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Chloe Chapman Mar 2017
THE FEAR OF NORMALITY
THE FEAR OF APATHY
THE FEAR OF ORDINARY
THE FEAR OF BORING
THE FEAR OF REPLACEABLE
THE FEAR OF SAMENESS
THE FEAR OF CLICHE
THE FEAR OF BANALITY
THE FEAR OF COMMON
THE FEAR OF DULL
THE FEAR OF SHALLOWNESS
THE FEAR OF TRITENESS
THE FEAR OF VAPID
THE FEAR OF UNORIGINAL
THE FEAR OF INSIPID
THE FEAR OF PRETENTIOUS
THE FEAR IN UNINSPIRING
THE FEAR OF TRIVIAL
THE FEAR OF AVERAGE
Just a few of my fears.. Spot the theme..
My limbs are gushing while I walk
down towards the seaside pier,
these endings and these beginnings
ascending again into mere cycles,
the rising and falling chest,
beating heart,
transcending

I walk
hand in hand with you, restated love,
the new and the old clothes we wear
wrapped around our breathless poses
our heads filled with thoughts
of rose ridden gardens, and of course
children dancing, playing games between
our spacious Pohutakawa branches
where you first taught me about romantics
without that rudimentary triteness
and you sitting, coffee in hand at the picnic table
swearing revolution is never possible
to I dancing, remarking
“you are such the cynic”
before grabbing you and twirling you
faster than the earth rotates

As we drift closer to the sea
the inconstant wind winds the clock to 10pm,
the minutes restoring those now withered days
of woollen coats, new music and Dunedin
I would stand behind you while you played the flute
thinking of that time
where we played in the rhododendrons
till dark; folding time folding into
my arms, the sky white and blue
juxtaposed against the trees
darkened spikes explore the sea
what was it? me, me, me,
of course, I see
and I
remember the melody

(lets go under the covers
we can play games in the dark
we could even try adding to
those stars on your ceiling)

so now, again, for a moment, we reappear
in this hour, this walk, this air
stilted, shaking
we resurface,
and soak in the watery soils of previous deluges
become something overwhelming,
something insoluble

here we are, on the Pier
at noon, dazed, defused
by a familiar grip on the fingers
index snug between the ring

“take me to the end”
“but darling,
we are going further than that”

before we jump
we tie our balloon to the pole

and promise to return, on horses
painted silver and brass

Hey, nice to see you here
come with me
lets watch the sunrise
from the beach,
I think I sense a revolution stirring
PK Wakefield Jan 2014
life, i cannot begin you to describe beyond my dreaming self your how divine moments of simple nothing.

your body is not, and i love it the how it is not. it is

and not it's


some muscles firing with hurt
seething to ache
so horribly
wondrous. it's driving

to the beach

too early in morning and you're heads not clear the sky is so wide and the sun is barely. it is

the uncurling of your fingers between
dishwater
and the winsome triteness
of the caving instant of your breath
caching in your throat
as you realize the dying
of your frail self,

clutching furiously the mundane heady song
of a coffee cup

(and in perfect silence emitting
the most enormous roar
of surging electric stillness)                                .    Life

you are half terribly
painful to. and life, you
are half splendorous to ****

sweating in the heap of your
car behind

the creeping sweep
of raging vein. Life

you are perhaps nothing. But lifE

you are the most,

and nothing hurriedly to slowly
take between the unutterably tiny *******
of snowgirls

their coldest song of closing lips,

and speak something hot

(something big).
Spending my time in some kind
of euphoria.
Some shallow lyrics for you.
But I know they're not boring you.

The triteness of radio songs has been around for so long.
It's a wonder why they're considered
meaningful at all.

I hate the radio.
Jabin Jun 2018
The children, they don't need us.
In fact, they repeat us.
And what ungodly error.
Collecting our wounds en masse,
spreading our crimes so fast-
continuous looping terror.

We spit upon the face of the devil
and bring ourselves right to his level,
pray for consuming ignition.
With triteness we scheme for money,
and laugh at things unfunny
to dodge the hard decision.

**** me, my God I'm not ready.
This burden feels so heavy.
But will it save all creation?
My child, I love so dearly.
I see what love is so clearly,
and gained such appreciation.

Remorseful I am for pain I've caused.
With arrogance, I've rarely paused
to accept the pain of my brother.
And in my soul harbored hatred
and never known what is sacred,
Blamed this disease on father and mother.

What shall we do now to gain redemption?
Life's too vast for our comprehension.
Apes that we are, we continue to wrestle.
*******, we **** those who're different.
Though we fall from a common descendant.
I pray to our God, re-brandish the pestle.  

Live for each other, I'll tell her.
Into *******, I'll never sell her.
But unto the enemy, I'll submit.
And those who subscribe discrimination,
and from torture derive their elation.
I tell you the truth, you're all full of it.
Isn’t interesting how much fear we hide even from ourselves? I think that if we’re mentally healthy people, this world and living in it is a terrifying experience. The thought of our inevitable death alone is enough to humble anyone, if they let it. Some people are stronger, and some are weaker. Some pretend to be strong, so they don’t appear weak. That is a dangerous path. When you start deriving your self identity from the thoughts of others, you become as weak as a person can be. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to be angry. We have to accept these realities, and if we do, I think we can begin to accept each other more thoroughly. We just have to realize that we all have control over our own lives and our own selves. Look deep into your being and seek out the truth. Let it guide you, because lies are stumbling blocks no matter how you slice it. The sooner we become more comfortable with the truth and the telling of it, the sooner we can actually deal with our problems in a healthy way. I think a lot of violence, depression, anger, etc. could be avoided if we made honesty more of a priority in our lives. And the truth is, we will fail in this quest from time to time, but it's one of those things that gets easier the more you do it. And you will feel much better about yourself if, when you realize you are wrong in a particular moment, you are able to openly admit your error out loud. It doesn't feel good in the moment to be sure, but pulling those weeds up as soon as they sprout will always help ensure a more healthy garden. There is an idea that everyone lies, and that might even be true, but by repeating that mantra throughout the generations, all we do is justify our own dishonesty, because hey, everybody's doing it. Do not be afraid. You might lose friends or even family over honesty, but sacrifice is a fact of life. And who's to say that your influence won't open their own eyes, leading you both down a path to a better relationship in the end?
Terry Collett Mar 2015
After all that time
There is a sense of triteness in the air,

With no care for observation
Beyond the norm;

No desire for dreams to storm
Sombre sleep. No consolation

Needed for inaction,
No satisfaction sought because

None desired, beyond the satisfactory.
No temptation tried or if tasted

No tainted with trying
Beyond the trite.

After all that time
There is a sense of death in the air.
AN OLD POEM CIRCA 1987.
Vladimir Dec 2018
What is beauty, but the sparkle in Her eyes?
But the infinite, eternal path to travel?
What is beauty, but the hues, the ice, the fire –
All the elements Her being can unravel?

What’s a Woman, but a Goddess to behold?
To support, to help, adore and love, admire?
And perhaps to fathom never – young or old…
But to save us from the triteness and the mire.

What’s a Woman, but the beauty of this world?
Slight correction: of this Universe, and others…
But a being above the compliments and words,
Even words that best of poets care to father.

Let us thank Her for the spark, the love, the fire –
Thank in deed, and then shut up, and just admire…
jeffrey robin Sep 2015
.


( According to the poems of HP )

:::

love is the choosing of some soulless  human body

To be played with

Toyed with

&

Disingenuously glorify  

until

Like any other childhood toy

One gets bored with it

And discards

"""

Love is just a superficial

Desire

To have and possess

It is a feeling that never deepens

Only one that weakens

With familiarity

Until it dies under the weight

Of its inherent triteness

//
Jamie Richardson May 2020
Do I shake myself from sleep? Awake,
I see you there, or do I dream
of that swift peck swooping in
as you pack a sandwich, and shoo me out a door:
'Mustn't be late for school!'
The triteness of finality still frames you,
standing once more on the threshold
altogether, like something meant to last.
Going to School
  
My school days was not a happy one,
although history and writing was interesting
I wrote that my father had a herd of camels
in Morocco, but math eluded me.
Something like, a baker who has two eggs and flour
how many cakes does he make? Who the hell is
am I supposed to know.
The after school was more interesting I biked
around pretending to be an explorer and
played detective with scant success.
When not doing that the local library was my plank
from the triteness every day of poverty.
They knew me well at the library I can still smell
the books and the world they brought me.
Alas, the one I used has been closed down the politicians
of today always save money for the wrong thing.

— The End —