When it rains here once again
I remember the time we clenched hands that monsoon.
And we trailed down that railway track on a cloudy noon
We weren't alone did you know?
In a place unknown to fog and snow
The weather had lost its temper
The train had been blinded enough to lose track.
Who doesn't know it's all a knack!
Derailed, they say.
Before the next I wish they simply care
These are not mere accidents you bare,
But testimonies you claim on a paid fare.
Indian Railways or any other for that matter I say,
When they pass the word 'happy journey'
We simply wish it's not our last.
When it rains once again here,
I remember the time we clenched hands that monsoon.
And I wailed down the railway track on that tragic day,
I do not understand which side to stake.
Or wish for summer once again in my life
Or curse the rails, frames and journeys that shatter.
Shatter! Solely due to human hands that fell short,
short to value the lives that derail.

An elephant and a dog became pregnant at the same time. Three months down the line the dog gave birth to six puppies.

Six months later the dog was pregnant again- and nine months on the  dog gave birth to another dozen puppies. The pattern continued.

On the eighteenth month the dog approached the elephant questioning- “Are you sure you’re pregnant? We became pregnant on the same date ; I have given birth three times to a dozen puppies, and they have grown to become big dogs, yet you are still pregnant. What’s going on?”

The  elephant replied- “ There is something I want you to understand. What I am carrying is  not a puppy, but an elephant. I only  give birth to one in two years.

When my baby hits the ground- the earth feels it.

When my baby crosses the road- human beings stop and watch in admiration.

What I carry draws attention, so what I’m carrying is mighty and great!”

Don’t  lose faith when you see others receive answers to their prayers.
Don’t be envious of others testimonies.
If you haven’t received your own blessings- don’t despair.
Say to yourself, *“My time is coming, and when it hits the surface of the earth- people  shall yield in admiration.*”

Why is this still happening?
So silently, yet still reported;
At great lengths they will go
- to make sure its reported.

Although the Government are in denial,
We are grateful for those who report
The ongoing slaughter of innocent people
Men, women, and children are caught.

Journalists themselves are risking their lives
To tell the world whats happening;
There can be no more dangerous a place
From which to report the sickening.

So where is the world?
The situation is dire -
And unless action is taken
...its going to catch fire.

People are still leaving,
For Tanzania,
A country now turning them back
Back home to face their fears.

But where are the World?
What is holding you back?
How can you just sit there
And ignore these attacks?

For I for one cannot,
And I have no power to act,
All I can do, is spread the word
And hope someone...will act.

Yes there was a time,
When a hundred thousand were killed each day,
That is hard to comprehend,
Not just for me - but for locals who got away.

It may not be happening quite on that scale,
But the fact that it is still happening,
Surely is warning enough.....
And the Government is in denial...

I am worried for Burundi,
But why is no one else?
How can you just sit there
- are you leaving it for someone else?

The attacks are still happening,
Day after day after day,
Bodies are still being found....
Before being rushed into the ground.

Such brutality is hard to stomach,
And I have the stomach for much,
But when I encountered the plight of Burundi,
That was just too much.

I dont know if I will finish this poem,
Because the images I now have are horrific,
So what must it be like....
For those having to live there with it?

Imagine the fear,
The total despair,
And the feeling of more
- that the world doesnt care.

It can be no wonder
That this little country
Is the unhappiest on Earth,
It is so clear to see.

Or for those who choose maybe
To see what others refuse,
Or ignore, or belittle,
Cover up- whatever word you use.

Each day there are reports,
Women and children found dead,
Their throats have been cut,
Bodies lay with no heads

They are *****, they are tortured,
For hours, days, or months,
There are forced disappearances,
- those run into the hundreds.

A machete is no longer an agricultural tool,
It has become a symbol of terror,
It is used to slice, tear, stab, torture;
It is a symbol of ******.

What must go through these peoples minds,
When they see someone with a machete,
What was once a necessary tool,
Now been used to butcher so many.

The genocide may be over,
And few even know it took in Burundi,
But the torture, the butchering continues
It continues horrifically.

I am a strong person,
I have read about, seen, and stomached a lot,
But there is nothing that even comes close
To how this puts my stomach in a knot.

The info is there if you seek it,
And please do - its risky to report;
I wonder how much more blood must be spilt
Until someone decides those responsible must be caught

The images they are many many,
The videos they are there too:
But why is it just me seeing this?
Where are the rest of you?

The day I saw the video,
I will never forget,
After what I had suffered myself,
Again I will never forget.

I do not regret what I saw,
For I believe it to be necessary,
Necessary for people to see,
But - those in Government - not me.

Now I have to be careful,
Because of what I saw,
That video put me in hospital -
It triggered something in my core.

It is spread through desperation,
To get a message to the world,
But I was one of only 3 to have seen that,
Maybe rightly so, but also absurd.

Pictures are horrific enough,
Sometimes missing parts are "shaded",
But then comes along another
The shadings not there, its a person beheaded.

But it it not the effect on myself,
Which pains me so much,
It is the fact that this is still happening,
And the world is so out of touch.

I now have to be careful,
But I will not stop,
I wont stop spreading the word,
Until this killing in Burundi stops.

The graphics are hard to put to words,
The testimonies harder still,
But I have tried to help you see,
Without making myself more ill.

The Imbonerakure,
The youth wing of the CNFDD,
Even seeing that word now..
Makes the panic rise within me

For they and the security are responsible,
For the majority of the brutal killings,
The ****, the torture, the unthinkable,
People are not even safe when leaving.

They come out at night,
The raid peoples homes,
**** entire families,
While others watch on.

They harass in the streets,
The harass at the borders,
They are everywhere,
Butchering as they are given orders.

The President thinks he was put there by God,
This is nothing shocking I know,
For for Burundi it means a lot,
It means he may stay for ever, death will be all they know.

There are memorials built,
To the many genocides to take place,
Each containing thousands of skulls,
Cracked where the machete went through the face.

Thousands and thousand of skulls lined up,
Of course there are no bodies -
From "Ear to Ear" was how the saying went,
As each head was cut from its body.

It has become so common to find someones head,
Something that for us here would cause fear in itself,
That now in Burundi there are proverbs and sayings,
School children quote wise words from these heads themselves.

Headless bodies float along the river,
Headless bodies dumped in bags with the *******,
A machete taken to the throat and then to the torso,
Ripping flesh, drawing blood, organs pulled out of the body for show.

For this is a living nightmare,
Blood flowing down roads and rivers,
Finding a hand, a head, a liver...
Would make many strong people shiver.

People are literally hacked to death,
Occasionally they are shot,
If I ever found myself in that position
I would outright beg to be shot.

The person I saw die in the video,
Took way more than 10 minutes for sure,
As hit throat was cut, he was stabbed, his skin ripped,
His blood spurted violently across the floor

I refuse to go into more detail than that,
For thats the one that triggered me,
I will never watch it again,
But I do want those in power to see.

Will someone please help Burundi?
I feel I have not done it justice with this poem,
The machete, the blood, the horror...
Please help... we all know who is to blame.

We all know....

"My king"
Ohh my precious king,
How I hunger for your touch,
How I long for your fingers brushing through my hair til I fall asleep, How I long to hold your hands and hold it tight,
I will never let you go,
How I long to engulf you,
Feel your heartbeat as I lay my head on your chest,
Lift my head and look at you,
Looking at each other's eyes,
Be in trance, Ohhh how wondrous!
And I will go near you and will kiss you,
Ohh i will kiss you for eternity my love,
I will never stop, Your breath will be my air and as mine to you,
Ohh my king I will never ever let any time to be in waste,
I will indulge every single second with you,
I will cherish it and memorize every time I spend with you,
And every night in my sleep, I will replay those memories and savor it, i don't want the time to go on,
I want it to stop and just enjoy every moment with you forevermore.

Ohh my precious king,
Can you feel my deep yearning?
Ohh how my pillow wet from my tears of missing you, i desire you, I miss your voice,
Your voice is my music,
I miss your laugh,
Your laugh is my sunshine,
You lighten up my life,
I miss your songs,
Your songs are my nourishment,
You always fill me with your love,
My empty cup runs over with your love,
I miss looking at your angelic face,
I miss YOU, YOU!
How I really ache to be beside you,
No more video chatting, no more phone calls, no more voice clips, no more singing songs over internet, no more technologies,
Ohhh i just wanna enjoy you,
Be alone in a forest,
Enjoy the wonderful nature our God has given us,
Live a simple life with you,
Away from all troubles,
I WANNA BE WITH YOU!
I only want to be with you!
I need to be with you!
I never dreamed life without you,
You are my life,
My future,
I can't go on with my life without you.
I can't, i just can't !

My brandon,
Soon when I see you,
Even before you ask me I will say "I do",
I want us to have God's heavenly seal,
A bond infrangible,
I wanna spend my entire life with you,
And for eternity in that heavenly realm,
I wanna serve God with you,
I wanna be a godly woman for you,
I wanna enjoy my life with you,
With God as our guide and refuge,
Ohh my king,
No words can express how I long to be only just with you,
Only YOU,
You are my life,
My breath,
My very best friend,
My soulmate,
My preordained,
My husband,
My ALL.
You are to me.
Ohh how i yearn for you,
This throe is so hard to bear,
But I will my love,
Because only you are there in my future,
Only you in my dream,
I will certainly & patiently wait til God's perfect time.
'Cause you are my only love, my chosen one,
And I want you, I need you, I long for you, and I love you.*

"Mine queen"
"Mine Reyna, O' darling Reyna,
As the sun doth ariseth in the east
And set in the west; thy heart wilt
Be in mine palm's, as a baby in caress.
Best of amour, the best is yet, for when
We meet, ourn lip's wilt be wet.
Wet with kisses of the morning
Celestial dew, O' heaven's much
Better, when it's thee with me;
I with thou to. Queen how I long
The approaching hour, when we
Shalt be warmed by Glowing
Angel's within their hand's-
Testimonies of God and his
Unending love, and his throne
Of power. In pearl attire, view of the mountain's
Unknown, mine lass, mine lady, I shalt embrace thy
Lonesome bones. None earphones needed, for we'll heareth
All to hear, we'll seeith creatures only the creator's aware, of the majestic being's of beauty. Hold me, closer mine Jane; lock me up into your Filipino rose Bud's, I want to drink of thine love, I want to taste thy nectar's touch. Mine chosen meed, thy hair of satin wilt I smell it's world to breathe. In and out I fulfill the seed's of prophecy, in ancient manner. Across ourn foreheads Yahweh's name, inside ourn spirit's the word's the same. The word's to read "preordained", unafraid to a venture new. Coconut queen of tribal moves, baby flower of romantic brew. O' indeed I needeth thee, just come closer and be, as one we art. We shalt giggle in streams wherein the night is nought, love can't be bought, nor sold in form, love is god, god is love; with one another, we shalt overcome. Seraph's, cherub's, and messenger's surround us. For we art preordained, O' with thee I'm verily blessed. O' with thee Jane mine love, I've been given the best.


© Earl Jane - Brandon Collaborations
♥ Lovers Incorporated

Do we notice the finer things in life? The husband's and wives, children that's been conceived! Thou and they are all thou needeth when thy roof springs its leak!

Sick
Wearied
Weak?

Looking in all the wrong places?

Itinerant in the stagnative imagination's
For don't even the mammals haveth a place to stay?

Like the son of man
I haveth no chapel
For this head to consecretly layeth!!!

Dog nights seem more teething!!!!

Vestige of all beauty
You've left that still life post,
Wherein thy mantra's I seeketh the most!!!

The I loveth thou's
And thou more....

Deluge of happiness
Covereth me
Bury me
In atmospheric condition,

Oh man didst thou not mention?
The plaques to ***** it's protract sorrow!!!!

Hath society made materialism
And the dollar sign
Their romantic gesture?

A pity to God
And me!!!!

Mobs of fleas
To calleth what they maketh
MANIFESTED TESTIMONIES!!!!

Wherein the frauds
Fakes
And phonies
Art thy t.v magnate stars!!!!!

Did it take us long to walk over to the broken people,
Letting our compassion change us for a while,
I have not become a saint with an act of kindness,
I am still looking for my oasis in this wasteland,
Everything else is a passing breeze.

The sorrow that filled them in those dark hours
Was my elixir, as I walked forward,
writing my testimonies in the lives I meet on my way.

I have felt grains of sand with my fingertips, my blood
is fatigued, in its course through my flesh,
My veins are distended, toughened, and yet,
They do not tear, and this limbo between
Pain and liberation is Peace within a calamity.

My soliloquy is a bare rasping breath of wind,
Coursing through the streets which led home once,
But are now the lanes of memory, stale in their impotence,
Stinging in their truth, that my existence left behind marks
in the water I bathed in, in the bed I slept in,
in the books I read, which I held,
in the bandages I bled, over the wounds I tried to heal.
On the flag I tried to save, I have wept, Longing
for this journey to end, so I may rest a while.

The diseased have suffered their sickness with stoicism.

I have tried to heal them, succeeded,
failed with a few,
and wondered in the power of Mortality.

My oasis lies in the peaks of the wasteland, I can see it now,
A haze, a sliver of sunlight in this dark wasteland,
Past this murky slush of relationships,
Beyond the cliffs of defeat, and past the rivers
Of Self-loathing criticism.

It was always a dream of mine
to capture the tincture that embodies
your sound; the voice that
wakes me from myself.

Words empower, words enslave; your
words gave succinctness to the
days. Periphrastic for show and
glamor, otherwise, it was always one to another.

"I" is for me, as you see fit.
"Love" is for us, as we dream it.
"You" is a sound that reverberates
off caged testimonies.

Sweet to me for sure; good to
you you claim. Please
pour forth that music. Love,
the chords of my harp-heart.

Nothing is indestructible.
We all know most things can be broken.
At home, in your friend’s toy chest
Breaking things in a place you’re considered a guest
I guess,
Breaking a bone hurts. I know through some testimonies
I wouldn’t know, but maybe eventually
That ninety or so broken degree
Painful message sent through the spinal cord holding me--
Together.
Underneath the thin material having been tethered.
The spine surviving endless stages of weather
Holding on to claim being a backbone helplessly held together
Hoping through each trimumph the chronic pain might feel better
Only holding onto the self as a go-getter
As life’s building blocks as the brick setter
The rain picks up
And life’s damp becomes wetter.
Just let her.

Things, as if they were pushed right over the edge
Smashed, or broken, as the smasher’s true pledge
It’s not me. These ten fingers deny
To be responsible for all the pain felt as the time passed me by

Maybe it was everything. The endless rotation of our planet.
Maybe it was this or that. ****, I have had it.
It wasn’t everything, or anything, or anyone or body
It wasn’t the unerasable ink splatter and splotting
It wasn’t the wind that knocked me over
It wasn’t the colors you’d paint me
It wasn’t the night,
It wasn’t the morning,
It wasn’t the past or present cold mourning.

It was not my limbs or the joints, or the ligaments that compose me
The fragments and pieces ] glued together intravenously

Each psalm taken in the hurricane seasons’ wrath
One, after another, too broken to cast

The two unequal hands ring based on the hour
Whose sounds was the ring of a shared life now gone sour
Because being ignored, as if I never existed is power
Unconsider yourself, at least today, that forever blooming flower.
I might be a million things. But of those not a coward.
Today you took the title with a medal to show off to the people you know
Welcome to the black and the white swan’s big show
At this point I’m the raven, she’ll never know
I was too drunk to function at the end of the show.

The curtains begin to rise, and I watch in surprise
How exposed and naked are the both of our lives
As your patience has taken time to disguise
Replacements as substitutions for the nature of the styles
We have to live life in the ways that we fight
Hoping for what we want in the end without struggle
How about perfection? I said on the double.

And those two uneven hands of the clock are due to change places
Ticking away at our concept of time
And aging our faces
The weeks pass us by
The days and the hours
Ask me who if not both of us are the coward

The giant dump truck grinds up countless materials
Making fragments of the things that existed for real
And what lasted in the bins of the emotions free wheels
Making internal rationalizations for what I tried to feel.
It’s over and over on what I wanted to seal
Were too many things to remember?
Dreams turning it all too, too real.
Turn my mind inside out I begin to expose now and peel.
How long will it take to forget
Or to heal?
I don’t know what to call this.
And idea or what’s real.
I’ll tell you what the heart asked for his final meal
Peace to believe what we did have was real.

Life keeps grinding up what treasures I’ve collected.
Forget what memories I ever recollected
All I’m asking is that I remain intact and protected.

But no one can guarantee me that.
No one can ask me to offer up my hands frostbitten with your cold
No one can ask me to bluff followed by my own fold
No one can ask me the number of me having been sold.
There was one dream and I bought it.
Except the belief in the memory is what I’ve left to have fought it.

I don’t ask or expect to ever be repaired.
But you didn’t break me, so why were you ever so scared?
Maybe for the immeasurable amount that you actually cared.
But today’s findings have left me quite frankly impaired.
I didn’t exist to you at all. I was the invisible man.
I use all my abilities to understand as I can.
But nothing makes sense to the invisible man.

So he hopes and he hopes for just one part of him to be seen.
One of his hands through the smoke in your overly-woven screen
To knowingly be holding one of yours, when your reality’s clean.
I’m the invisible man.
Pretending not to see me was a game played unclean.
I hope one day in your life he exists.
Parting through the smog and the fog and the mist
As I feel forgotten in both my clenched fists
What's left is to let go of  those fogged moments like this.

vi.xxiii.xii

Do we notice the finer things in life? The husband's and wives, children that's been conceived! Thou and they are all thou needeth when thy roof springs its leak!

Sick
Wearied
Weak?

Looking in all the wrong places?

Itinerant in the stagnative imagination's
For don't even the mammals haveth a place to stay?

Like the son of man
I haveth no chapel
For this head to consecretly layeth!!!

Dog nights seem more teething!!!!

Vestige of all beauty
You've left that still life post,
Wherein thy mantra's I seeketh the most!!!

The I loveth thou's
And thou more....

Deluge of happiness
Covereth me
Bury me
In atmospheric condition,

Oh man didst thou not mention?
The plaques to ***** it's protract sorrow!!!!

Hath society made materialism
And the dollar sign
Their romantic gesture?

A pity to God
And me!!!!

Mobs of fleas
To calleth what they maketh
MANIFESTED TESTIMONIES!!!!

Wherein the frauds
Fakes
And phonies
Art thy t.v magnate stars!!!!!

©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

I never spotted perfect with 7 many years, that may be, until eventually I just rode by having a snowstorm in Cheyenne, Wy piles. Neither of the two does That i of course bear in mind just how the results in difference in autumn for the east coast Cheap Fitflop Malaysia, and the way they will appear like fire flames lunging on the sky inside tones of persimmon, cardamom, peridot, wine red and rust. However not too long ago experienced this and much more by going to typically the Baltimore Booklet Pageant the day with Sept . 28, 2003. Even while I can look at using an superb meal inside the Renaissance Resort dismissing the actual have or use the handyroom I really performed at "Writing Entertaining Imagination," it absolutely was the seasons which often discussed in my opinion. Both these incidents-the excellent skiing conditions together with the results in changing-reminded us just how much I have got bad a pageantry with the gardening seasons. Simply because got time consuming relaxed excursion across the states, I thought overall regarding basically the la position for the third 20 a long time seems to have distracted myself towards swapping times. On the other hand, I don't know once this may possibly helped me to recognize an alternative growing months inside my living. We are in front of the imminent diminished my favorite ultimate surviving mother or father. Purchased, grow older Eighty three, who have serious osteoarthritis and rheumatoid arthritis, has worsened since I discovered her during the past year. Surprisingly, I would not think sadness, but a resignation, a feeling that this is part of the life never-ending cycle. Just like the music, "Everything will have to improve.Inch That is the totally different problem at the time We displaced our momma. I used to be now 100 % unprepared in the event that my favorite the mother was killed of your sudden cardiac event in December Just one, 1993 that we seemed some fury, nearly an important rail alongside God. How could You? Ways dare You operate the following women, exactly who I was really acknowledging has been my base, that carried us on the inside of your girlfriend, whose quite fingers moves We spotted mimicked around my own? This era ended up being to grow to be some tips i afterwards discovered for the reason that darkest winter season about wellbeing. Looking back, It is my opinion my very own problem was in fact a natural part of just what usually symbolizes have an effect on the original parent, in particular the momma. Those are the basic items, we all, just as novelists, will need to draw in our writing--the shifting months people day-to-day lives, people letters, on their trips and how many of our character types deal with these folks. As soon as the Baltimore Arrange Festival, I ended with Detroit. Even though presently there, When i had dad out from her brand-new residence-a nursing jobs home-to obtain a milkshake in Carl's junior, and even though moving him as part of his motorized wheel chair, I just sensed for instance the father or mother. I have been don't annoyed on the subject of his particular becoming people, his particular frailties, his own failings, (that have been far more obvious due to the fact my own maternal dna fatality.) Freezing imagined her to help you check out heat of the sun at her tissue-like pores and skin, whereby you could possibly begin to see the azure problematic veins. I actually sunken myself 100 % inside decisive moment. We've been experiencing the natural light. Irrelevant of the calling I'd received from my personal hometown, Detroit, concerning how ugly it is about Pop, "He's in that brand-new turmoil," or "that innovative crisis"-I wasn't extended irritated. Within the connected with a original public individual, To begin with . to help you reframe the matter. In contrast to contemplating my personal daddy's slower loss of life simply because Cheap Fitflop Shoes, "Isn't doing it awful the way in which become old in addition to die?In . here are currently being how a the seasons in everyday life transform. As a writer, we regularly come up with from the conclusion, "What however, if ...In I absolutely point out, can you imagine we all reframe a lot of the issues of joining the dinner generation-dealing along with children/grandchildren/elderly parents? Imagine this is often a festivity?

I really saw my best father's temper carry because instructed her just how blessed the guy would have been to now have some sons who have checked available for your ex boyfriend, not to mention three little girls. Exactly how skilled he's being a Ebony mankind, to get little children who may have prepared your partner's everyday living much better, for money, when you virtually all started. I really came across all the treatment inside brothers' face when i suggested it for the health care they've got brought to during the throughout the last 90 years many years, which includes settling your ex within a elderly care facility historically month, although it is often in opposition to my favorite daddy's choices, however was basically just for his / her better great. It struck me. My own inlaws and I are currently all the seniors. What's more, as an author, Now i'm currently a teacher-the little come to others meant for guidance.

We're trustworthy to give in the experiences as a result of preceding years to a new generation on the way, as being a people today, lived through, which describes why I think it is vital for american to write down our own articles. Sadly ,, for African-Americans, a great deal the historical past was initially damaged or lost as, though there was basically your dental customs, plenty of people still did not publish its testimonies documented on daily news. As a general penning tactic, When i came across a pattern. On paper, some remarkable summer often connote a trending up get out of hand in our characters' activities. As an example, typically the characters just fall in love, get a household, have a very the baby, and grab special deals. They are simply happy. Paradoxically, a new figurative fall and winter typically reflect some sort of volitile manner, which can be known as the "inciting occurrence,Within in a very report. Someone don't likes you and also results in one. A friend or relative dies out of the blue. Or simply a cherished one is definitely the sorry victim in mindless abuse. The smoothness becomes sorry. For a quick blizzard hard to bear a person's tidy daily life, typically the character's world is usually thrown away about stabilize. This can be the center with trouvaille. Loaded to listen about how exactly good your own character's a lot more. Imagination is centered on bother.

Now perhaps even the appropriate lifetime really ought to get hold of worried to keep your readers changing web pages. Concurrently, even though Fitflop Sale Online, It looks like that him and i ought to learn to look at the excellent of these downhill spirals and rehearse it inside our writing. Even while a lot of these awful instances are actually everything that compel you on, we have to reveal typically the advantage in this, much too. It really is usually while in the "symbolic" winter season that the character's mettle will likely be subjected to testing, and also reader will find out what they're constructed from. As a writer, you would possibly consult, so how exactly does the transform and also be because of this specific wintry year or so? May he / she range from sceptical to be able to optimists? Mistrustful in order to trusting? Mean to be able to non-profit (for example Scrooge)? The character could also read the undo of menstrual cycles. Sarcastically, equally winter time means loss of life, (like. loss of life from a connection, departure of our own children's, loss individuals illusions,) there is also a some part resurrection within this end scenario. Hard usually is when we experience a disaster, i am plopped level on our supports, occasionally essentially, and forced, (whether or not from much of our could,) to think. Exactly what privacy or maybe nutrition will the identity identify subsequently? In particular, presently, Simply put i gaze at how my mummy might be born-again again and again at a frosty working day when I drink a common tumbler connected with broth, that is certainly one of your ex lots of ways connected with taking care of.

Currently I'm wondering. Just what remembrances might your dads continue winter time bring in myself? Might it be the love on the good anecdote or perhaps her story-telling potential he given to if you ask me? I don't know. Nonetheless I understand. In the midst of daily life, we are now throughout demise, to be able people we will have to adapt to those exceptional, wonderful events that make up each of our humanity. In the end, mainly because Ruben Irving was concluded her epic saga around the world Depending on Garp, Inch ... business people are station incidents.In . Copyright (d) 2008 Dark-colored Butterfly Marketing
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I've never felt so cold as when you taught me how to feel-
As each stagnant second pushes
The great pulsating vibrato of life
Further and further into
Yesterday,
Until nothing is left but memories
And stale tap water in a ceramic coffee cup:
The trembling scale by which we measure happiness
That is only felt after it becomes a memory.
Who determines the expiration date
Of emotion?
Your warm pulsating skin
And the hottest month in August
Can only be felt in photo albums
And subtle murmurs only heard
Past 3am.
I never meant to get this caught up
In life-
Breathing in the bitter reality
Of fragmented testimonies
Warning me of what's to come
And fragility of time.
Selfishly I **** the marrow out of
Every fleeting moment,
Scattering the bones across the graveyard of my unrequited mind-
A self proclaimed martyr of suffering
And good intentions.
The confinement of my sordid thoughts,
Condenses reality,
Into the tangible.
Freedom is only felt
In the aftermath of an earthquake-
Crumbled barriers now bear remnants of security.
Is this how it is to feel?
The nerves in my finger tips
Are hot and trembling, as I trace the
Faded outline of something too real
To ever be strained out into the world
Of the living.
Time and time again, I remind myself
Of the ineptitude of anything
That isn't born
Within the sacred hours of
Insomnia.
A distorted image scatters across my empty mind,
Casting shadows on the times where
Nothing mattered beyond the moment.
Life breathes in and out
To the rhythm of the broken record
That we relentlessly cram
Into our vacant hearts,
As if trying to drown out the hollow drone
Of the love
Manufactured in Sunday night sitcoms and materialized on Broadway.
Simple actors, we betray our inner wishes,
And sell them in the form of words
To a greedy audience, yearning to be reassured
That they aren't the only ones who mistake pain for something
Pure.
Time and time again,
I repeat my cynical mantra
Through the motion of my feet upon the ground;
Because, history repeats himself
Until emotion can no longer tread
The freezing waters of existence,
Leaving nothing but a trace of
Something that we foolishly lament with the names of a lover,
And drape with the revealing veil of time-
Mistaken for the truth,
And worshiped at the alter of God.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 29, 2014)


There is no honor among words
but they are criminally necessary.

Fools rush the line
where auteurs fear to tread.

He who hesitates writes haiku—believing
description is the better part of valor.

Thieves will tell you no news is good news
because most con men are theorists,

stealing us up, ransacking testimonies.
They have left us only fears.

And fear of the word cliché
is worse than the cliché itself.

"I'd sell my soul just to see your face
And I'd break my bones just to heal your pain
In these times, I need a saving grace
Time is running out and I'm starting to lose faith."

These lyrics by Florida Georgia Line stand out to me.
I would do anything for this girl I like.
I've been in love with her for a year.
But sometimes, I think she's mad at me
When most of the time, it's me overreacting
Everything is fine
I try to tell myself that
I bleed out my heart for her
This puts me at my lowest point to know she could potentially be mad at me
It kills every nerve inside of me
I feel like she isn't paying attention to me
And the worst part of liking someone
Is pretending to be okay when they don't pay attention to you
I post really good testimonies sometimes and most of the time, she likes them
But lately, I feel like it's been dead
And so has our relationship
But just the other day, she liked something of mine
So am I just an overreacter?
I want us to be together more than anything
Anything.
ANYTHING.
In the beginning, it seemed so right
Because we had a lot of things in common
We are both Christians
We worship Jesus
We both love country music
There is only one thing:
She is the same gender as me
And there's no way she would date a girl
Which is normal
I know a lot of people like that
That makes her human
I haven't hidden the fact that I'm gay to a lot of people
But there is one secret I have hidden
I'm about to let it out
Because I'm at my lowest point
And I'm extremely vulnerable
When I graduate high school
I want to get gender re-assignment surgery
Not for her
Well I guess you could say that's a tiny part of it
I've always liked girls since I was in like first grade
Had no idea there was a name for it
I have a fear though
My church is such a big part of my life and who I am
I'm scared to death that they won't want me to or let me serve if I change
It scares me to the point where I make myself sick
And yeah I feel like a hypocrite
Because I teach kids every single week
That they should be who God created them to be
And yet I can't even do that
But I love what I do at church
If I didn't care about it, I wouldn't, excuse my language, make such a **** effort to go
If I couldn't serve, I don't know what I'd do
I don't care if people judge me
This is my life
Let me live it
This girl knows about it
Actually, most of my friends know about it
Sometimes I think I made a mistake doing that
Because that is just another way for her to think I like her
I don't want that.
I try not to hang around her too much
Don't want to make it obvious
She has gotten me through a lot of stuff
Honestly.
I told her and she said she'd support me
Although, it was awkward
Like she doesn't agree with it
I get this feeling all the time that she knows about me liking her
And just the mere thought of her being with someone else sickens me
I can make myself feel like I just spun around in a chair fifty times by thinking about it.
It kills.
What am I supposed to do?!
It's not like I can ask her if she's mad because she's probably not and that just makes me seem like a worried idiot
That makes me seem like I really care what people think about me
When I don't
I am my own self
Not perfect
But who is?
God, send me a sign that things are okay.
Please.
Because I really need it
And when it gets like this, I think back to suicide
I don't know
Do I really want to go that far?
After I've come this far?
I am an overcomer
I want to defeat this
And when I'm a guy someday
I'm going to be the happiest I've ever been
With or without her in my arms
But I prefer that she would be



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This poem is going to be a lie
He tells himself
Writhing in tantalizing filaments
The bright asphyxiation drawing him closer and closer
To this
An ideal
Of the perfect truth
Told out in unwritten song
Painfully typed words
A clever shower of meteors
Belittling the dangerous craters on the surface
The danger of tripping and dying
Not withstanding what we know to be
A falicy
My multilingual interpretation of her feelings
Old testimonies heard in the court
Of the already guilty
This poem is a complete distortion of facts
My trivial response to empowered individuals
Standing on my Adam's Apple
And beating on my lungs like drums
Rhythm meaning honor
And the attention of the onlookers meaning
The inviting glow
Of the fireplace.
She sat down next to
That night
That town
That unfamiliar castigating of a child not belonging to
You
Or her
Or the abyss
"Unbelonging"
"Inbelonging"
Not.  Yours.

The wordsmith falters
Checking his math
Calculation, equation, kiss on the cheek
For luck for death
For the noose to slip, lovingly
And gently to the ground as the trap door swings open
A great, open toothed smile
Laughing at silence
BARBARIC to interrupt such delicacy
Straining to look into my eyes
She whispers low
I want to find a home...
And i tell her, with my heaviest conviction
"No home is."
Which could mean anything.
This poem is a verisimilitude
A lie about a truth
Which, again...
Could mean anything...

Oh, we schemes ourselves into pretense.
Presenting to others a certain image.
Not just the ministers, evangelists and host of others.

The church makeup is made of many people.
Many, who stories we barely aware of in truth?
And some testimonies doesn't need to be shared.

This just the nosy way of knowing many personal affairs.
The adultery spouse.
Crooked businessman.
The drug dealers of the street.
Yes, various people we are gonna meet.

The church makeup contains many characters in the seats.

Like the supported choirs that states "Preach preacher, preach."
Or say "Amen" to every single thing.

Can you look within your heart and see
the principles of The Word in operation?
Are you still joyful with your decision,
to accept Him and His gift of Salvation?

Do you share your Faith with others,
in the form of stories and testimonies?
Do you anticipate your arrival in Heaven
with God, as the master of ceremonies?

Is your trust in Christ secure, whereby
Faith in your soul, has been instilled?
Can you look within your heart and know
that His promises… will be fulfilled?
.
.
.
Author notes

Inspired by:
Josh 23:14

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.

If I die today,
Would've anyone asked me to stay?
Would anyone cry?
Would anyone hope I didn't die?

Would there be good testimonies about me?
Or would people be glad and happy?
Would there be regrets I'll hear,
From people who brought me tears?

Will people say they'll miss me?
Or will no one bother to see,
The things I have done.
Now that I'm already gone.

If I die today
There's one prayer I want to say.
That is to witness my burial
To see if to my loved ones, I have been special.

The inside's come out of the skin. Nothing is satirical. It's just not funny. Spiderwebs on the elbows and cancer coming into the ears. Hair is everywhere and all of a sudden. The writer risks blue and black blood for another second of this bliss cessation. But cleverly, sins and bedevilments come. They hide poorly or not at all. bump they go go go in the daytime while I am fastening sleep and heating up.
     The cadaver masterpiece is happening again. The same as it always was for has beens when their lucid dreaming raises the rage in their real lives.
     There isn't a safe-word, just a blanket. Two tee-shirts with signatures, and lingerie that lacks a heartbeat.
     Half a tooth brush missing the rest of its teeth, and a knit panda hat empty from above the bottom of its feet.
    To be sick of it does not make a difference. If broccoli was the word, Dana Carvey would have come to chop it up.

When it breathes my pores leak nostalgia from the predicaments; We pretended to grow up. This isn't the adventure season I hoped for. I could see the page crawling up the street beside every single cigarette I threw across the parkway. Now Michael styles the mercury, while those grown ups we knew cry themselves into a blur; Like a movie they just couldn't escape, or the way they met one half of chaste, there are just some things that shouldn't be erased.

Playing with a bazooka while emptying my ice box. I build on schemes of crazy the d oh d just wishes they could ignore. I drink lemonade, you drink lemonade. IPA after motherf*ing IPA. It is or it isn't but I'd thought you had enough trying typhoid drip one after another hysterical catastrophe. Dear I was poisoned from an ill-witted sickness, I messed around with your Blackjack and doubled-down into two black diamonds. Instead of learn'd weekly abuse.
                                                          Our island on a hundred dollar towel. An eroteme waiting to implode. Four periods every other week, I just waited for the mouse to roll.

gut rot
migraines.
painful exploding pressure of the skull
does not eat
hearing increase
eyesight improvement
proudly made in the u.s.a.
chipped nail polish comes off middle fingers
does not sleep
erupts verbally
bleeds from fingertips
hates. hurts.
Be is the short form of Is
She has eyes that tell her truths
That bruise youth
But do not amuse
Ferris Bueller's muse
Silver too. Haircut rivalries.
Privy eyewitness testimonies
For assassinations that haven't
Begun happening. But rapt
The veiling attachment,
Froth of words, the disaster
Never brings.
Lies upon lies upon lies
Until we both stood up.

"My king"
Ohh my precious king,
How I hunger for your touch,
How I long for your fingers brushing through my hair til I fall asleep, How I long to hold your hands and hold it tight,
I will never let you go,
How I long to engulf you,
Feel your heartbeat as I lay my head on your chest,
Lift my head and look at you,
Looking at each other's eyes,
Be in trance, Ohhh how wondrous!
And I will go near you and will kiss you,
Ohh i will kiss you for eternity my love,
I will never stop, Your breath will be my air and as mine to you,
Ohh my king I will never ever let any time to be in waste,
I will indulge every single second with you,
I will cherish it and memorize every time I spend with you,
And every night in my sleep, I will replay those memories and savor it, i don't want the time to go on,
I want it to stop and just enjoy every moment with you forevermore.

Ohh my precious king,
Can you feel my deep yearning?
Ohh how my pillow wet from my tears of missing you, i desire you, I miss your voice,
Your voice is my music,
I miss your laugh,
Your laugh is my sunshine,
You lighten up my life,
I miss your songs,
Your songs are my nourishment,
You always fill me with your love,
My empty cup runs over with your love,
I miss looking at your angelic face,
I miss YOU, YOU!
How I really ache to be beside you,
No more video chatting, no more phone calls, no more voice clips, no more singing songs over internet, no more technologies,
Ohhh i just wanna enjoy you,
Be alone in a forest,
Enjoy the wonderful nature our God has given us,
Live a simple life with you,
Away from all troubles,
I WANNA BE WITH YOU!
I only want to be with you!
I need to be with you!
I never dreamed life without you,
You are my life,
My future,
I can't go on with my life without you.
I can't, i just can't !

My brandon,
Soon when I see you,
Even before you ask me I will say "I do",
I want us to have God's heavenly seal,
A bond infrangible,
I wanna spend my entire life with you,
And for eternity in that heavenly realm,
I wanna serve God with you,
I wanna be a godly woman for you,
I wanna enjoy my life with you,
With God as our guide and refuge,
Ohh my king,
No words can express how I long to be only just with you,
Only YOU,
You are my life,
My breath,
My very best friend,
My soulmate,
My preordained,
My husband,
My ALL.
You are to me.
Ohh how i yearn for you,
This throe is so hard to bear,
But I will my love,
Because only you are there in my future,
Only you in my dream,
I will certainly & patiently wait til God's perfect time.
'Cause you are my only love, my chosen one,
And I want you, I need you, I long for you, and I love you.

"Mine queen"
"Mine Reyna, O' darling Reyna,
As the sun doth ariseth in the east
And set in the west; thy heart wilt
Be in mine palm's, as a baby in caress.
Best of amour, the best is yet, for when
We meet, ourn lip's wilt be wet.
Wet with kisses of the morning
Celestial dew, O' heaven's much
Better, when it's thee with me;
I with thou to. Queen how I long
The approaching hour, when we
Shalt be warmed by Glowing
Angel's within their hand's-
Testimonies of God and his
Unending love, and his throne
Of power. In pearl attire, view of the mountain's
Unknown, mine lass, mine lady, I shalt embrace thy
Lonesome bones. None earphones needed, for we'll heareth
All to hear, we'll seeith creatures only the creator's aware, of the majestic being's of beauty. Hold me, closer mine Jane; lock me up into your Filipino rose Bud's, I want to drink of thine love, I want to taste thy nectar's touch. Mine chosen meed, thy hair of satin wilt I smell it's world to breathe. In and out I fulfill the seed's of prophecy, in ancient manner. Across ourn foreheads Yahweh's name, inside ourn spirit's the word's the same. The word's to read "preordained", unafraid to a venture new. Coconut queen of tribal moves, baby flower of romantic brew. O' indeed I needeth thee, just come closer and be, as one we art. We shalt giggle in streams wherein the night is nought, love can't be bought, nor sold in form, love is god, god is love; with one another, we shalt overcome. Seraph's, cherub's, and messenger's surround us. For we art preordained, O' with thee I'm verily blessed. O' with thee Jane mine love, I've been given the best.


©Brandon Nagley\earl Jane Nagley duo poem for eleven month anniversary....
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Duo poem

Bribing for Uthamaki survival,
Made Kenya a fortune’s fool,
Not only Kenya but those that gave
And received bribes of all sorts,
Job favour and money favour
To make Uthamaki an eternal kingdom,
They all chewed un-toothsome slices
Of the public fortune’s fools,

They were bribed by cars, money, jobs,
Lands, upmarket houses. And all the stuffs
Of bribery regalia, and then they went dumb,
On truth and facts of the day; them; Chiloba and
Chebukat, dumb they went holus-bolus in the manacle
Of the claws of Uthamaki and its jostle for eternity,
Like the victims of slaughter in Tolstoyan epics.
They hated the truth and fell in love with falsehood,
Feeding children of Kenya on the brutality of Gebelawi,
Faked elections and police brutality in the alley of Samantha,
She died seeing the club of a full geared anti-riot police, it was
All but power of the bribe in the vacuum of conscience,
The true desire of our ages, ages, ages, ages; desire for ages,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Musando,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Juma,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Samantha Pendo,
A bribe can **** yes it killed Stephanie on the balcony,
The bribe kills brutally when taken in line of duty,
A job promotion to job security fight for Uthamaki,
It kills brutally when received in line of avarice;
More land, houses in Karen, swollen bank dove-cots,
Free lunch and air-ticket windows of the bribe,
That can ******* to death when siring Uthamaki,

A bribe kills reason, mires power of truth,
A bribe fetters love for truth but bigotry extolled,
It can sent you to Paris sprinting with the keys
To the server room stuffed in your pocket,
A bribe warps the mind of the giver and the taker,
It makes democracy look the platter on which
Was John’s head, I mean the Baptist,

Uthamaki nourishes itself on the power of crime,
Looting, corruption, ***** riches, prostitution, lawless
hawking, Cartels, land-stealing, insider contracting,
faked academic testimonies, employment by tribe,
gangstering like Mungikification of the youths, insider
tendering, and now computer-generated uthamaki
all but nothing less than power of the bribe,

legerity is full in the hands of Uthamaki,
to condemn the sit that loves the truth,
fairness and justice is the harmful light to the bat’s eye
of Uthamaki, Uthamaki and the truth are oil and water,
uthamaki and the truth are as a Muslim and pork
uthamaki and the truth are an Israeli and an Arab,
they are an anti-thesis, Kenya a battle-field. Uthamaki
the thesis of imperial selfishness, democratic truth
the poor child of Kenya on the guillotine made of bribe,

Uthamaki has the name an epiphany all over,
Hospitals, schools, roads, avenues, maternity homes
Colleges, toilets, airports, prisons, barracks beyond zero,
And so forth, they all bare the name Uthamaki,
Uthamaki where are your age-mates and prison mates
Imprisoned for parting in struggle for freedom, Uthamaki,
You have stolen Kenya’s history and slaughtered the owners
At the slaughter-stone of bribe, using the tribe as your Knife,

Why beg your Circumstances with this Cup
If for most flavours Dreams could hardly fill
Should be direct; And expect when they sup
Buried Testimonies which most distill
If Someone asks for your Business past-due
Unable to match his Debt by intent
Many would Invest; And later on, sue
If their Returns you ******* to repent
All I'm saying is: Keep your Board well-oiled,
Knowing when to Stand and in cue to Bend
For you never know which Events be soiled
Or which Plated People your Grace should send.
Sensing this much, I should dare not compete
If their Moss-Filled Thorns would cause you replete.

belgravia on itv... and the world is filled with...
odes to charlemagne -
or rather: the emperor has risen...
in the form of a bonaparte...

       i lost my virginity to a french girl
from Grenoble - a one ms. psychologist
Isa-bel-l'ah...

              and i had three pictures hanging
in my student accomodation overlooking
the salisbury crags...
           one i put my amp on the windowsill
and did a rendition of...
                            something from the movie
crow / last days...

there was plato... there was the marquis de sade...
and then there was napoleon...

i was immediately reminded...
but napoleon did x y and z...
       i could swear the zeitgeist for us begins
with the end of the 2nd world war?
well: i lost my virginity... didn't i?
          
             and come to think of...
there is the trafalgar sq. in London...
      and there's the monument when it came
to Austerlitz victory...

           napoleon and that old bias...
for all those that encompassed in the duchy of warsaw...
or from under the partition
shared between the prussian the russian
and the austro-hungarian empire...

a short-lived affair... but...
        she minded napoleon but not marquis de sade...
come forward 200 years...
what are the monuments of the 2nd world war?
what are the... ******* monuments of the 1st world
war?
the cemeteries at Ypres for western europe...
the death camp memorials
   and the little ghetto lockets of memory and:
gypsy good fortune in the east?

a picture of the mushroom eating
and clinging onto the flesh of men and animals
in a symbiosis and mind-control dynamics
of the fungus keeping the host alive...
unlike a virus?

   where are the monuments for all that was
achieved in the two wars?
where's the trafalgar sq. where's the arc de triomphe?
between 1803–1815
   or between 1939–1945... well...
              12 years is not 6...
                  i guess you can't achieve much of any
sort of "meaningful" war if...
there's not a decade included in the mix...

oh i'm sure it's going to be hard to imagine
the führer as the kaiser...
     because: dressed in khaki like a whittle
hanzel schoolboy when all the big boys
started to wear schwarzgekleidet of zee SS...

from a perspective of history...
                             i am unsure as to why...
this ms. psychology major would grieve
the affairs of napoleon...
                             perhaps if he was a bit taller...
she might have a fancy for him...
then again... as kaiser... as emperor...
come to think of it...
the notation: Frank would included
the swiss... the belgians the dutch...
luxembourg...
       but not those rascals...
in the rhineland-palatinate...
            or north-rhine-westphalia...

schubert symphony no. 4 in c-minor, D. 417...
i always thought that schubert...
was the pianist competing with violins
to tackle shumann... never mind...

     then again: illuminating life of those
that still have a toe in the remaining posit
of life... yet 3/4 of what life is willing to offer
has both feet in the coffin and a last nail
to beg for the closure and funeral procession
of that chapter of human details
to be: ascribed to the realms of solely learning...
about it... there's no great-grandma with
her wheelbarrow of memories to grant
you "perspectives"...

he was a führer... but not the kaiser...
come to think of it...
the rise and fall... from the confines of being
rejected from an art-college...

today one of my cats (i only have two)
accidently burned the hairs of her tail
when she signatured it (the tail) across
a burning candle... and... you wouldn't believe it...
the smell of burnt cat furr...
i can imagine escaping my episodes of
solipsism when venturing into sniffing
someone else's farts to be more appealing...
than the smell of... the burning of cat furr...

i did remark... i don't think it was all that
pleasant working as butchers in those concentration
camps... if the burning of cat furr smells so bad...
if the burning of skin, nails...
bones... i'm starting to think it was a hell-hole
for both the camp "workers" and....
those about to be forced on the altar
of the belly of Moloch...

                          and when the hebrew god
conquered the gods of the philistines
and the caanites...
      did he "fall asleep"...
    thinking they wouldn't somehow use
people that wouldn't otherwise pay direct
homage to them... for their devilish enterprises?

where are the monumets from world
war I or world II that aren't cemeteries
or memorials or the death camps themselves?
there's not point merely seeing...
imagine going to Handel's messiah
at the royal albert hall...
           and only seeing an orchestra play...
most associated with seeing are:
the quality of either inanimate objects
or moving objects...
but there isn't a mention of the sounds locked
in brimfuls in these things...
but most importantly... i can't smell that
death circus...
well... no matter... i don't need to visit those
death camps and pay some spezial ode to
memory: it will just take a cat accidently burn
its tail furr brushing it over a candle...
that's enough... thank you...

           i don't need to see those camps...
not out of denial outright...
but... without the scent of burning hair
and flesh... the infamous cracow's winter
snow of cremations...

but the smell is missing...
i don't need to visit these places
for a picture of unused hammers and nails...
in their pristine gothica of still slippery when
kept in a mummified state of being
oiled for use... i don't like to rumminate in
echoes of: what this oven was used for...
the scent has subsided like a tide
and all that's exposed is never the living
proof... i have archeological proof...
that it is so sudden... doesn't matter...
i don't have the "perfume" to riddle me
with an immediacy of a recoil!
for that? i just need a cat to accidently burn
a few hairs of its tail over a candle...

it's one of those needle injections straight
into the nostrils...
seeing the oven will do very little to give
an expanse of my: sisyphean weight to tow
along...

faster than the speed of light:
or the digestion imprint of a photograph...
faster than the speed of sound...

    ssssssssssssssssssssscent...
          i don't need to see what other people decided
to want and see...
the burning of flesh and most notably unwashed
hair and furr...
       that's plenty...
i don't want to discourage myself from
cooking anything else in the future...

sometimes my room becomes a hotel for
either moths or flies...
i currently have an early waker...
she must be nearing being a year old...
you can tell... her flight is more methodological...
it isn't that usual flurry and all
that excited presence of itself: unique
in a bounty of life...
i will not bother this fly...
        if she was a mosquito... perhaps i would...

i am longing to see the spawn "maggots"
of moths eat and curl up in cotton...

where are the monuments to call it:
the end of world war I and world war II...
it's as if... it has to be shamed...
this whole genesis story from half-way
between the past century...
and into this... swamp-en-masse...

          last time i checked... that "something"
between the serbians and the croats
and the muslims of yugoslavia...
                    the 13th waffen mountain division...
or head east... the ukranian infamous
insurgent army...
        only recently i heard some major
****-wits decided to drill holes into the tires
of ambulances... near bristol...

as a perfectly just cold blooded heart...
is the crucifixion the epitome of a demigod's death?
what about... being spiked?
being forced onto a pike via
the architecture of where the intestines
meet the coccyx... the *******...
the ****... and the pelvis?
with hands tied?
what about hanging off a meat-hook...
with the meat-hook making the incission under the jaw?
hands and legs tied?

the crucifixion is just an out-dated symbol
of sacrifice... no wonder all that came after
had to become so... more... adventurous...
wouldn't we be foolish when it came to slacking
on the chapter of torture?

but at least one aspect of life can be still felt
to be pure, "aryan"... un-disturbed...
pain... is so un-interrupted by competing
subjectivities... that... well...
it's almost akin to cross paths with god...
pain is pure in that it is true...
forever: there's that other great democratic force
at work than mere death...
by the time we're through death is but
a bureucratic notation of a statistic:
a near miss of anonymity...

                there's that great leveller of pain...
from a simple toothache...
it's as if an ****** that comes on the wings of
being... a sedative of consciousness...
pain as that...
   pain is an inoculate agent against reality...
against consciousness...
all for that ****** of dreams...
lucky for me... i don't dream so well...
i forrest gump the whole affair...

some would think pain as a defining moment
an event horizon for their numb-skulled
crossword puzzle zeniths of "life"...
     i see pain more in favour of...
      i want to be cured from having to curate
so many mediocrities of this life:
as served and as service for others...
so dilligent at being busy-bodies in the shelter
of hierarchies and the shadows of:
the impossible perfection of mountain
replicas of Giza...

pain is illumination...
    beginning with a toothache...
once this temp. filling is ready to be scrubbed out...
and a root canal is to be fitted...
i think i'll begin with an oyster-esque "typo"
readying myself for an ******
when asked 'would you like an anaesthetic'
and the reply will be... 'no'...
                 clearly i don't have as many
avenues as are readily available
when it comes to a holy trinity of mouth,
******... *******...

      self-serving pleasures of the extensions
of pinching... by either crap pincers
or the cold of virus simulation of crowns
when having an ice-cube placed into my palm...

in that i am wholly sympathetic to pain...
well... what good did reading walter benjamin's
illumination(s) essay do to me...
beside what i already know about...
the difference between collecting books...
and collecting books and reading them...

              my personal library would shrink somewhat...
given that i own pretty much an assortment
of what has already been read:
i'm not my grandmother:
unlike watching a film... i can't re-read a book...
give me 2 years reading one...
but i will not re-read it!

this extension of a mollusk's zenith via
a ******... of all that's the sensation that rhymes
heart with brain...

         tow the bones...
       tow the bones...
                   come to the horizon where
the soft tissue blitzkriegs past the bone to the marrow...

arable lure of the prosthetic ghost, limb...
and limp...
       soft zenith pleasure...
while at the same time...
entertaining "things" that only secular
sensibility measures can instill...
do not cross paths with mythology:
goodness! you might forget being
snarky and insensible come tomorrow's year
monday when journalism catches
up from... "somehow" being detached
from her de facto and carpe diem
mantras of modus operandi!

i might call it: the moth's seal of the lips...
enough to lick a postage stamp...
hardly enough to actually kiss...

sold: christianity: metaphorical cannibalism...
i would rather taste the real thing...
if ever such an opportunity should
give sway...

       a führer is not a kaiser... back in the day...
there was respect in post-napoleonic war London...
in belgravia...
how did the h'american white house originate...
the Belveder of Warsaw...
vermin, peoples of the world: nibble...

                   i'm here to claim my future:
my anonymity... i'm here to scatter with the dues
of the frail... waiting for no clarity of
locked: stature worded in baron...
no stature worded in kaiser... führer...
      i am on the sole minding of... the gnostics...
the heretics...

i want to burn blue when all other dogmatic
breaths burn yellow...
           that i drink is of no solace...
bribe the reader! inner vacuum otherwise
a handshake with my shadow... by candlelight...
which is a bribe for an audience of death:
that personification on a theme of romance...
thanatos... chilling the spine...
and the serpentine...

                    i want to see the gallows...
and allure of seeing ***** and rot come oozing
from their baptised fleshy bits...
i want to be curator of the last abolished screech
of existence... i wand to hush them...
by sharpening a knife...
i want to find the idle fork...
i want to find the crown of ferns...
and kick and stab... the house of already dead
roman emperors... sitting... nay...
loitering... the anger of pride on their
laurels...

             napoleon... even with a name like that...
you can stomach the usual: steak becoming
a lump of minced beef...
but when it's ****** or stalin...
czopek or elert...
                    you'd wish for a horsehoof
to be dubbed: smith...
                     -smithy...
or some other... lucky you: frauman...
                      fregel...            made it up as
we went along...

yep... yep... i get it... drinks a whiskey...
****** out a lemonade...
and for whatever "genius": genius...
that third tier of being... not spawned by the gods...
but by man... in between angels and demons...
the geniuses...
that autistic master-class of...
****'s itching kinda eerie!

   i'm drunk: most of the people are sober...
i'm not going to have to
give an apologetics lecture on the sober
sods... am i?
romance period... a bit like being
a modern brit and all that wham!
sputnik dazzle of the: grit brighton!

jokes aside... the winged hussar...
                   also mongol...
******* that clad themselves in dog ****
to imitate... what would later become...
the 365 harem of an alexander...
          
   would it be any good reading
the greeks?
     can you really want to "catch-up" on so
much... when in fact you should be
reading the people who have re(a)d...
the ancient greeks?

here's me taking heidegger's advice...
spend 12 years reading aristotle...
          martin... oi oi... that leaves
me doing more work than the already
work required in pretending to be catholic...
and doing a spin-off sunday...
how about me just reads up on yous...
how's that?
2 years worth of you... is about...
       whatever it took you to "master"
aristoteles: ah-chew: chow-mein sucker...

     life is or at least has become or will
become... too impertinent...
  then again... lassitudes of being kept
in the confines of one's own allowances...
i can't expect... in the same way...
i can't become expectent...
it's a two-way-swoe-order in the guise
of a phoenix... (missing phenotypes)...

             the best held advent of:
if you weren't a part of pappa's genocide of
a clarifying sputnik's *****-out
into frog's dream-alike all mammalian
when you're already on your way out
with the moloch altar sacrifice of
no foetus would be born...

call it a... champagne bottle uncorking
ritual when it comes to...
and all that other drifting ritual
of "entropy" whenever a sobering / ***
note would awake a hannibal lecturer
for and what more...
that was necessary...

           stipends of: gotcha...
eagles - witchy woman...
ol' cliff does a little number:
like no intro for a jazz megahit
quintet when the bass comes along...
devil woman...
or the totally camp...
  dale winton...
because turning totally gay only
arrived in full bloom and daffodils
in the trenches...
when true gay arrived...
well... any other hole to fill...

              this hole's better than
any ****** eye's...
who's that backdoor man of
assorted gifts, to begin with?

          rhyme rhymes rhyme rhymes...
easily to make a happy than no
alcoholic into a: no thank you...
  
                                   discretely...
suburban... those desperado... casa-esposa...
the pride of the son: a mother...
that's usually enforced...

las orgullo de hijo: una madre...
           bad spanish... bad german...
mongrel of the either and some anglican
and some ****** catholic...

                                        if there was still something
of a worthwhile partition of time...
****** was never going to become
the next napoleon...
even though... invading russia was
a plagiarism... and the retrdo-event of all
that waste of time... 200 years
and the waste of time with the air onslought
for the battle of britain...
the u-boats...

     no mention of waiting a while...
     in that "what if" universe of revising...
one two three four... with:
einz zwei drei vier...

or... the eager panzermensch...
and that tunnel under the sea...
         it can be noted that a 100 year war
did exist... between the english and the french...

if the napoleonic wars have the monuments...
for what sort of reasons were
the 20th century "ende von alles kriege ende"...
******* proxies of the yugoslav conflict...
vietnam...
        
the monuments of the greatest wars of man...
monumets? cemeteries... or the death camps...
was this the turning point where...
death by war was to be... lessened by
omittance: "keep calm and carry on" *******?
the celebrated en masse of one single
male *******?

how isn't citing german...
an exfoliation from speaking mere peasant
english?
der zunge ist berufung die gegenwart:
ein vater: ein vaterzunge!

scheisse und höllegrube mit es!
                der "vaterland": fathers of daughters
of would be mothers... mothers of sons
of would be fathers... motherland... fatherland...
mothertongue... a ******* great big itch
of grammatical concerns! blah!

where are these monuments akin to trafalgar sq.?!
what's to be so... gloated... about defeating the nazis?
where is the gloat in mere words...
but sorely missed when it comes to sacrificing
bone and marrow and muscle
to focus on making escapades of marble?!
where... are... these... monuments?!

      my own shadow overshadows the testimonies
of... two... very... minor... wars...
perhaps world war I had covered one or two
hurt prides... hurt egos...
but... after all... a khaki attired boyscout...
when all the bad boys
were later... morphed by hugo boss
into schwarzgekleidet steinherzimmobilien...

ein führer ist nein (ein) kaiser...
not like the title napoleon acquired...
napoleon was cited as: emperor...
        a reicarnation of charlemagne...
   too bad for whoever barbarossa was...
  rutger hauer?! yes... but rutger was, dutch...
for ****'s sake!

napoleon was crowned emperor
in a church...
****** walked into an opera house...
heard some wagner...
some wagner not in that anemic proposal
of the walhall from das rheingold
via michele campanella...

              all that becomes the litany...
prior to the peeling to the basic grammar...
and then an attack on pronouns...
as if all languages had...
gender-neutral nouns of the anglican-sphere
of "talk"...

strip me down the the Diogenes' basics of
sodden cloth and dogs' **** to attire...
perhaps i'll show you Cleopatra smile...
or Mona Lisa frown...
             whatever might be the eventuality...
this is not it; nor could it ever be... "it";
the "it" of what you seek.

War isn't that fusillade you hear in the distance
betwixt the government troops and the resistance
it's the civilians getting tattered in the crossfire
it isn't the wham of bombardment from airstrikes
by blaring Jet fighters across a shower of black in the sky
it isn't the badonkadonk of a Rocket launcher or Black Mamba
but natives being swept like Safari ants in chunky numbers
War isn't those mines planted in hitherto playing field
but the ignorant innocent children in search for a distraction killed
War isn't the televised scorched homes and gardens with corns
but the consequent drought, scarcity and "famined" and feeble as thorns
War isn't those vehicles and motors torched
it's the blameless owner who in tears the absurdity watched
War isn't that cacophony of politicians on stuffed tables
their speeches filled with hypocritical vocabulary are but fables
speak to the maimed and dead whose voices are never heard
it's those who want the anarchy to end, it's they that are tired
War isn't the nations battling or the parties in contention
it's those set, torn and cast apart...the ones we seldom mention
the parents and siblings forced to say goodbye
while their Breadwinner falls victim to conscription
despondent and despairing as they look on and cry
knowing their brother and Son's like those taken before bound to die
or those refugees wanting to return to their cradle
but having no home and nothing to return to but rubble
those forced to stay in the first world midst racist chants and hate
jeered by the "civilised" like they chose their skin-color and fate
War isn't the famous voices we hear and talk about on the media
but the ****** girls abducted, gagged, ***** and mutilated
War isn't the beautiful monster tanks wrecking
but the historical landmarks and fashioned roads
reduced to nothing, the lives within squashed under their loads
War isn't the glamorous documentary films censored and unreal
but the muffled deadbeat voices from heartbreaks that never heal
It's seeing one's whole life sublime in one moment of savagery
compelling the orphaned and widowed into manacles of *** slavery
for with the loss of their husbands and parents, neighbours, Uncles
comes the tight grasp of inhumane chains and anchors
in those places they are forced to seek refuge
places where they are treated worse when they attempt to refuse
War isn't just being apart from your people by a million a mile
War's learning to wear a weighted mask of a smile
while the heart, Soul, Mind and one's entirety's in Tears
War's knowing all one's "perspirational" toils were but wasted years
fearing to tell one's story because among the presented ears
one can no longer tell one that truly listens from one that just hears
..
whatever's in speech be it poetry or Documentary isn't War
War isn't words, war isn't testimonies, there's more
destruction to War than the eyes, heart can handle
not ever can War fit in the descriptions of words we bundle
War's something humanity never deserve
so unfair for we make war when most can hardly make love.

and in our childhood we beheld the beauty of
theocracy - all of us - bedazzled by it,
enthralled by it, we reached the pinnacle
there and then - in our childhood we beheld
the beauty of theocracy - each and every one of
us cherubs worthy a plucking for the heavenly
choir - and like Adam and knowing through
to Eve and un-knowing that a man might
riddle trousers with a kilt - just like that,
it's not a belief in god that's required - far from it -
in childhood we sensed theocracy - the grand
hall oratory place of inconvenience - a talk to the hand
moment; thank yous and not yous -
we were too young to formulate a being as grand
as god - too young - even though it was implanted
in us by others that came prior - we're maturer now,
it's not the idea of god - we were young and
the prospect always hanged in the air of inhibition -
we weren't entirely eager to exhibit prayer and petulance
equally - in childhood as in nostalgia (for the two
are equal in meaning - a rarity to remember outside
childhood, romanticism and whatnot) - in childhood
as in nostalgia it's not god we're searching for,
it's more or less: theocracy - we're nostalgic about
a system of politics that overshadows what came with
the fall / maturity of man - man answered democracy!
and so it was - our version of politics always sends
a shiver down my spine - belief in the midgets of
the caricature of spine-and-wing is not that far apart -
no one in their truest mindset is searching for a god
in order to receive ridicule, not a personal god that
overpowers a man's personality to a U-turn abstract
of what was formerly known of a man -
against the strain of that some champion as necessary:
individuation - the pressure to a coup d'individu -
that sort of god isn't there - the pressure is to find a
the once intrinsic theocracy of childhood -
now that we have the governing body of democracy
hanging over as: demo politics - demonstrative,
demanding, debatable and... debatable -
and to merely think outside democracy is to have a
thought of an autocrat and a mouth of a slave -
otherwise you're just mouthing everyone to a lullaby
of intrinsic Tory toff-ha-ha. we're not missing god,
god is hardly dead, it's that we don't have the same
theocracy that children have governing them -
we have democracy - finding god in singleton-land
of proofs is about as good as finding a teardrop in
a sea - it means abandoning your personality in order
to skip the hardships for the perks - who is anyone
to collect knee-bending at the altar? why wouldn't
an Orthodox attendee of a church in St. Petersburg
let me sit in church while the choir sang?
oh right... the priests here still have their backs to the people
when reciting the testimonies -
and this simply sprung to mind after reading a psychiatrist
or anti- write out his the bird of paradise (1967, r. d. laing),
a psychiatrist opens up and thinks he's writing prosaic
poetry - great in theory - i mean lucid, frank, simplistic,
but the conundrum comes when no theory is
passed down - no hereditary intellectualism - nothing,
starting from scratch - that's the existential brick-wall
of notation focusing on the i the existentialists used -
the unit they thought they could bounce theories against
and get some original echo back... the only originality that came
back was mere criticism - nothing more.
i'm not looking for god - why is anyone looking for him?
everyone in democracy has this sudden urge to
become a cult-leader or despot? it seems so...
i'm looking for theocracy - in the democratic spirit of
transition that's been given to me - so funny...
god is an uncertainty but death is a certainty - strangely-funny
how the two never seem to coincide - unless in the mouth
and eyes of a madman who shoots you at point
blank range and says the words: time to meet you maker;
Jack'oh Wacko.

The vertical of the routing kinetics was far from the contemplation of the gods of the catastrophes, accepting that they had to save these souls that were tied before the inclination of the southern part of the island when it loomed in the height, related and when the lord He appeared to Saint Paul in Damascus for the reconversion of souls. Fury dried the air and became unbreathable as it exploded before the astonished gaze of those lacerated by the ins and outs of the earth, seeing that Saturn, Mars, and Jupiter came into conjunction, when the sun revolved around itself, accelerating its kinetics perigee. The misgivings took hold and the feet of all were static without, finding footholds in some astromethereology, to ask the archangels for the vindicatory fiery flame, far away in the arid atmosphere that Mercury produced when he wanted to abstain and block the unbridled Sun. The intense and changing winds emanated from the caverns, like micro hurricanes that constellated Aorion and Taurus. The darkness came out of the Pleiades from the dark Manes who envisioned the codes and omens for those who were not empowered by the claws when they aligned themselves in Taurus, and Mycenae anticipated said forecast in the Agios Andreas chorography, which on this occasion was trilocated, to resist in the same chorus of Patras, where the Apostle Andrew was announcing them between kings and generals. Everything argued from the veins of the meanders where it could be described that thunder came out from the clouds and that they were absorbed by the cracks preceded by the vigorous bells, and the bellowing of Vernarth as if they were in the hypocenter of the Arbela site, when all soldiers ran after other human species and Brisehal bellowed at them, emulating his master's senses of terror. The roar of combat was comparable to the convulsions of men running toward the lows of the earth, spitting foul-smelling whiffs from within. The galleries were hidden above and below the earth, the blows were overwhelmed by compact solid plates that flew over the lost earth, the Stymphans protected with their bronze wings the lacerated and Marie des Vallées, who in turn encouraged Vernarth who fought to protect Theus and Vikentios with Wonthelimar near masses pierced by the blast of the fiery wind. Some adobes were classified within the taxonomy of the brick that was fortified in the corners of the Hellenic temple that resisted with their flying buttresses when the parapet was raised, and they settled again after an undulating goal of venerable swaying to a Sybilla in trance. The waves ceased the high tide wind and the contrary Metelmi winds were made worse by any anger in the wreckage of a forge when the *** scarce to open the Apollo wasteland.

They all had to wait forty-five days, sheltered in the meanders. When the sea was collected after having overcome the masses of hydrosism, in any exhibition in front of anyone saying goodbye with inept imploration. Vernarth was possessed in some declines with the support of his donkeys, who had come from the Eclectic Portal to assist him in the face of this typology that only with them could he minimize. In the sixth version of his reposes, Vernarth gave them up due to the delirium of repentance, which revealed the image of the Twelve Apostles, before the scientists approached from Vernarth's Rhema who quantified the approach to austerities, which could not even be gathered in all the libraries of the World, not least in the insight of who can describe it extrinsically in the Parnassus or the Acropolis. The whole irrational focus was deified in the externalities of all the slight edges of the Milky Way, creating arcane incense fires in what is said of the trials adjacent to the springs of knowledge, to console the mourners towards a Tractatus where they will revolutionize the meanings of the signifier.

Zefian says upon emerging: “what collision affects the movements of the world when the body vibrates with confusion and not with emotion! The Fourth Sagita collided with Mercury and the Sun, everything took hold from the Aurion Belt, for them, the uneasiness is reflected in the death, by not resisting the rude speed of the ancient episodes, which in turn are in the geological testimonies from where all geological ethical matrix is born. As dignity is aquatic given its immense containment of the sinful solid, the solids want to get out of their penitentiary causes, with a habitual bustle breaking down in the valleys and mountains, which only the land contains and not the sea. When the ocean shakes, it lashes with the Aurion club at its antagonists, who could be imaginary or its own ethics that cross the seas and takes hold in amphibious larvics lands "

Zefian leaves and begins to order and incur in the surfaces that became tenuous and discreet in the labyrinth of the Tractatus and in the linguistic signs of retro life, which came to redeem their progeny that lay in the same spheres that the earth itself possessed, flooded with silt in the superimposed light of the fire as a collateral external factor that moved with all lightness, throughout the circular surface as if snatching the dynasty that the Peri Kosmous claimed, leaving it in the fractal of the nullity of the excursion, with the factorial of starting Relevant areas that do not tremble, until the soul of the world was in the trance of the same excursion, while time froze as inert matter, and real-time emerged from the thread of the excursion's digression when the mountains were not sinking, probably being so. ? That verisimilarly it would pre-exist after the final excursion where it showed its splendid chorography authentically intact.

These Lines:
etched and edged,
well-distinct and ill-defining,
clarifying and disguising,
multifarious characters,
multivariate natures.
nefarious and courageous.

thickened thinnings,
straightforward curvings,
appointed and unanointed,
given, taken, and then
redrawn, misshapen.

both boundary and limitations,
goal reached, unending destinations,
a human's realm of indefinite definitions,
These Lines:
mappings of his domain,
recordings of his failings.

my great divide,
testimonies to my endings,
visual markers of
virtuous past successes,
virtual future failures invadings.

How can they be both simultaneous?

These Lines:
double etched and sword edged,
outbound-triumphant, defending,
inbound-plaintive, wailing,
both an indefensible and defensive blade,
cutting, both ways.

*PostScript:
The twenty eight of the month of Feb-rue-ary,
clear enough ending to the muddiest, contrary,
turgid month of the ifs of a man's life.

By day the fear defines me;
By night it envelopes me,
Perpetually reaffirming it's hold,
Refusing to release me.

Escape would be the sweetest taste,
more so than this surrender
to which I have become accustomed,
and to which I have not the strength to nullify.

We are given this inadequate kit,
of alternate emotions and yoga poses,
with which to fight the fear,
as though we have a chance.

Yet no matter how tense my anger,
how jubilant my happiness,
or how serene my meditation,
this fear has found a forever host.

From adolescence we are told
that this fear is a human construct.
Oh, the absolute worst kind;
this kind has no solution.

As teenagers we are herded into groups,
and told they are what will ease the fear,
and yet, the same emotions exist in all.
So what then is our option?

Is it to find love?
A kindred spirit whose fear mirrors our own?
I do believe so.
Oh, I do believe so.

As young adults we are told this is wrong.
We should be independent;
searching for love will certainly lead to heartache.
We must just live a little longer with the fear.

In our 30's the advice is more rushed,
as though we really do have timers.
We are now told the time spent afraid,
was time wasted.

What a sick joke,
that we are given false testimonies,
and are bombarded with warnings,
all most surely unsolicited.

I will not listen.
This fear is mine, not yours.
It has been my dearest friend for so long,
but it is now my choice to leave it behind.

I lay down on the covers and listen
to the sound that wood makes when it moves
when it moves so slowly you can barely notice
as spiders crawl on the soles of my feet
they move unashamed like the
Lepisma saccharina
commonly known as the enemy
or silverfishes
under my floorboards

I have got no meter
it makes me write like a renegade dropout
smoking outside the doors of
junior high
but this is not poetry I write
it's testimonies
of how I looked further and never found
much of anything

I'd sweep quietness away with one sudden movement
like when smoke disperses
with a waving hand I can expel
all that is wrong like if I
broke the best china and saw the violets
in pieces of porcelain on the floor but
I know that silence is thick and
nothing ever breaks against linoleum

The weedy wanderer searches for his tricks:
They hide among the flowerbeds
And in behind the gutters
Cleaning out the filth
Of the lucky master's overwhelming testimonies
Testimonies of love and hate:
They explore the times people were participating,
Clinging to the tufts of an imaginary carpet man,
Exploring in sondor-ous glee and enthusiasm.

There are oceans in this room, swelling,
They fill me up and soak me;
I'm still dry
Yet I am drowned in these waves of apathy.

Screams and whispers echo my body
With cries and laughter,
Fill this empty room

Swivel sideways,
A new perspective,
All turned on its head
All diagonal tribute
Spinning, cycling through
I. can. not. grasp. anything.
Flatten my palm.
Let it go.

A dandelion clock floating on the wind
Swirling and dancing
In spite of stifling cross breezes
Muttering discordant harmonies
Rhyming melodies, unfinished senta...

The night fuzzes now
Soft
Comforting
Full of warmth
Dribbling from the mouth of hope
Who will speak to me in the darkness?
Or will the light speak to me?

It's time to leave the shadow
To high high power in the heavenlies
We are power of the Power in power
Bringing down walls of Darkness
At the darkest hour of uncertainties

Let's wear garment of victory
With hallelujah voices in decibels
We are sure of victory at dawn
The night is defeated already
See the oak of darkness falling
And sun of glory in luminous glory

Thanks for ocean of testimonies
Our strength is in the Glory
Our faith in the Faith never fail
Bringing down walls of Darkness
As glory roaring in glory for the Glory!

O Lord, stretch my spirit and soul,
for I can handle the pain of growth;
teach me the proper words to speak;
I’m ready and gladly take the oath

of serving You with my humbled life.
The value of relationships require
patience and wisdom to be employed;
while knowing You, I have inquired

about my identity, found in You.
Having the gift of a poetic voice,
I teach others spiritual lessons;
my spirit climbs, soars and rejoices

when new connections to Your Truth
are realized by Jehovah’s children.
We need each other to fully mature;
hearing testimonies of overcoming sin

and bad situations, we learn more
at accelerated rates- ordained by You.
With my experience and understanding,
let me help others with breakthroughs.

When the latest opportunities arrive,
please enlarge… my capacity for Love!
.
.
.
Author Notes

Inspired by:
Isa 54:2; Luke 5; Eph 3:14-21

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.

Her melancholy had a circadian rhythm
Spoken in twisted tongues
Reasoning blind sighted by emotional revenue
Reveries of long lost memories
Testimonies of the heart
How does one escape the kinship of hearts?
When longings derail sensibilities?
There is a raft at the shoreline
It’s sail, luminous and large
Beckoning to travel to another shore
Tide water spreads onto the open space
Bridges are no more

Most of my life has been spent painting pictures in a song
though I was never good at Art&Design;,
so I resign myself to drawing words and colouring phrases with a ball point pen and
a weary head, that never should've got out of bed.

And I don't care what you want to be,
in the centre of the circle everybody wanted something from you; like an old teddybear
being ripped at the seams- no buttons to keep you together, only being torn apart like
a philosophical discussion about the creation of man. Pining for cosmic resolution and a reason to be.
You said you wanted that reason to be me.

I'll make you see the world tonight, make sense of the unknown. Learn how to grow old and be satisfied. How to grow, just grow. Know right from left to wrong and sing a different song.

'cause this city was built on fear and testimonies of the ignorant plaguing stubborn minds.
Manipulators lead the gullible ashtray, the weak remain same. No ones left to suffer the blame.
Hands clap as people riot in the street, echoes of the innocent stuck on repeat.

Yet you speak of harmonies and riches. You talk and your voice it's beautiful sound travels through the channels of my eager ears, wanders like a river with subtle grace and ripples of intonation, the mid-range pitch keep it from rising out of the banks of my thoughtless mouth.
And I count myself lucky as I gaze at the aimless faces rather there than here,
their body language gives nothing away, let's nothing in as if they're standing in a windless orchard in their minds. Whereas yours in perfection of a kind.
The poetry of your face is enigmatic yet I feel if I look closer I could easily understand.

The aimless faces try to draw you near but you ignore their cries;
for bribery is vain to try against incorruptible eyes. Although they were trying to warn you.
Their wires went unanswered. The bridges remain unbuilt. Now trouble is coming!
'cause you rested all your hopes on my thoughtless mouth and mishapened heart.

Your words- the beauty of your voice flows through the channels of my ears, wandering like a river, bubbling with your wishes and pain. My mouth is buckled, is buckled with fear.
Can I give you everything you're after?
Give you myself and more? Oh how I want to.

I want to .  .  .  .

'Cause this life was built out of rejection. Humour as a mechanism
of defence, a pretence that I'm strong, able. In fact quite capable of not destroying
everything in my path. My successes came out of needing to prove to them and myself that
I wasn't beaten down.
I have substance and I'm beginning to feel free,
like a bird in an unlocked cage.

LOVE comes from all sources and I don't care what you want to be, as long as you're good to me.
Try to understand where I'm coming from and keep surprising me , like you do.
We can sing the same old song, so long as my pictures colour in your heart.

Colour you in.

show me your mortality
it doesn't rule my life.
i know you say the same
but it's those moments you look out between your eyelashes that tell me the most.

you didn't offend me.
it offends me more when you only want my friendship for the hardships.
you make me feel like i'm only worthy of my bad experiences.
being a good friend means being there for more than just the bad times.
don't feel like you have to help me through anything,
i've already done just fine.

You make my hands cold, full of soft eyes and hooded thoughts.
Late nights spent between sleep and slumber,
dreams and lies, fantasies and nightmares.
The labyrinth limbo, that nexus that lets you dare to picture what you don't dare to think when your eyes are fully open.

My hands trace my lips, my hips, these slits
in the drywall, feeling for more motion.
Feed me to a full frenzy, I don't want anything from you that I can't give myself.
There is a bible on my nightstand, but it's full of my own truths and holy testimonies.

This is about the breath on your tongue
and the way you looked in my basement
when the world was asleep and my
fingers were wet;
because I can still smell you after
4 a.m. on a Friday night, thinking —
(****, this feeling burns like
a cigarette habit).
Your ******* are the epitome of thunder,
they creep into my skin and leave
me vibrating.

You are restless in between my legs
so I pretend this was easy like
the first time I told you I love you;
rub my hand through your hair as the breath
in my lungs quakes and evaporates
in between us.

It is cold and I am swooning in our
sweat and tears from earlier testimonies,
(I know you care, I saw it in
the way you arched your vertebrae)
and you whimper in your sleep —
waking your bones, your still-life perfection.
I could stay in this mess forever.