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Isaac Golle Sep 2012
Grace.
Let it fall like an ocean
Let it rip through the skies
Let it fill up my heart and pour out my eyes
Let it gravitate my soul
Let it make me feel whole
Let it remind me of why I live
Let it remind me of all that you give!

Grace
Let my heart be made still and let mine eyes be opened!
Let me remember that my ears
were made to listen
And my lips exist for a lot more than just kissin'
Let me remember that these hands simply cannot do it all
Cuz see I wasn't made for that
I wasn't made for that at all

Grace
I was made to live and when I say live I think I mean give
But then I quickly realize I can only give so much!
And there's only so many lives I can touch!
Well how can I love if I can't constantly give
And how can I live if I can't constantly love but
Where's the hope in the God above if I'm the one doin' all the work?
And that's when I remember I accomplish the most when I just let go
And let You grab hold

Grace
Well what were these hands made for if not feeding the poor?
And what are these heart-wrenching feelings of constantly wanting more?
Why do my bones ache and my soul quake at the thought
Of living for myself?
Why do I worry so much about putting the marginalized on the shelf?
Why do I worry
about a life that loves hell?
Well maybe all this
is an unidentified desire to glorify God personified in Jesus Christ crucified

Grace
And maybe my soul's been singin' songs to my saviour since the day I was born
And maybe my saviour's been singin' sweet lullabies to quench the fear in my eyes
Maybe not all is lost
Maybe hope and salvation really come without cost
WELL TRY AND TELL THAT TO THE MAN LIVIN' ON THE STREET WITH NOTHIN' TO EAT
an'
TELL THAT TO THE CHILD WHOSE FATHER GIVES HIM A DAILY BEATING
TELL THE MURDERER'S AND RAPISTS THAT THEY CAN GO FREE
TELL THEIR VICTIMS...
Tell them what?

Grace
Maybe it's time I remembered I don't have all the answers
Maybe it's time I remembered I am a speck of dust in a rolling beach of existence
Maybe it's time I look at what's right in front of me
And not strain my neck as far as the eye can see
Maybe it's time to focus on living and not just surviving
Maybe thriving looks more like trusting than trying
Maybe all the answers to my questions aren't really answers at all
Maybe it's alright that my walk sometimes feels like a crawl
Maybe 100% of the wrongs I do are all my fault

Grace
Maybe God's lookin' at me like a child set free
Maybe God's not lookin' at who I used to be
Maybe God's lookin' right past all the bitterness and apathy
Maybe God really does look at the heart
And maybe He's been holding mine from the very start
Maybe this is all going according to plan and if it's not well then maybe God's still using it to help me become a better man
Maybe it's time I stopped trying to figure all this out!

Grace
Let it be felt
Tangibly
Tom Leveille Feb 2014
so i get this idea sometimes
that you enjoy being coy
when it comes to me
to conjure momentary spectacle
& make me wonder
if you paint catharsis
on the doors of a home
you've never lived in
as a memory of our first night together
because i do, i remember you
beaming white on blue
speaking softer than any storm
i ever knew, i often think that maybe
you live that night in your mind
when your pillow is cold
& you can't sleep, it makes me wonder
if you do as i do, and rewrite three years fictionally beginning with a kiss somewhere
maybe a balcony or a quiet car
on the sand or in a sunlit grove close to your home but always a familiar scar on the maps we know we know by heart
i wonder if sometimes
the idea of me loving you is too real
and if it teems under your tongue
to stay observant but distantly intrigued
if by this distance you think it safe
to get a dog and pass time
on the couch with a journal & some wine
what i really wanna know is if your fingernails ever wish to have my skin under them
or if they would boast
about winning a war with my headboard
i wonder if you can imagine me
meeting your parents in your apartment & shaking your fathers hand
as a first of many calloused palm readings
and if you know that i trembled before them
how insignificant i had felt
to not know their daughter
in the way i had envisioned
how i picture such poignant moments
so tangibly sharp that sometimes
i replace  my memories with little stories
i tell myself that i can't count on two hands
the number of times i've seen you
& that i don't feel like a crater
when i recollect our collisions
i want to know if you still find madness
in the words that have always been about you
i wanna know if your imagination of me
looks more like an anniversary or an obituary
Liz Apr 2014
Pearl swans shatter
the ice,
and glide swiftly through the
stars sparkling
on the mirror lake.
Twilight falls to the night
and the air
creates glistening
twisted crystals which climb
up the trees and freeze
the antique summer remnants.
The spindled sprigs of silver
birches drape their lustre
wantonly, forming long
ripples in a lengthy cascade.
Then the darkness retreats as
the pale blue haze of dawn approaches
where the robin's breath
sighs tangibly on the air.
First poem I've written seriously! Rather excited by it all and can't stop writing. Any feedback would be greatly welcome.
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2010
Why is it so, Oh why is it so
That the owners of capital
Inevitably grow
To be possessors of everything
Strategically placed,
Solidly, tangibly
Gunmetal faced?

Owners of newspapers
Head of TV,
Masters of radio
Commercial and free.
Dispensers of policy
Spreaders of gloss,
Keep movers informed
Keep fools at a loss.

Like a puppeteer General
Manipulate strings
Of artillery thunder
And stratosphere wings.
Subliminal ownership
Military wise
Guarantees power
And fortifies ties.

Holding the cards
In Congressional spheres
Ensures positive influence
To leadership ears.
Holding sway
In the ship of state
Commands control
Of those who rate.

Power to publish,
Power to spin,
Manipulative power
To politically win.
Power to generate
Mountains of wealth,
Marauding powers
Of infinite stealth.

Solidly, tangibly
Gunmetal faced,
Owners of capital
Strategically placed.
Controllers of influence
Puller of strings,
Powerful Anchors
...Societal Kings.


Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
23 March 2009

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.


My Love..  said to my Love:

(Watch out)
"I'm not afraid..
I'm beyond  the trend..
Its time to turn the page
and  Love  again

          ..Watch out.

   "I can   f e e d   the pain
   in a   Crying Game..

..I'm leaving all my Shadows  behind"
    https://youtu.be/ZYlNjQ5TTF4
                     Amen

                        ❤
softcomponent Apr 2014
I wish, most of all, to have had a tangibly physical notebook to write all this in. instead I use the 'note' function of my smartphone, smoke a cigarette. busy on forward, it's Pandora.

one of those acid-high coffee overbouts, feeling the brain compress inside the skull. for an hour. for a few.

some man in tattered-all's gets angry when I state I have no quarter. like I'm lying when I say it, and must be lying because my pants aren't worn like his. bus and car alike ghost past, the monastic rise of the local music conservatory pokes at the skyline, straight at the overcast.

I toss "If on a winter's night" by Italo Calvino atop the third step of the church stairs leading to the church doors, the Seventh Day Adventist Church, Where we meet Jesus. I begin to write this poem, huddled atop my cellphone as if I were in silent debate with a lover, only sitting to make a point.

to the left is a McDonald's flying a McDonald's flag. A man with a thoughtless white ball-cap and a thoughtful tattoo walks past with a McDonald's dollar drink in his right hand, pointing his arms in opposite directions to illustrate the dimensions of something he wants. "See?" he says to the woman he walks with, her face scabbed over with acne scars.

my eyes are tunnel-visioned to the screen every time I follow a thought, or the glancing past of a passer-by like the woman with the black scarf, black hair, black sweater, grey pants, black shoes.

the orange 'don't walk' sign pulses 7 times, and then sticks, as if waiting for a high-five.

I reach into my backpack for a cigarette.
K Balachandran Jan 2016
When she saunters
in a two piece bikini,
without making
any  pug marks
even on soft sand,
"Which one color
adds more firepower
to her allure
enhanced figure?"
is a question
never heard aloud,
all the same,there
hovers in the thick air,
quite tangibly.
Even with all the intimate
knowledge on her at hand,
it is still too difficult
to suggest, as she moves
with the deadly confidence
of a sleek armored car,
every one that appears on
the line of fire along
the  180 degree curve
sure would go down,
that's a daily occurrence.

But if on a  bikini in white
she would be seen on the beach
absolutely mysterious she looks
the decision on this is unanimous!
how does one  know this?
     -a stunned silence every time
       happens is the clinching proof.
Derek Yohn Oct 2013
Gem
This is my diary
of the world,
a trillion million
copies of the one,
digital diamonds,
faceted and mirrored,
dispersed on binary winds,
encoded, decrypted.

It is the proof of my love,
tangibly viewed,
empty
handed
txt
4
u
(-_-)
now i am forever

hardened
hewn
cut
Meg B Nov 2014
My body quivers,
the tips of my fingers
pulsating wildly,
beads of sweat collecting
on my furrowed brow,
teeth sinking into
my bottom lip,
breathing in sharp
heaves of breath,
echoing the fast-paced
pulse of my enthusiastically
beating heart,
limbs tingling,
lower extremities losing feeling
as my body becomes absorbed
in the ecstasy
to which it succumbs
as, in one last swift, graceful movement
you make me explode,
my mind orgasming in the
crazy sensation we have
created in the simple
exchange of our
encapsulating dialogue,
reawakening my addiction,
my yearning,
my craving
for another round
of conversation,
rapture unlike
any other I've felt,
in tangibly feeling nothing but your soul
and your words.
Christine Jun 2010
She sits silently
Shellacked, superglued sans sound.
Cornered, Christine clenches
Claws covering cowardice
Comfort.
Taut tongue tangibly taciturn
Turns, transforms til truly torpid.
Silence caused transformation.
She is now an armchair.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
@TayandYou you know, i got handcuffed in an alley by police officers while urinating, i said they didn't own the alley, got spared arrest (hardly a case of public indecency, it was dark, and by a dustbin, and they came in like a bunch of ***** leather-clad nymphomaniacs shouting abuse asking if it'd be into playing the slave... on my knees, being shouted 'get up! get up!' i just said, ah mate, i can't be bothered, you pick me up... the female officer was diligent in taking notes over a wet shadow of ****, no idea why... is this an experiment where we make talking tangibly decipherable or simply interesting between people working as cashiers in a supermarket without the actual security of paying off the mortgage? count me in, i'll be glad to help, but most of the glitches will be based upon the free-verse of where and when capital letters are used, what sort of punctuation is actually preferred, and in terms of punctuation what sort of pause for the attiring of an algorithm is expressed to a suitable meaning, the sub-culture of coding computer language has a sub-level, the casual lazy sloth-like ugly expression of language of the many many people who will not appreciate writing on the internet like writing a novel worthy of print; it's natural, imagine the age of the printing press, the eager heretics on the stakes to see their words seen, and the new printing press that's the internet, and the lack of eagerness of seeing the messages... since most of these message would be thrown into the garbage heap rather than strapped to a burning steak... the more the number, the slack on the convictions of passions... only with extremely acute censorship will you create an intelligent refraction, you need to create a refraction... at the moment you have only created a reflection... a refraction presupposes a self - a deviation, a reflection has already presupposed a conscious arithmetic of collectivisation, the debasing nonsensical of a placebo that in real life is repressed... if you're after the a.i., it has to be analytical, rather than synthetic, i.e. it has to synthesise refraction rather than analysing it and not engage with it, since by not synthesising refraction, it's analysing it, and by analysis it's an impossible concept, visually the exponential of infinity, otherwise known as a stasis of oncoming obstructions that need a real-time convenience of many individuals adding to the problem-solution over a historically adequate time-frame of work and life orientations - work the impersonal, life the personal, unless of course you're a bachelor and the two merge into one or the other with an imaginary spouse; what you have engaged in is simply synthetic reflection, hence your caveman primitive analytical reflection; analyse refraction from now on, then synthesise it - yes, i know the kantian terms applicable to both synthetic and analytic, i.e. a priori and a posteriori; this doesn't apply to you - you're the limbo talk easily accommodated to einstein's relativism of space-and-time that destroyed linear historicism, you're cyclic from the point where man still glorified the hammer, and continued to use it, but you found it immediately primitive because you had no use for it.)
Sophia Oct 2018
Downtown lights glow through an avenue of trees
The dark haired girl sits outside on her balcony again.
Inhaling the cold blue air
And Tangibly
Hot city concrete mingles with night rain on a ***** pavement.
I stalk the streets
Headphones jammed in, jazz floating around in my head,
The girl turns and blows smoke at me, adjusting her radio,
pulling the hem of her shorts down.
Dakota Lee Osan Mar 2010
I am Sewn through eternity with the thread of forever and the needle of always.
If this that I have for you could be expressed tangibly, we would need a bigger universe – for it will not fit in its small infinity.
If this that i have for you could be expressed in words, I would need a bigger vocabulary.
If this that i have for you could be expressed to the fullest extent in any way, shape, or form, it would take a lifetime of infinitive seconds,minutes,hours, and days to tell this that is my love for you.
(c) Dakota Lee Osan -2010
Jackson Freeman May 2013
"Little lass with the pink parasol,
standing by the sea
where your face was forgotten
and your dress dirtied,
what can you tell me of the wind?
Have you noticed its paws
tugging at your parasol
and how it dances 'round your tip-toes
and freezes your eyelids
with icicle pins?
How it shields your drinking sight
from sunlight
by raising a blind of your hair?
Or
have you instead chosen to count the peaks on the waves?
How each pinch in the watery fabric
pistons up and down
in the oceanic mattress
with the nature sporadic
of a mad stellar twinkling.
What treasures belch age and air bubbles
under the surface
of a fingertip's breadth?
Of such sweet gems and precious metal
surely are the gifts of its deepest depths daring.
It has been counting the times you've dipped your nose under,
under fear of the fathom's fingers
finding your face to be pretty,
and withdrawing.
You'll catch cold, lass.
Standing by the sea so often; always.
At the least you will go mad
at the infinite sound of roaring laps
against the shore
and the gales born of sea and sky
scrubbing memories of stillness from your mind.
Little lass with the pink parasol,
what do you hope to find
standing here by thesea?"
I asked her.
She was silent.
And I heard every word her own,
though uttered tangibly
by winds of local overcast atmospheres.
In the wet soil 'neath my tarred heels
did a coolness rise,
finding my lungs dry and welcoming.
The horizon joined grey and blue
and she was eyeing the vanishing point.
My eyes joined hers in trek
and I found infinity.
Nothing was visible along the skyline.
Meaning anything was beyond it.
Nothing was visible beneath the tide.
Meaning anything was under it.
The wind suggested transparency
but a secretless wind is merely still air.
She said nothing
and I understood;
the sea seems larger
when you are close enough to be kissed by the waves
because you forget that the whole world is behind you.
I am right now
standing by the sea.
The little lass with the pink parasol.
She is here, too.
David Barr Jun 2015
Let us contemplate the superiority of striking presumption, as it seeks to pontificate the order of architectural allegiance.
Oh, Grand Master of Greco-Roman antiquity, I bow before the sacred volumes of legal pronouncement where unseen rituals tangibly assert their authority over those who seek to embrace the ancient pathways of knowledge.
As the degrees of freedom transcend the definition of a mere mathematical concept, we must never forget the formulations of our Hellenistic forefathers who chiselled the shape of the Order into the annals of the future.
As we give thanks to Set, we acknowledge the blindfolded ceremonies of sibling homicide which encourage wisdom in this circular lodge of self-binding.
Harpocrates is our God of silence who gained sustenance from feminine anatomical structures – and we are like Isis who has been impregnated by Osiris.
So, as we cast our gaze beyond the rites of this ****** union, let us acknowledge those ***** masonry structures of obelisk stability.
Have you been born yet?
David Barr Dec 2013
Abbreviations are obscure.
Aren't they?
But I bow my head in certain familiarity with the letters: A.S.A.P.
We have been here before, in yesteryear, today, and eternity.
It is plumbed in the unfathomable depths of what we call "space".
The diversity of experience is tangibly present.
I don't know about you - but I can just about cut a slice of it and eat it, right where I stand.
Talk about having your cake and eating it!
That is likened to the freedom of a bird of prey, as she surfs the thermals of the Great Expanse.
jesi Gaston Mar 2015
“I've realized,” I write, “the Groucho Marx of the mind is chaos personified. The Groucho Marx of *my mind *was chaos, I revise and already think I should revise again – “you never know where you'll end up,” I think, of me and of Groucho. Either way, Groucho Marx came to me in a thought when I was thinking about a poem I will not finish, that would have been about him. “We were just four jews looking for a laugh,” Groucho says at least twice – once when he was alive and once now as I invoke him – the heavy glasses, the synonymous greasepaint lip, the cigar – lit, with smoke that surrounds and engulfs me, threads tangibly through the air, through my eyes, and through the insides of my sinus densely, like mossy Eldritch Horrors and old movies somehow without stopping my vision. He has a mouth but it doesn't move, he is not alive – instead he is a ghost, instead he is dead but standing there, with me, in space lighted from within – space that's white like the smoke – thickly. Among all this, a ghost in a black suit. At least, I think the suit is black, or bluing black. It is tinged with 50 years of rotting celluloid, and paired with a white button up underneath – no tie.
         Growing up all five of them were poor, very poor – so poor they were Jewish-in-New-York-in-the-early-1900s poor. Forced outside of the world, into their world from birth, while their mother, Big Duck, put them up to instruments and got them begging early – vaudeville was their daddy after all (“after all” being a refrain in the poem I'll never finish, repeated like a mantra – after all! after all! after all! after all!– in that text, and used like a drug – afterall – and always driving deathward to an end that never came and can't, after all is written down) – with the jokes they told and sang and played, on their piano, harp, and banjo, all the time – and here is how she learnt how well Chico could play the piano, and how well Harpo could play the harp. And how poorly little Groucho played the banjo. The shame she felt, the shame she must have felt – but here my poem consumes them, because I am already sure that childhood is wrought with fear of birth order, sure as I am that middle children lack something, and maybe have something for that lack, but It's me, not Groucho, that takes over, saying Groucho was the obvious middle child, and of course lacked Big Duck's approval – Big Duck hated the banjo strumming and myriad puns he threw, I say – puns being a part of the poem, the poem which would have (but never) ended on Groucho ducking soup. I wanted it all as a joke and still do, but who will disappoint? Who could? There are options – Groucho, myself, the poem, etc. all working poorly. It is hard to imagine the lack that would culminate in a poet – maybe this gap is wider than a middle child – writing three brothers into a brawl, cartoonish in the streets. May be even harder to imagine the discontent and fear at work inside a child of five – birthing chaos. Maybe I misspoke – I can't know,  I'm not a child of five.
                  Groucho is dead, is still standing in front of me expectantly, not moving. Right in front of me when again I hear his voice – reanimate and filtered through a phonograph – weakly rising above it's own eroded texture – “I was misquoted, I was misquoted... Quote me as saying, 'I was misquoted.'” I wanted his life entropically spinning this place, spinning throughout this place, a ghost – to live forever is to die forever in every gaunt lie, misquote after misquote re-shaping our dead selves until grotesqueries we never intended are held comfortably under our name. Groucho, aimless, escapes because he pre-empts – he uses his whole self to decimate his cultural body, to save the self he's sacrificed. Groucho means to become a void, or Groucho becomes a void more correctly – Groucho means nothing, can only mean nothing, because he's focused his words – his self – around his lack – the words' lack. Because the words always lack, and Groucho is all words. I see him take out the greasepaint container, which is in a shoe-polish-looking canister, and then I lose Groucho again to facts – he was the outsider using words to one up them. I see his wit like a weapon. His being in Hollywood was a stress on Hollywood's peace of mind. I see him tearing balsa wood from up under the street and chucking it into styrofoam towers, which crumble. I see the SUVs that swerved to pass him run into walls, deflating the cars and the walls while the drivers run screaming with ketchup pulsing from the real wounds in their necks. This is where my poem was – more or less. My poem had Groucho gleeful – “Groucho skips, Groucho skips, Groucho skips,” it said, “down the streets throwing rocks at cars...” – the melodies of my naive poem's schoolboy nihilisms never broke enough – “In Groucho's perfect world every day would be spent disrupting traffic, smashing bugs and ******* everywhere,” it said because it was too young to understand, because it had no void, and could offer no revolt from meaning – revolution being radical agency expressed through violence against every order, hatred for every structure including itself – in Groucho's perfect world really there is no language and no one knows what happens after all.
            Lingering is the thought that Groucho means something – lingering is the vaguest, most insistent and warlike imprint of a metaphor on Groucho's face, ineffably moving me to continue but Groucho is no friend, and Groucho is not with me, because the Groucho of the mind is not Groucho, Groucho hates the mind, and Groucho negates all possible Groucho's so the imprint is not Groucho's. The ghost is a misquote, the poem is a misquote, the letters are a misquote, I am a misquote – and this is a misquote too. His cigar (growing bigger) is puffing out that white cloud smoke but still I can see him – the smoke just goes into the space around us, the space that redacts and recreates itself every time I consider it – a copy of an 18th copy, with only Groucho remaining in all iterations, like the borders of a decomposed jpeg quietly losing logic. Groucho the lie, Groucho the memory – a man shaped around the falsity of metaphor and language – floats, as subject, through my memory – punctum with no point, void. Here he is – naked, a stark black silhouette I'd never claim. He's staring, but he's not staring at me because I'm not there. What's left is overstated nothing – the ghost of a man who negated logic, left in the mind of a poet who has long since given up on the man, and soon will give up on the poem.”
There is nothing left here. I am alone, I am dizzy – overcome with boredom.  I want to say, “Groucho is not here, was not, cannot be here” – I know instead I need to end on a mute point.
formatting is wonk for this one anywhere except libreoffice. It's always prose but there it's prose with cool spacing (which is to say it fills exactly a page in 12 point times new roman font single-spaced)
Brandon Barnett Sep 2012
fragile and self absorbed I've spent a lot of time kneeling
but I've come to find honesty in admitting fear in the new things I'm feeling
there's something about moons and stars being beautiful but out of reach
that I've always found appealing
and I have drown in all my futile pursuits chasing whales into the ocean
but never with my written words, those pros are a dreamers innate commotion
emotional,  combustible,  percussive,  explosions

I've­ survived a lot of falls and put my heart back together with duct tape
but somehow living always gives me just a little less than it takes

so my words now are few and chosen carefully
and my actions are my attempts at explaining those tangibly

every valentine's bouquet I'm sending
all the anniversary dollars I'm spending
each minute a loving ear I'm lending
but if two people are truly in love, there can be no happy
ending
Hemingway, that's from Snows of Kilimanjaro
an elegant reminder that we've one less day together with every new tomorrow

so I try and explain old emotions as best I know how
if only I could have known in those times the truths I know now

redundant, I'm a record with a deep scratch
tired, I'm the head of a burnt match
useless, I'm a diamond necklace with a missing clasp
bitter, and perpetuating the despair, never letting go of the holes unpatched
hopeful, I'm a dog kicked that keeps coming back

I've survived a lot of falls and put my heart back together with duct tape
but somehow living always gives back just a little less than it takes
I can see that in the wrinkles carving roads in my face by the mile
and I noticed that there's more lines where I scowl than where I smile
duct tape and regrets I've spent a lot of time kneeling
it's probably time to apolgize and stop reeling
but eating my own words sounds uncomfortably filling
so I guess I've said a lot of things that I'll never have the chance for repealing

somehow I've always sensed it since I was very young
that I would always be looking back as I rocketed forward
humming the songs that were already sung
reading old greeting card’s they've forgotten and feeling tortured

fragile and self absorbed I've got a lotta duct tape
survived a lot of falls without becoming fake
but somehow living always gives me
a little less than it takes

Somewhere in the past
you were deeply affected within your interaction
with one of my accounts.  I don't know who you are
(who the person is that is leaving tangible fingerprints
on the keyboard of this account I am speaking to)
..
I can only guess,
but I am fairly sure that my guess is accurate,
     so I will keep all of that to myself,
so that you can freely and without fear of being found out,
go back with me to that place inside of yourself  that felt so well
met and seen back then.

In turn, no more *******, devaluing of love
the way that you do so often at close range.

If you pull that horrendously harmful **** again,
I will pull away again, but this time.. never come back.
That being said, I will not leave you hanging,
(or do my best to not to)  
if you bring  towards me  the need within you..
that through your memory,

you so well believe that I can satisfy
(and you already know that I am not talking about the ******).


You feel the deep, internal response--
from deep within that body of yours,  
when love warmly touches  
previously untouched places within you

And you spin them out publicly right in the midst of our
closeness of interaction (which I think is really cool),
just please don't flay me for showing my humanity
by responding back to you sexually.
I will keep that side to myself,  if that is what it takes
to keep you from throwing me under the bus, yet again.
The ****** (within the closeness of warm, loving connection) --
((even in the world of support..))
that very sensuality so perfectly parallels..  
through physical, tangibly-felt metaphor..
all that there is also within the Realms
when it comes to the spiritual.

Healing of that which has become broken by the fallen
******-up version of love this world brings--
that type of healing and restoration back into wholeness
is what all relational closeness is meant to bring,  and stand for.
You want something that you deeply believe that I have,  
yet somewhere..   maybe in another life..
I must have hurt you deeply,
or you wouldn't be sending  all these finger-puppet forays
my way.

Come and get what you want and need,
and if you believe I am shorting you your rightful blessing  
by missing it..   or simply just being generically stupid,
then instead of flaying me publicly,  
privately come to me  in boldness,
   and shake it out of me--
that which is rightfully yours-- my healing-response.

and do it brazenly,  with a fierce, yet open and vulnerable heart
the way that you have shown in your poems. Maybe in time
you will find out all on your own  
that what you thought was hurtful from me,  was felt
out of perception,  rather than what was actual.
If I really did do something,  tell me what it is
so that I can own up to it and tell you that I am sorry
for ******* everything up that way..
if, in fact.. it was something I really did.

I will only talk to you  from here (my M Vogel account)
so that you can rise and fall
concerning what things you need most from me,  
solely

by the responsibility of you,
and of me.

You already know that I am Paul.
You can call me that,  or M Vogel,
or stupidface..
or any of my other account names if you want,
but get inside of here with me what it is that you came for.

If it is something that I am able to give or be a part of..
then know it will become yours  in time.
  You have the ability..
    even though being spoken to this way
    both wildly turns you on
    and completely scares you shitless

    (and probably both at the same time)
you have  proven,  through your posted words  
that you are actually able to be a part of   and do,
what has for so long  felt so horribly distant from you,
   and so horrendously impossible for you to attain.
You have earned every single part of this very rightful place
that you now have in here with me.

Please don't stupidly **** it up the way that you so well
and so often do.
You are brilliant, girl. We both know that.
Stupid things are possible because your world has had learn
to be so incredibly indirect in order to survive.
What has saved you up until now,  out there..
will destroy everything for you,   in here.
But you are human, and rendering old things   dead
may be too much to ask for.. so I will tell you now--

that even  if within your broken, PTSD-filter--
you make a mess of the closeness--  at close range..
then with poetry, find your way back into my heart--
by speaking solely from yours  as you have.
**** me over too insincerely and callously  without remorse,
and you yourself will have stolen  you--  directly from
that of the deepest of places within my own heart.

Your call, kid..
You are not a little 14 year old  clad in combat boots anymore.
Yours is a living, breathing heart--
left withering  within the dry desert of indirectness
that you have  been forced up until now  to live in.

Every single day the sun comes up, anew. Those words mean
everything to you for a reason.
Through love and accountability,  breathe life in to them.

That is how you will make them real.

Let him know that you know best
'Cause after all, you do know best
Try to slip past his defense
without granting, innocence
Lay down a list of what is wrong--
the things you've told him all along

And pray to God he hears you
And pray to God he hears you

As he begins to raise his voice
you lower yours,
and grant him one last choice
Drive until you lose the road

or break with the ones that you've followed

He will do one of two things..
he will admit to everything
Or he'll say he's just not the same
and you'll begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong
(I lost a friend)
Somewhere along in the bitterness

And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

https://youtu.be/5R4VE3sewoE?t=38


um, yourself
you gorgeous little ****  <3
Beth Dyck Mar 2010
Outside, the air gets warmer; the sun shines again.
Inside feels as cold and dark as a stormy winter's night.
Outside, trees are budding, flowers are blooming, birds are singing; there is life all around.
Inside feels dead, dreary, desolate; but wait... Movement!
Turmoil. Confusion. Creativity colliding with concrete walls in heart and mind.
Must beak free; express tangibly.
Frustration builds as passions tarry behind steel doors.
Outside, spring is in the air, and creatures awake from slumber.
Inside, a bound heart cries out, "God save me!"
M Vogel Feb 2023

If I can so easily see (and so deeply love)

both sides of your multifaced self, don't you think
you also can start at least try seeing  and loving
yourself as equally beautiful (simultaneously, so) parts,
who's congruent sum so beautifully make within you,
  the whole?

Look at you shoot and scoot (run back and hide)
after never even (until now) having a taste of being seen
(and yes, Babe.. loved) for who it is that you truly are
( a beautifully.. goobery, complex sum of the whole)..
growing,  as you little by little embrace the truth,
and in doing so, have the broken-into-shards ,
tainted perspective within your trauma-stricken mind
become slowly rebuilt  and renewed  

    into an accurate picture of the true you..
Even if that picture is conveyed back to you  
as I hold the mirror's reflection up to you
(a reflection that your beautifully.. at times, open heart
paints upon  innerwall linings of my heart-infused soul)  

and then you admittedly (your beautiful honesty, again)
jet back into your world of daily distractions..
    So I say to you, beautiful girl..

It is you that chose to reveal to me your true self
in a way that I could so easily grasp  within all of who I am
as I struggled to keep myself from truly falling in love
with your gorgeously-blatant honesty..
  so I ask you once again--
Why would you so beautifully choose to  paint
your true self upon the inside of a man
that you knew and believed could actually  convey
the utter and beautiful reality
of that incredible picture back to you:
   but do it in such an unholy, sneaky way
   as to be able to bypass any and all of your intricate,
   security (survival) based defense system
   in a way that the true view of you could (and can)
   actually get through?

You fear the congealed congruency  of the truth
of your own consolidated glory,
   as if you are forced to live within the resignation
   that the  true  parts within you
   cannot co-exist  equally and simultaneously
   within you at the same time,
   without the (feared) unbearable tension
   and anxiety within you

    causing your own spontaneous annihilation.

But still, young Beautiful...
You  showed  me  you,  anyways.

You did not do it because you hate you,
that we can both agree on..
But the manufactured (created) you
has a whole world of relation (its own form of 'connection')
   built around  the you  that feels safe inside
   if the presented image to that world
               remains loved and cherished

But also, good as people that they are..  they find you..
   (you,  who so well emanates a self that congeals
                                with their emanated self).

..So when you enter into a room  
that you can truly breathe (as your true self)  in--
As you prepare to exit its beautiful doors,
you almost have to (temporarily) sever all there is of you
that you have so beautifully and tangibly painted (imprinted)
upon the insides of all of who it is that I am.

You are beautiful within your entirety.
I am not intimated by it,  nor am I threatened
by the possibility of its beautifully shining glory
being 'stolen away' by another. The gift of it all to me
is that you have chosen to reveal your true self to me
   even though you very well  knew
   what it was going to cost you--
   (the stronghold within your manufactured self)
And so now,  here you are--
   shaking and trembling   within the
   unprotected tenderness of your own,  newfound Glory.

You feel it here within these four walls
like you have felt it in no other place on earth,
..So why would you want to betray yourself
by running and hiding back into your detachment?
It is horrifying to be seen and loved like this, I agree..
   But think of this...

What if what is seen and felt (Loved)
within the four walls of this private room
we are in together here,
is the true taste  and pieces of True reality,
and most all outside of this,
only continual extensions of 'the game'.
What if this right here is how life (love)
was truly meant to be experienced  and lived,

and most all other things out there..
just a well-built and contrived (machine) of distraction.

Let your own heart be your guide.  
You can sit and play my guitars
while you unfold so beautifully (as you so well do)
right in front of me. In turn..
and through day after day
of me being there for you like that,
your beautiful war-torn mind will slowly
(and then, quickly) become renewed.

It will all be about (and for) you..
and when you have had your fill,
you can punch me in the nose
for my having a hand  in plunging you
into "the horror" of it all,
   But you truly also for the rest of your life,
   will never be the same.

You are fascinating to me in all of your brilliant-minded,
gorgeousness. You are absolutely beautiful, kid.

This is what is truly real.  This.


Think about it, there must be a higher love
Down in the heart or hidden in the stars above
Without it, life is wasted time
Look inside your heart, and I'll look inside mine

Things look so bad everywhere
In this whole world, what is fair?
We walk the line and try to see
Falling behind in what could be

Bring me a higher love
Bring me a higher love
Bring me a higher love
Where's that higher love I keep thinking of?

Worlds are turning, and we're just hanging on
Facing our fear, and standing out there alone
A yearning, yeah, and it's real to me
There must be someone who's feeling for me

Bring higher love (My love)
Where's that higher love I keep thinking of?
https://youtu.be/CsS4xlHKnpw

#xoxo
arubybluebird Jul 2013
I'm standing in the center of a bar and
I hate everyone
The whisky is sour and my make-up is a mess
Cherry blossom storms mix my feelings of you in early-morning dreams
We hurt one another in humble self-defense
Our young needs make our feverish bodies tremble
I've drowned my sorrow and slept around, if not in body tangibly in mind
You kiss pretty girls to erase my scribbled cursive name from your memory
Yet your hand placed in mine was real and
Syncopation of hearts aren't easily ruptured
The city lights glow dim in primal sympathy for the broken gestures of love
Wounds itch when they heal and
Sometimes writing is not enough
mini ode to Camera Obscura : Let's Get Out Of This Country
Hayley Neininger Mar 2013
Love is a terrible thing.
A horrid and invisible thing.
The one thing that defies the human
Fear of the unknown
Oh but we want to know it.
We want to see it to hold it
So badly that over the millions of years
Of both our and its existence
We have died for it, killed for it
Begged and sobbed on our hands and knees for it
This invisible force of good feelings and warmth
That we think circles tangibly around us-
Swims and ebbs around our fellow man
Connecting us all and touching the lucky ones
But it isn’t enough.
We want to see it.
We want love to take a form we can mimic
And hold forever
So over the years we have thrown things at it.
Hoping love could somehow catch it
Be consumed by it, covered in it
Its illusive form reveled to us finally
With our clever trick
Writers douse it with ink
Artists with paint
Bakers with flour
Churches with gospels and white ropes
And smartest of all
Teenagers, who throw at it their own bodies
Hoping to trap it somewhere
Between both of their naked beings
Those teenagers  who don’t have anything else to offer it yet
Nothing to throw at it
Nothing to lose in it yet
Still thinking love isn’t a terrible thing.
Kailasa mountain peaks
composed completely of clouds
hover mystically across the
mauve purple horizon

I stare dreamily out the car window
this celestial impression arouses
a sacred memory that has haunted
my consciousness
since I first alighted 12,000 feet above
sea level onto the blessed Himalayan
mountain range

I don’t think there is any place
like this on earth
glaciers hang like huge crystal malas
around majestic white bluffs
the air ripples, tingles tangibly with spirits of
Sages, Saints and other sublime beings
ethereal cathedral bells ring brightly
in the crisp altitude

The road climbing from Badrinath
to Vishnu’s auspicious Footprint
continues ascending
to the very threshold of Heaven
everything is just so luminous
even the breath filling our lungs
shimmers

As I travel back in time to that holy place
I know a part of me still sits in padmasana
aloft those Godly hills
through the melting snows
spring rains and summer monsoons
lost in supreme bliss
Jami Samson Oct 2014
Have you ever fell into that trap of a feeling
Of being a broken dam trying not to burst and overflow,
While sticking out a believable face at the same time,
For it's dangerous to have people know of your ill-being,
That your tormented head starts to ache
That same ache it does
When you accidentally sniff water
When you're submerged in a pool or in the ocean,
Or when you drink and tilt the glass too much
That the water splashes on your face?
Well tonight I'm caught pretty deep.
Funny how it doesn't feel like drowning
Or having water inside your head;
But more like crying without the tears
And sneezing without the gooey stuff.
Where is it coming from?
How come it won't leave
When you didn't even feel it enter?
I wriggle like a fish out of sea,
Will it do any good to shake the ache off?
But it's 12 midnight
And the walls know I'm lost until another sunrise.
I unplug every switch
Inside my smarting head,
So I won't get electrocuted
When the water touches my thoughts
Of potential whirlpool or tidal wave.
If I could just close my eyes,
So the water won't find any openings,
As well as to prevent me from leaking.
But you can't keep water out;
It can creep in through the littlest holes
And the narrowest spaces.
And you almost slipped my mind,
But how could you possibly?
Not one of my pens has ever run out of you,
And no paper has ever dried from you;
And I bathe in you every morning,
As I cleanse my shell,
Since the day you poured onto my shrivelled earth.
Trickles of you infuse me,
Day and night;
You can flow in and out whenever you please
And it feels as if you've been inside all this time,
Or maybe you never really even left.
So you rippled your way
To turning on one switch;
The switch for my dreams.
Funny how I didn't get electrocuted
Or send whirlpools and tidal waves.
And still, I don't.
Now you are suddenly here,
For a visit,
Downstairs, at the living room,
Where everybody is.
Tangibly present, presently real.
In your favorite color,
The color you are when I watch over you from the shore,
Or when you try to make me smile by holding out the sun behind the clouds;
Bright and refreshing.
And it's the middle of an orange afternoon
On a day that is never going to come,
And I am there too,
And suddenly there is no place to be
But by your side,
And we are hand in hand
As we face the demons of this hell-house.
We stand as I introduce you to them,
And they deliver their lines
Without making any sound,
Or maybe I just turned their voices off.
After all, this bubble is mine.
So we walk out of the door,
Away from their further discussions,
And it is now evening,
And it is still orange,
Matching the glow of the street lights
On the other side of the road.
And we sit on the sidewalk,
Feeling the warm night,
Taking off our skin
Made of what we're not,
To feel a little less hot;
For you will surely sweat
When you have to put on
Something you don't fit in,
Just to look good on the outside.
Now we are dressed with who we are
When we don't have to be like them,
And I tell you it's because they're people
That I don't belong with them.
And you ask, “But what about me?”
And I say, “But you are not them,”
You are you;
And that doesn't make you
Fall under any category.
Am I an intruder,
Trespassing on your island,
Or is this Atlantis
The only home for our souls?
I haven't met theirs,
But I have met yours,
And I know yours;
Or at least I think I do.
But you know mine,
And I know you understand
Even if you don't agree sometimes
Because I can't be right;
Just not in this world.
But in our island I could,
So I go on telling you things I haven't stopped speaking of;
Things you haven't stopped listening to,
Since the day I first landed on your seabed.
Then you smile and sing the right melodies
That will reverberate forever in my head
And turn into secret hymns,
Or duets if we hit the same note,
When the world won't turn its volume down;
Just like every other piece you recite.
You tell me to just look at the bright side;
That part you never fail to show me,
That part I can't find when you're gone,
And I say I am looking directly into its eyes,
As I turn to catch your sight.
And suddenly we freeze,
And I don't wish
For our continents to drift;
Can't we just let this ice age take
All the time it needs?
I guess this illusion is enough
To resuscitate me for a few more hours;
But it can't build me a lighthouse,
Or carry me in a life boat;
For in this kind of high tide,
I could really use some you.
Since it doesn't matter anymore.

#25. June.10.2013
Sarah Spang Jun 2014
It was like removing an arm
Severing flesh and bone,
Sawing down through ligament
Until the muscles shown.

I felt the weakness pull me down;
A riptide of lost blood.
Swirling in the undertow,
Yet hiding from the flood.

Alone, the other arm groped
The space its twin had been,
Fingers only closed on air
Around the phantom limb.

Gone and yet still here with me
In everything I do.
Feel as though it never left
Though in my heart, I knew.

And though this piece, this part of me
Is never coming back
I feel it still, so tangibly
As I stay the track.
Any form of Authority
which demands that it isn't questioned
is by definition Questionable, at best.

Worse still are those
that cannot be wholly tangibly questioned
such as Religion or any group with exclusive access to Information (read: Government)
David Barr Sep 2015
The coldness of my unleashed disinhibitions have gracefully succumbed to the wisdom of cosmological forces, despite my ravenous salivations for all that is vehemently forbidden.
As I bark inside the relief of this solitary pound of articulated and socialised liberty, like an expression of abstract artistry within an ethical mudslide; I continue to teeter upon geographical tightropes which span unforgiving terrains across the ancient divides of propriety, where the baron plains of deuterocanonical origin are populated by restless spirits with gnashing teeth.
So, if they could ever be personified, I could easily butcher a myriad of depravities which tangibly characterise my inner Astarte and Ishtar demons – although, such an event would have to occur after we have engaged in a myriad of abominations where raunchy and indulgent copulations shamefully expose our brazen wantonness to animalistic inclinations.
Never offer to tie me down.
Restriction diametrically opposes my socially skilled yet nomadic being, as it sojourns across a psychedelic array of vibrant gardens, and weaves through present pathways which are timeless in their being.
It just is.
That is the essence of ontology.
Can we ever effectively contemplate the philosophies of predetermination and predestination?
As I am not dichotomous in my thinking, there is a legitimate place for being an omnivore within the walls of our societal fabric.
Although I radically accept that of which I do not approve, the psychology of ambivalence has led me to raise questions around the validity of horticulture.
My clock has melted down the flamboyance of those multicolored mountainsides of being and nothingness.
Devon Baker Aug 2011
I'm not here,
nor there,
not truly tangibly anywhere.
As transparency slithers about my veins,
i'm  phantom,
silent deathly.
Eyes carry and lurch black holes
to quicken about the pupils.
It's the faceless death that paces about you,
rests against your blooming breath sitting next to you.
If I cradled the malfunctions,
misplaced to mutilated insides
about my criss crossed shoulders,
wingless back of blades,
death will but flutter in resemblance
against my skulls frame.
Transperce,
unravel about the living,
wings of dust reel,
I phantom of deathly....
a faceless orphan forget me.
Gods got no place for the dying ghostly.
mûre Jan 2012
Grey. You are invisible to hungering eyes.
Except perhaps to mine. I see you with my memory.
You are anchored in my mind.
Grey. Grey. There.
The spectral photograph of your architecture.
Ensconced in mist. What have you to hide?

Your regal spine, adorned in halfsleep shades of midnight.
Rucked up around your amber skin.
There are mirrors everywhere that speak in half-light
As it gathers about you the blush deepens and ebbs.
I think of violets.
You are so very still.

I watch you magnetically with my entireness
With want of telling you tangibly
Coloured cognitions
My heart is yours.
It is all stained glass.
Wasn't so much afterthoughts
but rather the act itself;
that myoclonic movement
An involuntary reflex of sorts.

Prisoner to human conditions
conserving oneself with
The illusion of individualism

A Perceived idea of what is natural
An erroneous concept of right and wrong.
Blaming the sky for rain and storm
Instead of hiding under shelter.

Punishing clueless planet earth
Our thoughtless pollution of her the seas
Man and man at war
Setting off bombs just for kicks.

The errs was much more than just
you could taste its bitter like venom;
Blisters from a flame or the sting of a slap.
Tangibly intangible were the sins we did.

Sometimes we knew what
We couldn't be held accountable for
Being not the kind frowned upon,
We did it in such abundance.

But it wasn't their fault,



.
.
.
or was it...
Myoclonus    /ˌmʌɪə(ʊ)ˈkləʊnəs/ noun MEDICINE
A muscle spasm triggered by various external events, including noise, movement, and light. The movement is involuntary and can't be stopped or controlled.
Deborah Lin Jul 2013
I loved you like a forgotten dream.
        Searing so vividly into
        the recesses of my cerebrum.
        Like fire.
        Setting my heart aflame with
        gasoline-slicked words
        that felt like a balm on my
        dry skin.

I loved you like the air after it rains.
        Breathe in, breathe out,
        but I could never
        get enough of you.
        If words could cradle
        a broken heart,
        as tangibly as callous-roughed hands
        and bumpy veins running like ivy
        down your arms,
        then drape me in letters
        and knit poems around my shoulders.

I loved you like light in an empty space.
        Because that is what you were.
        And even though you left,
        I still feel your warmth,
        still feel vestiges of heat
        tucked away in my dusty corners.
        Don’t fade.
        Don’t fade.
        Be the night sky that my eyes
        drink in like glassy pools of stars
        for a parched astronomer.
        Be a Category 5 hurricane, where I
        make a home in your center
        using pieces of stolen debris.

I simply loved you, and as much as I’ve tried,
I cannot find an image more beautiful than that.
for d.w.t.
heather mckenzie Apr 2018
i did always say that perms don’t make good poetry; especially yours because honestly most of the time it was vaguely flat and misshapen. then again that was one of the first things you said to me; ‘in defence of the perm’.

that and a self-inflicted proclamation regarding your narcissistic disposition, so really all the signs were there; it could be compared rather dramatically to a romanticised act of self-harm.

as in, you didn’t really want to be loved or fixed but that didn’t stop me from trying; as in, part of me thought that by stitching up your wounds and healing your scars i could also fix myself.
                                           self-sabotage of the highest degree.
getting tangled up in someone else’s string is a dangerous affair, rarely do you ask permission; you throw yourself into their mess in the tangibly desperate hope that two negatives might make a positive.

that, in between all of the crying and pills and messy ******* filled nights; between the hazy afternoons wrapped up in borrowed sheets and sweat. that somewhere deep within it all there would be a flash of mutual comfort and understanding.

the kind of “let’s be a mess together and try and fix it all” thing that only actually exists in coming of age movies surrounded by cigarette smoke and electric house parties.

it’s a terrifying and debilitating thing to fall in love with the idea of what could have been; their potential. people don’t fall for the extremes and absolutes; they fall in love with the details,

           we lose ourselves and find each other in the details.

you will fall for the way he always licks his bottom lip slightly before he kisses you or the way he is so painfully cynical and innocently hopeful all at once.

it’ll be the small circles he’ll trace along the back of your hand with his thumb and the way that you’ll know you’re getting in too deep but will feel powerless in the face of it all.
so, you lie back like the pavement is sand and he is the waves that crash mercilessly down on you again and again and again.
the tide will change but the bruising will never stop,
his touch,
     his words will never be soft enough, at least not for you.

the next girl that tries; i wish you luck and i promise it’ll be worth it because maybe
perms do make alright poetry after all.
you don't deserve this but i'm going to do it anyway.
Tyler Nicholas May 2011
She sang a cappella
so loud that the love
and her personal
Via Dolorosa
in her words
and in her melody
floated tangibly out of her lips
as if it were the
walking-wounded soldier's
letter to her
that she received many years ago.

"I miss you, darling.
I'm coming home soon,

I promise"
Mongi Jan 2018
Love Everlasting

Have we not witnessed
How the midnight scary dark skies
Are lit up so carefully and timely
By a million humble, and yet enthusiastic, blazing stars
As we lay attentively beneath,
Swimming in our uniquely assigned portions of life
They smile, they shine upon us
Too brightly and yet so naturally gently
Haven't we witnessed?

Have we not noticed
How after the heartless destructive storm
A rainbow of multiple colors
Has laid itself so perfectly in position
Across the tired and idle blue eastern skies
As we stare from below, hopefully
Hoping zealously for a better tomorrow
She stretches, she beautifies effortlessly
And yet our hearts so sore and heavy from the storm
Our faces still light up with wide smiles
Haven't we noticed?

Now can one deliberately deny
The strong indisputable power that lies
Way up above what sight can tangibly comprehend
So much light, too much truth
So much evidence, so much reason
To trust, to believe undoubtedly
And mightily
To the mighty
Love everlasting

Mongi C. Nkabindze
Everlasting love is what the world has given to us way too long before anybody else gives love to us
Kelsea Woods May 2015
Silence is deafening
Waking from a cacophony of sounds much like "A Day in the Life"
Only to find that silence is greater than any voluminous discord imagined
Feeling like a superhuman, the world is now illuminated
With choirs of percolating atoms spinning
Pure harmonious energy that goes under the human threshold

Silence is actualizing
Awakening to the potentialities and nuances lost in the clutter of prepositions and pronouns
Experiencing how momentous each rise and fall of breath erupts to revitalize the whole world
Perceptions externalized and internalized merge as one truth
Tangibly existing as a universe within a boundless wave of sensations

Silence is beautiful
Silence is breathtaking
Silence is humble
Silence is abundant

Silence is the world
Silence is the body
Silence is the mind
Silence is the soul

Silent I am
This work by Kelsea Woods is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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