"titles" poems
For centuries philosophers have speculated the role sleep plays in society
But it was not until the 1950s that sleep woke up in academia
And today sleep studies show what dormant minds really look like
Information about our rest we've never seen before
However, I've always understood the importance of bedtime
You see my parents taught me that sleep and love are soul mates
My mom
She's the sleeper
She loves to sleep
She cuddles up on any piece of furniture in my house and snoozes for hours
Never views a sitcom past the first commercial break when she's tired
And she's okay with that
Dad never lets her drive on road trips when night falls
Preferring his sleeping beauty tucked safely in the passenger seat
Their hands meet as she lets the stars serenade her to slumber
While he anchors his left hand on the steering wheel
Thanking his lucky stars for his real life princess
My dad
He's the snorer
He loves to snore
He roars like a lion on his love seat and naps for hours
Never views a sitcom past the second commercial break when he's tired
And he's okay with that
Mom never lets him sleep alone too long though
Keeping his nose plugged strong enough to signal for bedtime
They both stand together as he lets her guide him to slumber
While she ushers her left hand around his back
Thanking her lucky stars for her own prince charming
Now my parents call me the dreamer
And I sure do love to dream
It seems my parents are textbook role models for me
Because when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Your reality becomes an endless stream of fantasies
Your expectations are exceptionally out of context
Strictly written for poetic lines in picture books
Never meant to be held
Never meant to be felt
Only meant for spines stuck on rosewood shelves
My parents call me the dreamer
And boy I love to dream
I believe in creating the unthinkable
And when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Nothing is fictional
You picture a life with storybook endings
Praying the author never runs out of ink
You crown each syllable the king of the moment
Treating each page like royalty
And I've always been okay with that
So when I asked my mom when she knew she fell in love
She spoke of an instant of unadulterated emotion
She said she knew instantly
She didn't need to sleep on it
When I asked my dad when he knew he fell in love
He just smiled back at me
He must have known instantly
He didn't even speak on it
So when I ask myself when I might fall in love
I can't help but smile
Think of fairytale titles
Mile wide love notes in all shapes and styles
And a moment where my reality sets my hopes on fire
And I won't need to dream about it anymore
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
Hey guys
I have found several Daily Poems from this site being shared externally with no acknowledgement to the rightful owner :(
Head over here....
http://thepoetryden.wordpress.com/author/thepoetryden/
and if you find your original work there then I highly encourage you ask this person to either a) link the poem back to your original or b) remove them from his site. He claims to be a poet and is misleading people by not putting original names/original links to the works he is posting!
Go through them carefully as the titles of the poems have been changed.
Please share this because I have read at least 3 poems from this site from 3 different people over there with no acknowledgement to the original author!
Update ~ Sept 6th 2014 ~ You are NOT going to believe this. I found Shane Linville on Facebook and you will never guess who is one of his favourites! Chris G Vaillancourt! That's right, the very same well known plagiarist from days gone by at HP. He was such an insidious piece of work
****** Not the way I'd like to see my name next to a Daily Poem but getting the awareness out there is a nice thing too :)***
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
In the silence of a day like today
In the wake of yesterday's dreams
Forgetfulness feels like noncompliance
In a world where defiance still seems
Like a benign inaction of innocence
Though it feels like a stabbing of spite
Willing to kneel to your Goddess
Yet unable to yeild to Her might
There is no weakness to worship at Her altar
It takes strength to relinquish control
Relax and trust in the knowledge
Acquiesce and watch it unfold
There is freedom in the smile of an angel
There is love to be had all around
There is power in making Her smile
Don't be the sadness beind every frown
Inaction, as innocent as it seems
Breeds disappointment that infects every smile
And all those little requests
Will stop being wanted after awhile
See, for all the deeds left unfinished
And all those tiny tasks left undone
Will chisel away Her hearts desire
Leaving Her another invisible no one
An empty shell of a Goddess
Whose glory, in your heart will remain
While She curses her very existence
Languishing in true-love's refrain
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
”good night, good travels, pitch black”
depending on how one counts,
cause size matters,
do have I
one small blessing
though little do I get, more-less,
in each twenty four measuring cup,
when the sleep gas has come-for-inhaling,
lidded heavy with greatful/tearful anticipation,
it’s less than sixty seconds till
dispatched to where all poems
plead like unborn angels for
good parentage
the spoken good night ritual signaled and completed
with a perfect half turn skating axel onto ones side,
preceded by, a single solid smacking of
an innocent but flaccid, equally tired pillow,
then lost in pitch black galaxy travels
with other sleep-drunk little princes
instead of the wavering, singular word,
a traditional goodnight,
a parting and a haling simultaneous mumbling issuing,
undebated and a wish shot to all within dream-shot, a title,
“good travels”
to places where ferment the aging words under
the winemakers watchful caring eyes opening,
names or titles, same difference, for the newborn babes
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
Writer's block again,
and from return; my heart descends.
A knock, at the door?
What are they here for?
Hiding in the floors, the deaths
of my enemies,
a funeral of my thoughts,
and they were meant to stay away.
Yet you wished them here,
just so you can write them.
And they want you near,
so you can recite them.
Insightful, isn't it?
You need to invite them in,
and this time; they'll only stay
for the titles and poetry, no.
You're much too confident
that you can kick them out,
you need them;
and they want you.
Next evacuation;
hopefully you'll choose
yourself,
but we know you never
do-
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
As this world wretches behind the piles of our institutional bones, I turn to look the other way.
When the beggars graze my pant leg, I don't stop mid stride and feign over their disparity,
For gaining the holy marksmen’s approval. When Judas kissed sanctity’s cheek beside the frames of broken-hearted men, I shook the feeling from my sleeve.
And I no longer feel guilt, shame,
Out of mere cerebral obligation.
So, have me for a worthless sinner. I will fall to the dust before I bring myself to stand beside the husks of humanity that so many have become; spewing their filth on unfortunate blindfolded men, expecting me to follow suit.
Well, **** off, kindly.
I’m living for the god that answers to no titles, and parsonages none of these black suited scumbags. I’m living for the god that inspires harmony, and lifts my fingers to dance for liberation, and pleasure, and hopeless longing. I’m living for the god of progress who shakes pieces of enlightenment from his gray beard, and swallows up the offerings of his every wounded child.
I’m living for the god of no religion,
Never saying
“God,”
For this name is tainted by old customs.
Cheapened by the misguided nature of man.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
For half a revolution she spends her days
in caliginous caverns
where worms like silver thread
weave through moistened walls.
Water, endless dripping,
howling, whining, stalagmite fangs.
It began with a stranger,
shrouded with shadows.
Petrichor breath,
and beetle black eyes,
twisted root fingers,
and scattered seeds.
It was lonely at first,
death and loss and
weary wayfarers with tired souls.
An estranged husband,
a trio of rumbling growls,
and the lonesome echo of her own footsteps.
Waiting for a someday,
that will never come,
her titles, a mantra,
repeat in her head;
daughter, lover, mother and wife,
stealer of souls and giver of life.
So when the daffodils bud,
and the world awakens,
when she blinks through sunshine
and steps into the light,
she holds her head high.
She is Queen of the Underworld,
bolder than before,
she will evade their pity,
and transcend them all.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 5:54 AM UTC
Who do you listen to you? Your heart or the people that have control of everything in your life....
891 days. 891 more days of being the owner of opinions and ideas that will go unheard. 891 more nights of sleeping in a place that I will never own. 891 more days of being a guiding older sister, and an unfortunately human daughter (key word human). Yes I have ideas, I am my own person, and yes I want to do things. Listen to me and value my voiced ideas as you would any other, and I will respect you. Force me into a mold of someone I am not, I will return what you throw in my face. I have problems and I am free to decide what I will do with them. You can restrict my body, but I assure you, you will never control my thoughts; my mind. Actions and words are easy to forget, but feelings, emotions, ideas…what constitutes the being of a person, cannot be erased from the mind. And the beauty of the true feelings of an individual is the ability for one to be able to choose who to share their true form with. If now I cannot, fighting and prying at me will only close me off further from your grasp. I have many sides and many personalities if I don’t trust you I will put on a mask, and I will only remove it when trust is earned or my spirit breaks.
891 more days of useless titles. Brother, sister, father, mother; useless. There's a biological relationship, sure, but family is not made up of pure science. People you can trust communicate with, share ideas and feelings with; that instinct to help when you know when someone is hurting, this constitutes a family. Love. Love is not forced, love is not created; much like trust love is earned and grown over time. One cannot decide that today a family will be made…forcing communication will only drive people further apart. Love grows when the conditions are right and that requires probably the most valuable thing us humans will experience in our life, time.
891 days until I am free. 891 days until I can be me. 891 days to learn, to grow, to cry, to laugh, and learn to show… show people who I really am. But like I said, everything takes time.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
like a good poet, I whine and whinny:
the muses are unreliable, get too much paid vacation,
unlimited unpaid, and pretend their cells are out of range,
even when they are in bed with you and you’re near desperate
to cop a feel of inspiration
my problem is a variation on the theme. Everyday I jot down
too many possibilities, a handful of words added to the list of
pound bound childless titles, sad faced orphans, dogs and cats,
squeaking “pick me, pick me,”
our reply a casual
“you on the list” rather than admit they are titled, but bodiless
until cupid smashes a cupcake in my face and the bell rings
there they stand - at a friendless crossroads - direction home,
path unknown, awaiting a poet tour guide to complete them
if this sounds a bit like a bad achy breaky country song,
then you and I, on the same side of where I could be headed
cause at the friendless crossroads, always unsure, left foot first? that first line, first step, could be a false messiah,
or a free-at-last, a free-at-last emancipation
but there are no sidelines in a forest there no sidelines in a poet’s mind; there are the minefields of mindfulness that can explore explode and explain why it is tempting to believe that every gifted one deserves a break today
but you cannot be broken or break off from the community
“Hillel said: Do not separate yourself from the community; and do not trust in yourself until the day of your death. Do not judge your fellow until you are in his place. Do not say something that cannot be understood but will be understood in the end. Say not: When I have time I will study because you may never have the time”
my friend,
substitute writing poetry for study, for study is for us the analysis of everything, that is, everything we say, see and know the need to communicate
so
those who abide in the life of good words will not suffer an abdication (yours)
do not think
there are friendless crossroads,
there are only crossroads that the eye cannot yet see a fellow sojourner coming toward him,
bearing an oversized load of
the inside insight of responsibility
that demands sharing
that is why we call our meetings at
a crossroads,
a cross
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
I think I started writing you away before you were gone
I wanted to make sure I could let you go before I did
I wanted to feel numb when I pushed you away
so I wrote
I put you on pages,
typed chapter titles for every single time you looked at me
I wrote until you were a novel,
read you until you were no longer novel,
and put you on a shelf so I could start waiting to forget about you,
a memory trapped in unused synapses
and after I shut your final chapter
but before your pages had started to collect dust,
I realized what I had done
See, I had taken each word from within me,
harvested my heartstrings, plucking them and mixing them to make ink,
The pieces of you I kept in my heart
sat as words on a page, aging
while my heart, once strong, felt too empty
and cavernous to beat under the weight of the sigh pinning down my chest
In all of my preparing
I had forgotten that I am human
I forgot feelings aren't like a fountain
there's no faucet you can turn off to keep them from
running through your mind
no way to stop them from flowing
back through your mouth when you try to
swallow them, mixed with *** in your best friend's basement,
days after you forgot that you can't turn off a rainstorm
you can try to catch the raindrops in a bucket
but the bucket you'll need is big enough to drown in
you can try to hold out an umbrella
but if the wind is hard enough
you're still going to end up cold and dripping,
tearstained and shivering
waiting until the sun comes out
I forgot that I can't control the weather,
or anything other than myself for that matter
The end of a storm doesn't equate to the appearance of a rainbow
I realized that just because my fingers twisted around yours until
they melted together doesn't mean you'll forgive me
and that you left tattoos on me that only time will fade
and we're both going to be mad
I found out that
every song that ever reminded me of you doesn't cease to exist
I have to re-watch movies because they're different now, somehow,
and just because my hair is probably still all over your clothes
and I talked to you every day
and you gave me months of memories
and thinking about you is gut-wrenching
doesn't mean that I won't spend days praying for patience
and hoping for healing because
**** it, letting you go doesn't mean I don't miss you*
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
some times I believe,
not think,
but believe,
that there are indeed little figures in the grass,
brushing my ankles with tickles and laughs
sometimes in mid of velvet black,
can see them waving their six fingered hands
in front of the lights across the bay,
for the twinkles are different, their winkles,
semaphoric, euphoric, random but patterned
every know and every then,
could they be inside me,
inciting riots, sugar sharp pains,
in places where pain has no place purposed,
feel them lifting my-back-of-the-neck hairs,
at scary movies, making an ear itchy, why?
these elusives
are fairie godmothers,
personal angels,
hobgoblins,
shoulder sitters,
amusing muses
ear whisperers,
of new poem titles
sock stealers,
shoelace knoters,
giggling self-amusers,
ever present, ever invisible,
hat hiders, wet spot slider installers
you say you know them too?
cousins perhaps, for my elusives,
could not be here and there,
for they are:
as I write,
as I speak,
this very second
fluttering my eyelids,
those rascals,
to lay me down to sleep,
in cherishing tenderness me to keep
for they know too well,
sleep,
is an elusive of a different kind,
like peace of mind,
but they do their best,
to distract me unto rest
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
It's not okay
to pull me aside
and tell me whose
wrong and right.
You ask questions
about when I realized
who I was
and what I want
to become,
when you shouldn't.
There's never really a time
you realize,
there's a time you stop
compressing
all of those thoughts and feelings.
You should feel
content
with me even telling you
who I am.
I don't need to explain
anything further,
but you claim I do.
I'm sick of every
GSA meeting being filled
with questions of my
gender and sexuality.
There's more to me.
You claim you know me,
but you don't.
You have no clue what
my favorite color is
or my favorite movie
or even know what I
love to read.
There's more to me
than a couple of titles.
You say that all you have
is your sexuality and gender,
that has to be a sad life.
I'm sorry that that's all you have.
But I have more.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
A man who competed in many bodybuilding contest back in his day
It was sheer determination in every way
A feast of Bodybuilding titles in what he achieved
It was his mind staying focused and not being deceived
I have known this Bodybuilding pro from years passed
Back in his day, this Bodybuilder had plenty of muscle mass
Well the time capsule has moved on, and the Bodybuilder then not being a senior remaining strong
The senior Bodybuilder of today trains with even more intensity
Training really hard in stating, ‘He is not really old”
Look at me now and just behold
The weights being the push in don’t stop
This is what made him a champion that kept him on top
It’s the weights giving encouragement that you will succeed
Regardless of senior age, you will proceed
The same champion being a senior will reach the top again
It is a new day to begin
You can expect accomplishments until the very end.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
Just to big up my team, my favorite team.
Hala Madrid! they would shout and scream.
Winning the most La Liga titles, 33 they won.
And 12 champions cup tiles, I know they had fun.
The team that Barcelona hates the most,
And the most goals they scored on RM was 7-0, that range wasn't close.
But Real Madrid had the same history of beating them by seven.
Also when we made them a fool by beating them eleven.
I mean we're not the best,
But the best of the best.
And out of the rest we stand alone..
Because we're determined to bring a trophy home.
Don't worry, this year 2018 we're looking forward for more.
I hope they don't let me down because I'm positive and sure.
Imagine we won La Liga and champions cup this year again.
The world will no longer watch or talk about Real Madrid my team the same.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
Tonight I learned what it means to be mortal. To have a fifteen year dream crushed publicly. To smile and be the man that lies, “it’s ok, God has better plans and I trust that.” Tonight my wings were clipped and I was sentenced to a life of soil and toil, forever forced to watch the eagles in orange soar in the clouds and sky that I know I was created to own. I love this place because it is more of a home than I have ever known. It is pure and navy and orange and majestic. I wanted to serve it and glorify my king and this institution. Alas, no. Not I but the vultures. How is it that carrion dominate? How is it that prestige trumps passion? How is it that title and gold trump heart and integrity? I lost respect for my home. I feel as if a stranger in my own walls. I gave more than sweat and blood and tears yet they were swept under the carpet to rot. Fester and rot. I hope my passion and time as leader was well spent, it was and always was for you, tiger, not me! Always! I sharpened your claws and defended your teeth until they ****** me. Why. This is not how it is supposed to be. I pray this love and three year passion was not for non. Not for me, not for nametags or orange jackets, not for titles or for comfort but for passion and unbridled love of the institution which ****** me have I served. I have yet to work through what I’ve learned through this but tonight I know a chapter has ended and it hurts. It’s not that the chapter ended and a period was placed and the next began, it’s the end of the climactical chapter and the next pages are blank. Existent, yes. But blank. And the white on the page pales in comparison to orange and blue. I hate white and it’s idle uncertainty. I hold the pen but tonight my hand was severed, my limbs they rot, and my heart is numb. I am jello and I am free. And I hate, with every inth of my fibrous being, this freedom. I miss my chains.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
Yeah, I've been going twenty-four rounds now.
About to go to round twenty-five.
Man, my body is beat to ****
Had more black eyes than can count.
My body felt different in round thirteen.
Brain rattled in round nineteen.
My opponent, I swear, keeps changing.
He'll throw body blows, jabs, hooks.
He got in a few head butts when the ref
was not looking. Evil SOB.
He thinks he has me on the ropes huh;
He knocked me down quite a lot.
Was almost counted out a few times
and I could see my life flashing before me.
But he should know.
I dont quit.
Throw your worst at me.
Because if this is all you got;
it's only a matter of time
before I knock you out.
This isn't about titles
or about money.
This is about standing up.
Fighting for those who I've lost.
Fighting for those who you
have knocked out.
So go ahead...do your worst.
Hell, we can even fight in the dark.
Because even in darkness,
I will be the light. A light,
who will shine for those
who are afraid of you.
Ring the bell again,
lets go another round.
The gloves are off big guy,
you are going down.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
my father is the worst sort of person.
he is the kind of person that will
make you feel loved, important, and
part of the family. he'll show you off
to friends and extended family like
a trophy and you will feel amazing.
the minute you step out of line, and
your perfection disappears, and humanity
shows, my father will abandon you,
strip your titles from you, tell you are
worth nothing and he'd rather see his own
daughter become homeless than let her
stay on his couch for eight weeks.
he has never been a father, he has been
a man that is willing to pay for things
once in a while if it will benefit him
but he will not take any blame and
he will not try to grow and he
will not love you unconditionally.
he will never be your father, and he
will never care and i have come to
accept that.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
Through the white, beating Texan heat,
water towers cry out titles
high above the flat land
where kids from the roadside houses
run around in stained tank tops,
dreaming of their own names up there.
The long and burnt grass cuts their ankles
and the dry cement scrapes their feet.
The midday ritual begins in a racing circle
raising dust over the roofs and into the shy afternoon.
Around 5, the roadside families reunite
in front of their houses to watch the daily traffic jam
and observe the variety of faces through the glass windows,
which after a short while do not seem to vary at all.
But today, something else had their full attention.
The sky was never seen this low and the clouds
turned a shade of black
so dark as to be almost green,
so the eldest women on that single row of houses
declared bad omen. The next early morning,
the closest water tower laid gravely against the ground.
Already, a small boy had climbed on top of the tank,
soles bleeding, and waving
his shirt into the wide clear sky.
©2018 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 12:54 PM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Whenever I go there everything is changed
The stamps on the bandages the titles
Of the professors of water
The portrait of Glare the reasons for
The white mourning
In new rocks new insects are sitting
With the lights off
And once more I remember that the beginning
Is broken
No wonder the addresses are torn
To which I make my way eating the silence of animals
Offering snow to the darkness
Today belongs to few and tomorrow to no one
4k
You were left behind
A victim of a mirage I’d stepped into
One yellow rain boot too deep.
You, slithering out of your cases
Scratched by the fading sunlight
Are my prized possession
For every moment you held inside
Was as carefree
As the words I spoke.
You were delicate artwork
not art as in paintings that were to be hung
carefully in the front of a museum
but the ones curling at the corners
slipping from underneath fridge magnets.
With my eyes pinned on the screen
seeping into my temples
Your naked feet fumbled with the sand
Fumbled with the hopping and twirling toes
of beach dancers
Fumble with the endless badges you have gained
over the ribbon on your chest
places you have gone
but, it is all as futile as it is alluring
sand is just tiny, little rocks
You will fade, these images
will fade from my memory
like the endless
titles in a bookstore
and I will return to my reflection
ingrained in silver circle.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:32 AM UTC
I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.
I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.
I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.
I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
1. I really tried
2. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough
3. Why did I always think everything was about me?
4. You were my angel
5. My demons were too strong
6. I never look people in the eyes because I'm afraid they'll see through my windows and see that there's not light inside
They'll see my secret pain
The monsters gain
Persuasion in the argument
If I should live or die
7. The mask wasn’t supposed to stay on forever but people seemed to like it better than my sadness and sadness doesn’t always cooperate with my plans. Like sometimes sadness just wants to stretch his legs across my face leaving traces that look like tired eyes and furrowed brows. Sadness, like water, will take the path of least resistance from the world to heart and back. Self-endulgend, sadness begs for hosts without every bothering to host the party because sadness doesn’t mind if he overstays his welcome.
8. I was 17 when he died, it has been eight years
9. If I can't win the fight to stay
If I lose and go my way
I have to believe things will be OK
Because your grief won't come
From the fact that I am gone
Maybe you'll think about what
We could have done to better get along
10. You won’t often think of me
So let me go, let me be free
Your mind is the sun
Confidence and clean
11. My mind is a terror
That doesn't deal in dream
In years to come, perhaps
You think of us
A memory we shared
12. I wish I let you in and feel a connection
Isolationist tendencies are decidedly not the best strategy
So my island is a prison
Not a blessed reclusion from the judgments of my mental illness
I'm simply in denial to any sickness at all
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
Indian Legends.
The Legend of Triambakeshwar
The supreme Lords, Brahma and Vishnu
On that auspicious day were fighting for the highest milestone
For honour
Claiming Wisdom
Voicing out their mighty combat impale
At that very moment, a resplendant pillar
Emerged, took form before them
Standing tall into the skies and stooping low spearing the Earth.
Brahma and Vishnu saw the pillar
As an examiner of infinite Wisdom
They both decided to find either end of the pillar
to prove their supreme position.
Brahma took form of a swan
to find the topmost portion of the pillar
Vishnu turns into a Boar, being the land's wild driller
to discover the bottom part of this pillar.
Brahma returns and lies to Vishnu
"I Have Found My Goal, 'O Vishnu"
Lord Vishnu surrenders with a humble heart
A fruitless effortless failure.
This pillar is no ordinary pillar
The Legend holds it as the sacred Linga
The Lord of Lords, the destroyer of Evil
The three-eyed one, the blue-throated one
Neelakanta,Shiva,Mrida,Rudra
Dayakara,Hara,Maheshwara
The Lord with 1008 titles of honour
Ageless, timeless, formless,
Limitless.
Shiva cursed Brahma that day dusk
**"Your foul deceit smells above this land, Brahmadev
Punishment is a part of crime.
You shall never be worshipped under the stone-carved.
Temples shan't have place for you"**
Brahma, enraged, growled upon the Lord
**"Your greatness shall be pushed into this Earth
Into the same pillar, the Linga!
At the foot of Sahyradri, your abode lies
from now,
till forever comes."**
Dear Fearless Devotee, know this that you must
On the dark midnight of this hand-chosen day
Maha Shivratri
The Holy Linga takes form as the Lingodbhav Moorti
At the blessed land of Triambakeshwara.
From underneath the Earth,
Like a descendant from the skies
The ruler of the seven worlds
Bhu, Bhuvas, Svar, Mahas, Janas, Tapas, Satya
The invincible source of destruction
Of the Seven Hells, Paatala
*Atala, Vitala, Sutala, Rasaataala, Talatala, Mahaatala,
The Patala.*
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC