"tangibility" poems
Dealing so much with figurative language,
I cannot help but notice how many people
restrict themselves to either Mythos or Logos.
Myth or Logic. Symbol or Reason. Yin or Yang.
Firefox, by default, doesn't even recognize that Mythos is a word:
Mythos- The aspect of the mind concerning itself
with the figurative, the abstract;
implications, symbolism and interpretation.
Passive. 'Relative'. Yin.
Logos - The aspect of the mind concerning itself
with reason, proof, tangibility and fact.
Active. 'Absolute'. Yang.
It is of utmost importance to take both with a grain of salt.
It is of equal importance to ponder both for what they are worth.
Mythos seeks not to always be correct;
but to make one think what is right and true within one's self.
Logos seeks to be accurate.
To describe, define, calculate, forecast, and replicate the physical.
Most are biased towards one and away from the other;
it is impossible to have a balanced existence if you embrace one and deny the other:
If one fails to respect duality, duality will tear one in twain.
The path to salvation is comprised of both of these styles of thought:
To seek only one is to condemn oneself to
Autosegragationistic Social Darwinianism.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
You feel you're invincible
being that your sanity is uncontrollable
strolling around with your shoulders past the birds
past the planes
your ignorance succeeds in innumerable ways
your sight is weak
your mind is enable to capture
it's buried under life's adversities and Earth's pleasure
you don't know when to stop so you flood yourself
until you're lame at your ankles
and paralyzed in your emotions
you wend through life this way
well you try
stuck in misery
with no lane to merge
frustration is your best friend
a human is impossible and
incapable of the acceptance
your belittlement draws mankind away
no one wants to attend a pity party
unless their accompanied to your VIP
and to reserve
you are the one to RSVP
Enlighten heads will stray away
pessimism is a curse
rapidly spread by the weak
you have distress and frustration
suppressed
strangled screams
holds your eyelids open at night
deliberations controls your emotions
controls your feet
throughout the day
you are terrified of tangibility
so you indulge yourself excessively
burying your true identity
becoming irritable when bearing your sober mind
if only you knew how divine you are
you would grow to love yourself
in ways incompetent of how you could love so hard
look yourself in your eyes
find who you are
even if you have to savagely search
you'll see the soul people has grown to
love so much
you'll notice your beauty
that covers endless realms
or your strength that could hurl a boulder
No one can help you discover
your destiny
it's your journey you'll have to make alone
but during the expedition and constant footsteps
the process of elimination could be your guide
find your inner child
it can help your prevail that's
where you once had happiness
your joy was established there
because if you continue the silencing
of your heart's cries and
your soul's screams
you'll live a life analogous to hell
and that is
a nightmare's worst dream
Copy Right 2014
©Patty Ann
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
let's make a deal.
uncap the bottle,
discover my greatest work-
a soliloquy on sentience,
performed to an empty room.
the walls
are bleeding lead poisoning again
and i
am leaving logic behind.
the air is crisp on my wretched skin
and as the world dies
its aching breath helps me
to finally feel alive.
i am pure white.
let me rise, enlightened.
as i float, breathless,
i can feel, finally,
the weight of my bones.
make me into a sparrow,
feast upon my marrow,
so i can become porous-
but leave my hollow mind whole.
idolize me.
spin my disease into pure beauty.
a stone-cold rose
grounds the coffin for my dreams,
liberating me from responsibility.
awaken me.
strip my heavy corpse of its wings,
eviscerate the breath from my lungs
cease my tangibility
oh glory,
build me up
strip me down
to my knuckles and teeth,
to the weathered bone.
remove the bloodstains from my home.
if i bleed now
it will be beautiful
when i fall, i
will glorify the cement, decorate it
with my shining insides
when i come down
it will be stunning
it will be dreadful
and i will be resplendent
-but the delivery
won't change the content
candy wrapping
can't cover up the stench of death-
i have given up
on purging the necrosis from my tissue
i have found
this tantalizing muse once again, and
once more i
will let her put cigarettes out
on my sorry skin.
i've grown to love the smell,
that acrid poison
it almost covers up the scars
she leaves-
if i can make dying sound beautiful
then to hell
with us all
if you could romanticise suicide
you'd be rotting
too
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
#
*The finest meaning of 'Wholeness'..
Is shown most fully within the intertwining
in to the pivotally and most necessary
healing of both body and mind..
In that
the perfect expression of Spirit here on Earth
can only happen through the physical--
You "feel" the Receptives and/or the Urgings
from deep within you (your flesh wrapped spirit),
That are only brought out into the light of day (made known)
the moment your very tangible fingers touch the keyboard..
Or up close..
the tangibly-heard sound your very voice-tones,
Created by your so very tangible vocal cords-- made unique
by how deeply infused your spirit is into that
beautiful mind and body of yours..
By your ever-renewed
and continual choice to heal.
Within that beautiful union, the Sensings and Respondings
of the body bring impulses into the spirit..
touching deeper, the Core--
The "Image" of Perfect, Absolute Being
placed deeply into each and every one of us..
by the very nature of Love's Ache--
Residing within the center of this Universe..
(and all other Universes).. both known..
and those also yet to be..
..An Image placed, as to be a Plumb-line,
and also a Never-ending Cinematic placement of the View
onto (and within) the inner-wall linings
of both mind and spirit..
..Seen in greater and greater "less dimly-lit" degrees,
based solely on how far we commit ourselves along,
and in to, the healing process.
In its finest form, through healing,
the things we take in.. through feeling;
and then express back out..
from both mind, and body's untethered Unfolding,
..Becomes closer and closer
to the very Expression of God's own heart,
..Therefore smashing through, and gorgeously undoing
the ever- quenching.. ever-diluting nature of Subjectivity, itself.
Hmm..
The "taking in" and then The Tremblings, of your body's
unavoidable responses are the very thing most 'maverick loners'
like me need most from another in this world,
if we are to continue on in our mission with any kind of strength..
(along with its much desperately-needed resolve).
If, within the "taking in" process.. the beautifully feeling
Receivers such as yourself, were to be overcome
to the point of release~ all alone.. on the edge of your bed..
isn't that a very understandable and nearly unavoidable
and also so very very tangible part of the process also..
--In itself
above and outside of all human (and Heavenly) judgement?
Carry on, sweet Angel..
and so gorgeously continue to be who you are.
Those that can see.. see (and feel) most clearly.*
I see you.
#
Aug 12, 2023
Aug 12, 2023 at 8:19 PM UTC
Things in-between sometimes lost,
Things not recognized at great cost...
Things that compel,
Things that make us swell,
Things at times we fail to tell...
Things we know,
Things that flow,
things we do not show…
Things we wish we could control,
An unrealized future an aspiring goal...
Sometimes very real things are things Unseen,
Without tangibility on any physical scale or scene...
Nonetheless they still Impress,
Realities beyond what we all may possess...
However without these " Invisible things" would we really exist?
Kid yourself not, please try not To insist…
J.I.F.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
Fleshy is such
a nasty word.
Like ******
****** is a nasty word.
It's also a nasty action,
but it's one of those
rare, rare cases
where, where the word
is as bad as the action
(biologically speaking).
And if you combine the two:
Fleshy ******
it's almost double the nasty.
It's like math.
Except gross
(biologically speaking).
What's a biologically and how does it speak?
Maybe we want our science
to speak for us
because we've run out of thoughts.
Maybe we need our experiments
to show to us
what we're afraid to depict
ourselves.
Our brains are driven toward creativity,
while our world is driven
toward tangibility
(biologically speaking).
Maybe we're just left with facts
because opinions are scarce,
and we're starving,
clawing away at the morsels of Nature
instead of the meat.
biologically speaking.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 12:56 AM UTC
I was asked to explain what I mean by
"Dead Inside"
Typically I pawn off a joking motion
waving my marionette arms
to hide the rabbit in the hat
I adequately nick-named misery
because it keeps me company.
But if you sawed me in half
I'm quite certain all you will find
inside is a silhouette of man
dancing around in a light box
doing the same fruitless jig over and over.
A couple of loose strands
and a few holes in the images
but the end is the beginning
and I am putting on a show for you all now.
The curtain is my mouth
strung so tight you'd think it was a smile
And the words I say spin round and round
not a genuine frown in sight.
The light may be on inside
but the picture never seems to change
day after day,
collect the pieces off the floor
get up,
fall in love,
trip over the same type of girl
have my heart shatter into pieces
fall back down on the side of the road
remember how uselessly alone I am;
rinse and repeat.
This is paper thin love
and see through expectations that will not fail.
And it doesn't matter which way you spin it.
Its A tragically bad silent comedy
that doesn't need a narrator to explain
Just how miserable the person inside really is.
My heart is just a silhouette of a man
and if you think you can put some tangibility
behind it and not have it shatter into 1000 pieces.
Congrats you too have joined the circus.
and spin round and round in my light box.
Oct 31, 2023
Oct 31, 2023 at 11:56 AM UTC
COLD, HARD flesh - a very lonely girl in a room filled with fluttering moths and fully-functional nooses
- Makes a game plan, in an effort to:
- penetrate your wavering, wandering, yet wholly conscious mind
(The fate - the fear - lurks in the futility, the fragility, of your unsuspecting ears)
- Equipped with: an anchor (the rock-climbing kind, in order to avoid a metaphor), followed by some paper (and a pen - the use of my blood as script seems overly dramatic), and - a concoction of incredible (and edible!!) proportions
THE GOAL:
- To become the smallest presence possible, to take up the tiniest amount of space in the real and imagined world, and to in turn envelope your very existence - like a Sunday driver in rush hour
- with emphasis on:
The slope of your neck - I could mount my anchor into it and climb for days; I could nest in your ****** Youth cut when I reach the top, I could build the world's smallest fire with the world's saddest hands
STEP ONE:
When secured in predesignated cocoon, I will unleash the first sheaf - a perforated edge - and enclose a minuscule fragment of my still-breathing soul (for your keychain, perhaps, but preferably your pocket)
STEP TWO:
I will mail you a fraction (incidentally, a subject I still can't grasp) every week until:
- I have decreased in size with each turn, I get smaller and smaller until my tangibility disappears entirely and the only presence left of me is a slip that reads:
- apply to areas affected (only as directed)
Wait! No, not only that- my very own subconscious now rests inside your "thinking cap"
- INTRODUCING: Your every day monotony, now littered with:
- 17 scratched mix CDs you didn't want to listen to
- 4 dogs I secretly liked (and only you knew)
- a bright pink dumpster, largely livable
- a rusted mailbox with an ocean in full
- soundless Skype calls in stolen sweaters
- alphabet soup with undiscernable letters
- the unfaltering presence of a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness - confused with the very small and haunted town I couldn't leave to see you - and last but not least -
The ceaseless, repeated chorus of "you belong to me", like an immortal fly in an endless August dream
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
the tangibility of fallibility
is met between the coincidence
and insatiability of adversity,
the blissfulness of satisfaction
is met between the constant refraction
and abstraction of our instability,
distancing perceptions bound by
our misinterpreted misconceptions ,
take the contradictions of our minds
and use them as receipted expectations,
blinded by darkness for illumination
idyllically thriving on the absence of starvation
but the the realism of disdained relation put us
in a position of contempt fixation,
placement of a pedestal beneath my feet
misdirected direction towards a forked defeat,
a way to pain and a way to pleasure,
the destination of each concluded at cloudy weather,
atmospheric conditions leave injunctions towards
the ****** functions to deviate and meditate
the conflicted constant of mind and heart
and diverge from its obliged obligation from the start,
a denouncement expected right from inception
brought afloat a constant instance of introspection,
intrinsic emotions distorted at a love’s devotion
sparks a metaphysical claim towards a complex notion
of companionship and intensified intimacy;
an expectant of reciprocated sympathy
but when in reality, the thought of apathy
lies not within the partner,
but within me
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC
momentary tangibility, momentously touchable.
voluptuous experience, an explosion of love
or *****
no rhyme nor reason.
stuck behind glass doors,eternally hoping for
more more more.
locked in and passed around.
visible from hot air balloons, indecipherable under microscopes.
morse code, even to myself.
im on this red painted shelf.
of course, red, but still unread.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
Nothing but water. Millions of chemical bonds that sever bonds of the heart, infinitesimally small, but they amount to canyons of separation. On the edges of the canyon stand pieces of a whole, tied through chance equally as small that grew into something beautiful.
The ties that spanned this fluid canyon are stressed by the howling winds of uncertainty, and crashing waves of dire futures lap at this fragile twine, but it holds fast and firm. He won’t let the bond break. He stands ashore of his continent framed by ignorance of what lies beyond its coral shoals, knowing nothing of the ocean that spans his affection, or of the island where his affection finds a home.
And through the storms that threaten to rip the rope that binds him to his adoration from his blistered fingers, he can see the light that keeps his grip fast and strong. He has read Gatsby and knows the perils of ominous lights that cast shadows on placid waters, but Fitzgerald knows nothing of the tangibility of this boy’s shining beacon.
She stands, not as a faint reminder of what once was, but of a blaring beacon of all that could be, and her light pierces through the cynical fog that tries to ***** out her light.
You are my beacon. You are my light through the fog of my daily struggles, the beacon that guides me through these rocky waters, holding my hand so as not to run aground on the sandbars of doubt below me. I stay strong, and I stay hopeful, for one day the bonds of this watery divide will break, and this distance will be lessened, and as easy as folding a map to span miles, I will be there with you.
So as I stand on this shore, ignorant of the island across this canyon, I hold fast in my grip, and I would sooner be pulled into the sea than let this go, hold onto the ties that bind your heart to mine.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
Avenging activity among our society
Based behind our bravery,
Centered in our controlled community
Dances our dimes distantly,
Eating the Economy entirely,
Freeing some family’s from financial stability
Giving the Government full guidance to “Give willingly”
Help save history and fix the hired hereby diligently
Isolating the problem Indefinitely before another civil war breaks out immobilizing us internally,
Jacking up jumping prices to live within our jungle of commonality
Killing Kids futures by leaving them in debt for keeps of knowledge to secure their vivacity
Living our Lives in stress leniently because we are your servants dwelling down here in the low depths of poverty.
Massing out our Money on your table tops feasting morbidly on fattening foods while millions suffer from malnutrion
Nobody speaking nervously now
On the open opinion’s on our governments greed
People pacing the streets for a piece to eat
Quiet our questions or riots will quake the streets
Rage ripping through our roads radiantly
So sustain us all seriously separating the needy from situations of squandering
Take hold of our Tantrums and turn them on the ones demanding this tangibility
You’re yearning for yesterday’s better life
Venom of today’s values vast out over our minds
When will they welcome the revolution?
Xenophobia exerts exteremremitys on our souls
Zero Tolerance for Zaberism and Zolism is the way we go.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
Examining the accuracy.
Exploring the brightness.
Hunting for certainty.
Inquiring the directness.
Inspecting the lucidity.
Investigating the precision.
Pursuing purity.
On a quest for simplicity.
Researching transparency.
Chasing articulateness.
Frisking comprehensibility.
Going over conspicuousness.
Inquesting a definition.
Rummaging for distinctness.
Scrutinizing the evidence.
Shaking down the exactitude.
On an expedition for explicitness.
Working the legs towards intelligibility.
A perquisition for legibility.
A wild-goose chase for limpidity.
A witch hunt for obviousness.
Interrogating openness.
Probing the palpability.
Prosecuting the penetrability.
Racing perceptibility.
Raiding perspicuity.
Coursing the plainness.
Following the prominence.
Hounding the salience.
Meddling in the tangibility.
Prying into the unambiguity.
Reconnaissance in the cognizability.
Seeking decipherability.
Snooping for explicability.
Sporting limpidness.
On a steeplechase for manifestness.
Studying the overness.
Tracing unmistakability.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
It's not another blue moon
The wolves are restless
Their savagery grows like
The wicked fire outside my cave
It's almost there and I can
Feel it burning up my toes
My chest still, motionless, remains a frigid icebox
I forgot what purpose heat serves
It's been too cold
Too unforgiving
It's been too many black skies
Frostbite all over my skin
Closer to deaths conniving hand
Enough to graze
Enough to spark fear, touch, blood builds up, squeezing my veins, green vines, curling in and out of their white soil, pulsating, glorious serendipity, the tangibility of
Rest in peace
In pieces
Bony white sharp shards of
Nails
That don't even sever my flesh
No drops of red
Not even to cut the thick air
the clock keeps it's mouth shut
I have no answers
Monotony
In between living and dying
Limbo, flatline, where am I
Louder
Where am I
I hear the wolves howl once more, closer now
The stars shatter
a streak of silver lining
Cosmic brutality
I'm the punch line
Forever hungry
I finally feel their hot breath on the nape of my neck
I close my eyes
Where's my escape?
Stuck
Just
White teeth
Blades
Carnivorous
Famished
Just for one taste of my soft flesh
And god, god I whisper through
the stubborn air
Isn't that all that matters?
The murky cloud of my cry
Turns ghost
Another victim of my past pleas
A furry nuzzle to contrast the ruthless slay that leads me to my final destination
Pink fields, beautiful fidelity, your Golden Gates, on a cloud too far away
Always a little out of reach
I'll wait an eternity
For a god who never picks up his trash
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
She was waiting for her order, waist adjacent to the counter. A young man supplied her beverage with his numbers scrawled on the side. She didn't seem too eager to call him later, however. To my surprise, I gently waved her over, almost immediately regretful of my impulse. To this day,I haven't produced a more rewarding decision. As hours past, every nearing moment promised of a tangible future involving this woman. My heart raced at the idea. Her hair beautifully curled towards the ends that seemed to perfectly frame her prominent cheekbones made
sharper by the contrast of her well dressed lips. Her ivory skin translated the sunlight coming from behind me, and I could almost swear, it seemed some of the light was trapped in her eyes, trying to find its way around her dark orbs. Months down the road, we're no longer an uncertain happenstance; every look at her was love at first sight. She was the love of my eye, and she knew it. You see, Emily was a curious person with particular habits and tendencies. At times, the distance between us reached near tangibility, then days would pass by and all would be well again. I kept a journal of her; I study everyone but she was the first person to provide some difficulty. Reading her was like trying to decipher Latin while knowing Spanish; I always had a feeling I knew her, but just not quite. I'm still wrting about her, bruising my memory, and she's still speaking sunlight to unsuspecting suitors. Emily was the type to get what she wants. The problem is that she grew bored with her toys. Eventually, I learned that there were no exceptions.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
It’s 5:04 AM, as I lie awake going on hour number two.
I dreamt of you,
As I often do.
I always awake with a jolt,
The tangibility of your simulated self
Jarring,
My senses overstimulated as if we had touched for real.
When I ponder on you, on memories of us
In my conscious mind,
I have a difficult time stringing together
The details of you,
Years apart having left your image
Grainy and unfocused, although effervescent.
Yet when my eyes close,
You make your way clear into focus,
Every detail of your physical and spiritual form so vivid
As if I’m really experiencing you,
As if you’re dreaming of me too,
And we’ve actually escaped to another reality
Where nothing has changed or faded.
Is this where we now reside?
The current version of us is no longer compatible with the software of reality,
Our data kept in the cloud
Where dreams are stored.
It isn’t real in the realness of reality,
But it’s so vivid, more lucid than a lucid dream,
That I can’t shake the feeling that I’m experiencing the real you
In the only form I’m now able to download.
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 1:59 PM UTC
body remains a scripture or an elixir?
my sins will deliver aroma in a mixture.
euphoria of the of the miracle comes from more than one ******
see her in the air, here's her love now choke on it.
trashed vows, you married an astronaut
i cant breathe, snort more moon rock
So journey with me without recluse.
we erupted without fear, choices would take us there,
problems once again become magnetic
work her body and stretch em like calisthenics.
her weapon was every section of her body that came without electric
intercepting our tongues and pinching off depression.
pixels, links and interception will only drown our spirit
when you smell fear,
positively you'll hear it.
her cortex remains a vortex
tangibility in our whispers
*** in our champagne,
tears in our calypso.
no poem should ever,
be written in blisters.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
Wordsmith
Writer
Of songs
Of sounds
That roll
Quietly full
From his lips
In short shallow whispers to himself
He sings
He breathes
Stories
Passion, love, belief
From grief
Then right on through to gladness
He climbs mountains
With slippery letters for feet
And sails the seventh sea
Pieces of flotsam forming tidings
Of vision, rock pools of indecision
A collision of the imagination and tangibility
Penning of peril and threat
Breaking cold sweat
Cigarettes and coffee stains
Window sill
And rattling chains
He shakes cobwebs down
With etched verbose
For a broom
In his clandestine room
That serves as a scribers sanctuary.
Sewing, threading
Silk worm stitching
He is itching
To fill
To spill
To take the thrill from his heart
Straight onto the page.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:19 AM UTC
What in whoever-the-hell's-up-there name am I doing?
Who am I to question history?
Follow the lines of this directed system,
Make yourself appear kind and gentle enough
To be accepted into afterlives put forth by humans
Who waste their here-lives mauling over what if's-
What if they're right?
But *whoever the hell I have to **** up to*, God, what if they're wrong?
Do I risk my spot among the great
In order to live the life I want to while I still know it's real?
I cannot question the tangibility of this world because the key word here-
Tangible- tangible, I can feel you, I can feel the grass
And I can feel these people and because you are real
I am not alone.
I cannot depend on something that isn't tactile, that isn't tangible
Because I cannot touch what I don't know
I cannot touch what can be speculated as unreal.
But who am I to judge what is real and unreal?
If there is nothing unreal to depend on, no god or supreme beings,
No something that is controlling my very being,
Then why do I chew on the idea that it could be real?
Tell me, what constitutes something real?
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
i cant remember a word that you were saying
but i remember every single drop of venom
that fell from your fangs the night that you
infected me with death and decay and refractum,
refractus, broken up or open in a dead language
that still stings in hexes and wills the dead
to life. necromancy is your specialty, commanding
a skeletal army to all your evil bidding, all
collar bones and wrist bones and bony knees
scraped up from all the tripping you've been up to,
running through thickets away from the white lie
of an elephant that haunts your room, conjured
from when you dug up the graves of every single
name that i tried to lay to rest, every action and
reaction and dejection and rejection and destructive
tendency, tendencies, tending to distract from
the subject matter at hand, the rules bent and broken
as you spit your poisonous latin palaver,
empty talk to move the empty skulls of your pawns,
empty threats of empty memories that no longer
have any kind of meaning to me. i laid them to rest.
i held their funerals a long time ago, and there's
nothing you can hold over me besides the skeletons
you left in your closet, that you never bothered to bury.
the dead don't scare me, not anymore, and i've
developed an immunity to your toxicity so that
you don't scare me anymore, not anymore,
because you're just another passed-on memory.
i will never forget the venom that drips from your
lips, but i will not let it run through my veins anymore.
your dead words and dead memories are all uttered
in a dead language, not spoken anymore, not real,
a dead effect that cannot touch anything because
memories lack tangibility, dead regrets in a dead
language that got buried when i decided to stop
listening.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
his hands are those
of a saint
and his body
just like a monsoon
conveys my sweet tangibility
and the world
doesn't even exist
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 10:53 AM UTC
something temporary has such power to impress the mind because of the knowledge of its mortality. we hold it dearer for we know that it's beauty and the succession of feelings it forces upon us will be gone all too soon. the lights will dim, the curtains will close, and the memories once fresh will find their way into some unmarked box in your mind that you may one day stumble upon with a vague - and slightly wistful - sense of recollection. nothing can last forever and time limits are all too real, but without a finite end, without a sense of impermanence, we would have no appreciation for ephemeral beauty. we would know not respite in it's most tender form. we would not know the bittersweet tangibility of lingering kisses and final words and fleeting images of past joys. we must always remember to be thankful for the experiences that pass their afterlife in the recesses of our memories. we must always remember that their purpose has been fulfilled - to shape our future and lead us to the next ones who come along.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
*
wet
dampness of cheeks
dewy between toes
moisture
steam of a breath
sticky thighs
night
frolic blindly star wards
sleep ever eluded
love
forebodes disappointment
more elusive than slumber
touch
wispy hairs caught
soft caresses lingering
embrace
tangibility of care
safe in a hidden world
dry
*
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
The world is too small for me.
The land, with its palette of
Green, the malachite feathers quivering on the
Brown, rough boughs of trees, that sprout from the soft
Earth, dotted with flowers, their petals
Prismatic, broken rays of a rainbow -
Red dust stained with
Yellow grain crossed with
Violet air blended with
Blue seas that stretch into darkness.
I cannot see in the dark, and the sky,
The sky is bright.
I am compressed.
Filled with the need to stretch out my arms
And let the wind
With its opalescent hands
Carry me into the atmosphere
Like a meteor
That fell, the fire of its descent stripping away its rocky flesh
Leaving behind only bones made of skin
Returning home.
I could speak to the stars.
My words traveling through the void of space
Silent, but not voiceless
And marvel at the heat touching my blue lips.
I could touch the sun.
The fiery eye surrounded by bright, unfurling rays -
I could pluck them
Like the daisies I had thought so magnificent as a child,
Their soft, white crowns served as the stars
To my younger shadow.
Their tangibility comforting
In a large world.
My, how I have grown
When the world has not.
I would preform ballet on the bands of light
Being drawn into my own black hole.
The ravenous hollow created out of destruction
And when my body breaks apart
It will do so with the light.
I would waltz from asteroid to asteroid
Their metallic bodies cold beneath my bare feet
As they spun, empty and lonely -
But I would turn with them
Smiling and laughing silently
And I would feel free.
There is so much
In my sky
Past the blue.
But, no matter how tall I grow
Or how high I jump
Or how far I stretch out my arms
I will not ascend
To where my heart has gone.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
Rock.
A brute force
Pounding, crushing
Driven by fear
With indubitable
Tangibility.
What can defeat
This formidable foe?
None other than
Paper.
A soft leaf
Whispers, gestures
Sweet nothings
Poignant nothings
In your ear
So close, they sound
Like a yell.
But those, alas,
Are drowned out
By our friend
Scissors.
Cuspate slats
Slicing, cleaving
Everything
In their path.
There is no
Discrimination;
Nothing
Is of importance
To the scissors.
Unless
They are bent
By the impetuous
Rock.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC