways
Around Us – Everyday Would Be of Great Height
The Web of Our Weaving Would Hold So Much Meaning
Each String would Be an Expansion of Our Passion
Inside Christina Rosetti’s Realm, where the Cold & Lonely Dwelled
We’d Find Embracement, Like Missionaries’ Ears to their Church Bells
V.
Gaping at the Mountain’s Peak
My Discerners of Verse would Gaze with Me – Listening to the Whispering Waves of the Irish Sea
Skipping Winds on the Water would Leap into the Air, And We’d Feel them in a Breeze Oh So Fair
All and Sundry Would Rise, With the Gale Great, Divine & Innate
At Our Side, Birds would Fly, We’d See Peregrines, Ravens, & Merlins in the Sky
Travelling Beyond Snowdon’s Summit, We’d be Spellbound by Astonishment
Soaring Beneath Pearls in the Night’s Azure
Twisting Inside Zephyrs, Seeing the Water-Gloss Portraits of the Marine
It Would Be a Sensational Scene
My Fellow Flyers & I would Watch Our Mirrors Ripple in the River, & We’d Make a Weave for the Trees
Around Every Oak, We’d Swing & Swerve, Until Snowdon was on the Horizon
My Adventurers & I would See Honey-Bugs at their Promised Sites
Where the White Tongues of Lilies would Open for their Nectar, & Reveal Fireflies in their Centers
Rays of Daybeams would Shoot from the Poppies, Crystals would Perch from Every Sundew
Losing Our Breath to Endless Wonders, Our Elevation would Spring with So Many Colors
Suspending Ourselves Mere Inches Above Ground
My Stanza Seekers & I would Sway Between the Rocks, Flowers, & Leaves – Until We Returned to the Crest
Then We’d Levitate Down for a Rest, Suspiring After Our Visit to Nature’s Breast
We’d Lay on the Hard Surface of Stone – Starring up at the Stars
In Our Lounging, Recounting the Incites of Robert Browning, it would be a Bittersweet Parting
VI.
Fantasizing Down on the Imaginary Ground, Each One of Us Would Draw a Breath
With Sighs Ever So Deep, the Dream would Descend
We’d Return from Our Imaginary Climb
My Paramours of Poetry & I Would Open Our Eyes
We’d Find Ourselves Sitting on Our Carpets of Lea, and I’d Hold My Book of Anthology
I would Have Reached So Many Listeners,
Every Lip would be Curved, Every Mind Transfixed
Still Lost & Mesmerized by Snowdon’s Secrets
Remembering the Words that We Hale, & All the Tales of Wales
My Chance to Channel, there Would Be No Greater Gift
To Share the Wisdom of the Poem’s Swift

— The End —