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she dwells in sorrow, every waking minute
she dwells in sorrow, every waking minute
tears scald her cheeks, there is no respite
tears scald her cheeks, there is no respite
there is no respite, she dwells in sorrow
every waking minute, tears scald her cheeks

the bow of grief wraps her, it doesn't untie
the bow of grief wraps her, it doesn't untie
she is locked in sadness, the doleful pall
she is locked in sadness, the doleful pall
she is locked in sadness, the bow of grief wraps her
the doleful pall, it doesn't untie

oh for the sun's face of glee, her heart being unburdened
oh for the sun's face of glee, her heart being unburdened
the loss and pain, to be lifted from her soul
the loss and pain, to be lifted from her soul
her heart being unburdened, the loss and pain
to be lifted from her soul, oh for the sun's face of glee

she is locked in sadness, the loss and pain
it doesn't untie, there is no respite
she dwells in sorrow, the doleful pall
tears scald her cheeks, the bow of grief wraps her
to be lifted from her soul, oh for the sun's face of glee
every waking minute, her heart being unburdened
jane taylor May 2016
precious innocent soul
skipping rocks
on cobblestone roads
vulnerable untarnished pure
no residue of earthly soil

return me to that naiveté
unburdened by layers
of fake masks
and perfect capped teeth
in narcissistic societies

but I shan’t grasp
at ethereal edges
of nebulousness
and ephemeral

i shall endure
what I abhor
a master’s soul
cannot be forged
in paradise

wisdom’s essence
‘tis not pristine white
hints of ivory
tinge the effervescence
of the sage’s breath

Alyssa Underwood Jul 2017
The joyful heart is the buoyant heart—
empowered to rise above its circumstances,
unweighted, unburdened, unbound,
tied only to that which would lift it higher,
untethered from anything which would
pull it down, pull it under or suffocate it.

It's the free heart, quiet and at rest
yet jubilant and uncontained,
the celebrating heart, the praising heart,
the thankful heart, the heart set on pilgrimage,
bent on adventure, journey and romance.

All the while it's a waiting heart
because it's a yielded, led heart—
a heart which doesn't run ahead of the LORD
but willingly, quickly to the LORD—
a heart that though eagerly anticipating each
twisting turn, next horizon and changing path
keeps its eyes fixed not on the scenery
but forever on the Shepherd
because it's a heart persuaded
that He alone is the Great Reward
for which it has always been looking.

True joy is only ours when we find an endless
source of satisfaction, and of these I know only One!
The secret to all joy is to crave Him above all else.
The joyful heart is the one addicted fully to Him,
desperate for Him to the expense of all else,
willing to sacrifice everything to have that craving satisfied.

Joy and idols, I have learned,
do not easily reside together in the same heart.
So if I find that joy is chased away
the most likely culprits are my own desires.
What am I wanting more than Jesus?
For if intimacy with Him is the supreme goal of my life
then nothing can arise which I'm not enabled to bear with joy.
There is, I suppose, nothing so reliable as suffering and loss
to expose all of the hidden idols within me.

It's surely those who have suffered the greatest
and most frequent losses for Christ who are also
most capable of knowing the deepest and most abiding joy.
For it's when we've been stripped bare of everything else
that we begin to know for certain that our joy is based
not on the temporary blessings of our circumstances
but only on the presence of the Eternal Blesser Himself.

Sometimes He offers to us all that is in His right hand,
but for any with eyes truly opened to see
the most precious of times may be those
when He offers to us only the intimacy of His right hand.

Rivers of sadness can open up
into wide gulfs of endless delight and
are often the very courses needed to carry us there.
When all is lost, we find to our amazement
that, even so, we still have ALL
and no one can rob us of it.
When He takes everything from us
He proves Himself to be EVERYTHING to us.

"For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain."
~ Philippians 1:21

"I want you to know how hard I am contending
for you...and for all who have not met me personally.
My goal is that they may be encouraged in heart
and united in love, so that they may have the full riches
of complete understanding, in order that they may know
the mystery of God, namely, Christ, in whom are hidden
all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge."
~ Colossians 2:1-3

"I say to the LORD, 'You are my Lord;
    apart from You I have no good thing.'...
Those who run after other gods will suffer more and more...
    LORD, You alone are my portion and my cup;
    You make my lot secure...
I will praise the LORD, who counsels me;
    even at night my heart instructs me.
I keep my eyes always on the LORD.
    With Him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.
Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;
    my body also will rest secure...
You make known to me the path of life;
    You will fill me with joy in Your presence,
    with eternal pleasures at Your right hand."
~ Psalm 16:2,4a-5,7-9,11

"Though the fig tree does not bud
    and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
    and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
    and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the LORD,
    I will be joyful in God my Savior.
The Sovereign LORD is my strength;
    He makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
    He enables me to tread on the heights."
~ Habakkuk 3:17-19

"How lovely is Your dwelling place,
     O LORD Almighty!
My soul yearns, even faints,
    for the courts of the LORD;
my heart and my flesh cry out
    for the living God.
Even the sparrow has found a home,
    and the swallow a nest for herself,
    where she may have her young—
a place near Your altar,
     O LORD Almighty, my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in Your house;
    they are ever praising You.
Blessed are those whose strength is in You,
    whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.
As they pass through the Valley of Baca,
    they make it a place of springs;
    the autumn rains also cover it with pools.
They go from strength to strength,
    till each appears before God in Zion."
~ Psalm 84:1-7

Justin Howerton Nov 2015
Unburdened quite like the breeze of the car window
Or the sudden stop to prevent the inevitable downfall
Unburdened by the squares on the bigger squares,
and the bigger squares within that, but still workin' on that
Unburdened by the acceptance of many
Burdened by the acceptance of the close
Rotations upon more rotations often leads me back to the place where I was, and it is not so good as it once was
But finally unburdened by the lying learning licks of losers
So that is a good thing especially between us
Sometimes it calls out for me to grow back to the depravity of isolation and meditation where the struggle to find oneself was no struggle at all
The refusal of this offer only angers it more with a rage so primordial and ancient that the understanding of it is limited
So I am burdened with my own thoughts and there it will remain except when
Those rare glimpses of ethereal authenticity pass me by through a wall
Austin Heath Apr 2014
I don’t think history is romantic.

I’m “American”; this means I’m unburdened

with having to be nationalistic or patriotic.

Don’t have to be prideful about hundreds of

years of ******* and mythology.

It means I might hate Bukowski,

but I find him way less repulsive

than Shakespeare. I had to stab a

pathetic sense of “spirituality”

[religion?] in a public place with prejudice,

to truly gain a sense of enlightenment in

pure hopelessness. Something like that.

I might be deaf to some other culture,

but I’m hearing megaphones in America.
Amitav Radiance May 2015
The heart’s not homebound
Wanderlust soul seeks to travel
Through the enormous universe
Feel the harmony of cosmic energy
This heart wants to travel beyond
Like an unburdened soul, with valor
Veer away from the usual path
Prepare for the eternal travel
Multiple destinations and one purpose
To enter the wormhole of space
Traveler always and enjoy the cosmic circle
Whirlwind of a tour of the vast eternity
The heart’s not homebound
Terry Collett May 2012
It’s not the sort of house
You’d want to go to again,
Mildred said, the smell hits
You first, the kind of smell
That climbed in your nose
And didn’t leave for days.

She sipped her wine and
Sat down on the couch,
Carefully holding the glass
With her other ringed hand.

There was an unhappy
Feel About the place as
You entered in, a feel
Of neglect. She looked
At the black and white
Mat under the coffee
Table, at the books lying
There: Fashion books, art,
How to Dress for the Occasion.

We found the first child
Drowned in a bath, the hair
Was floating there on the
Water’s skin.  Someone sort
Of sobbed or maybe they
Didn’t, seemed as though
They had. The second child
Was lying beneath a blanket
Where they’d suffocated.

That’s where the main smell
Came from. She breathed in
And smelt pine air freshener
That Caser used in his house,
She wanted to smoke, pull
Out a cigarette and light up,
But didn’t. The third child,
Baby really, was stiff in a cot.

Unfed, unwashed, a token of
Neglect. Someone pulled back
Curtains, light broke through
Darkness, lit up the sad scene;
Another nearby let out a cry,
The under the breath kind.

She pushed her knees together
As if about to give birth to a
Different tale, her hands played
With the glass, a finger tapped
The side. The mother was found
In a darkened room, wrists slit,
OD’d days back, slouched in a
Chair, dressed in death and black.  

Had sleepless nights after, she
Said, ought to be used to, but
You never are, kind of gets
Under the radar. Caser looked
At her sitting there, her hair
Pulled in a bun, her eyes looking
Up at the Picasso print he’d bought.

She had told him at last. She had
Unburdened herself of the one
Last thing that she couldn’t tell
Him at the psychiatric sessions
They’d had at his in town clinic.

Never did like Picasso, she said,
Turning away, putting down the
Glass, as of nothing more to say.

Caser watched her as she got up,
Brushed down her dress, sighed
And walked down the hall, left
His apartment, victim of the Fall.
Brandon Mar 2012
The jaguar of your tongue
Slithers and stalks to desolate locations
Unburdened by the guilt of temptations
Burning deep in the gullet of desires
Forsaken by the drawings of cave paintings
Clawed ragged breath discipline
Polaroid flawlessness beneath the Blood Moon
One wild summer
At night-the light turned off, the filament
Unburdened of its atom-eating charge,
His wife asleep, her breathing dipping low
To touch a swampy source-he thought of death.
Her father's hilltop home allowed him time
To sense the nothing standing like a sheet
Of speckless glass behind his human future.
He had two comforts he could see, just two.

One was the cheerful fullness of most things:
Plump stones and clouds, expectant pods, the soil
Offering up pressure to his knees and hands.
The other was burning the trash each day.
He liked the heat, the imitation danger,
And the way, as he tossed in used-up news,
String, napkins, envelopes, and paper cups,
Hypnotic tongues of order intervened.
A shell
Magic overcoat of ignorance
Bought on the illusion
Of warmth and solace.
Comfort to my spirit
So I thought.
Once armor to protect
Now captive and chained.
Downward spiral
As gravity pulls me.
Weighting my soul
Hardening my spirit.
No freedom to unburden
My flesh, my shell.
Always hiding the true,
The real, my soul.
Now unmasked from the torture
Of my self made fight.
Freedom comes-
Unburdened and Light!

           Copyrighted 1/3/2000
King Panda Sep 2017
a little boy sits on
the top of a staircase

his laden, waterlogged
eyelashes droop

his vision fogs
with salt

his heart pulses hot/cool

throughout the body

there are missing

no mother
no father

no brother
only boy

locked in house
too scared to sleep

while snowflakes
fall in unfettered

there is joy in storm

if one can see it
through the tears

there is comfort
to be had once

the emotion cools
and tree branches are

unburdened from the
weight of ice

movement happens
up the stairs

dear sister
who the boy forgot

was there
places her hand

upon the boy’s
quivering back

"We call it snow
when the parts of God,

too small to bear, contest our bodies"

and angels tell us
to taste the tears

before they freeze
on our red-rubbed

here, taste your tears

says sister.
*they’re salty, aren’t they?
not all these words are mine.
the stanzas in quoted italics are taken from Max Ritvo's poem, Snow Angels.
All of you should read his only collection of poetry titled, Four Reincarnations. It is amazing.
SG Holter Dec 2017
Even as dying, I have no time
For bitterness.

Life was too short,
Even before.

Each step holds gratitude for the sound
Of snow beneath it.


I carry my passenger

Say no to nothing. Not
Even the cancer.

Even tomorrow's mother's tears,
Father's clenched fists upon casket;

Flowers; loss. Inevitability.
Death grows inside me.

The opposite of a
Ski Jumping**

Leaning forward, body parallel to the skis
arms neatly by the side
hands pressed in tight; flat
down the ***** he goes into the unknown
flying free
for a few moments
landing as far as he can
then arms aloft in triumph.
How do you begin such a journey?
Armchair bound we are
never to speed down the icy *****
eyes and goggles peering down and down
ready to fly, see the sky.
Yet in a moment we can be there
down the ***** in our minds
unburdened from reality
no years of practice or skis to heft
no chance of failure.
We can fly on the ski ***** of the mind
an adventure of the imagination
synapses firing neurons glowing
and so let it be with death and life
down the ***** jumping, arms aloft
into tomorrow, into the unknown
alone, down the *****, jumping.

Malcolm F. Davidson October 11th 2013
Isabel Aghahowa Jun 2019
no longer will i live ashamed
of the love i have for the beauty of ***
it leans so closely towards the soul
resting upon its aura

Until proven otherwise
i will continue to live alone with this newfound
pride and fortune
for it will never end this bold admiration i have
for the human body and the many things it creates and devours within itself
all for the purpose of pleasure and satisfaction
i cannot help but be deeply inspired by it all
feel overwhelmed by its thunderous aesthetic brilliance

We breathe into fear
we grow into darkness
and out of a primal and immovable void
as if it was meant to be left unknown
and stuffed into the dark

Often ruined by our tendency to overthink
often degraded or stolen
misjudged and maltreated
no longer is *** ethereal at heart
it now comes with intentions we dig to find
and learn to detest, intensely digest, or ponder
wonderfully and soulfully until it is all rotten

I hope to one day witness fearlessness
and untouched salvation  
beneath the spirit of an *******
a moment unfolded and left unstretched
by time and heavy worries committed to by energy and time
I hope to one day become unburdened and understood
left unspoken for
for these are my words on S E X

One does not have to participate to appreciate its effervescent presence in spaces
it is eternal and wonders like God amongst men
We were blessed and we shall be thankful
for when it is felt in full
by as many as necessary
don't know where this came from honestly but i really like it!
if you find one happiness
like the barrel on your head
loaded with a pocket of air for you to breathe

then you know that if you sink
to atmospheric tides
you must find fresher barrels
when the novelty declines
and the oxygen gives way
to the oceanic brine

for the last moments of time
you’re chin-up on a water bed
the water cradles your esophagus
and then you find you surely must
find some fresher air to breathe

but to search is to be dissatisfied
to question once is to imply
that everything can be replied
with answers and with truth

that bucket on your head
running out of salty air
to stay is to slip into death
like listening to the ocean in a seashell
till slow blood flows in too few waves

but could you not also swim?
abandon the comfortable end
for the off chance that some underwater shelter
will serve you shots of oxygen?

the funny thing you find
when you let dying pleasure go
and you’re suspended, all alone
the gas trapped beneath
was too stale for you to breathe
but enough to buoy the unburdened barrel
into swiftly surfacing
HJV Mar 2019
You share your words, I cup my ears.
You shed your shell, I catch your tears.

When life goes awry, wisdom gives bliss.
I hold your face, forehead graced with kiss.

My words are calm, warm, and tranquil.
I'm gentle, understanding; tell me how you feel.

You're unburdened, cumbersome no more.
Uplifted you thank me and say your peace.
I'm alone again, but it's better now. I'm sure.
Wings flap; I close my eyes and feel the breeze.

Their once storms, now but a gust.
Shepard their dragons, I must.

Their dragons are slain, the fire is gone.
I shoulder their pain, my words drawn.

As they sleep, I sit and gaze at the stars.
I'm arrested, their beauty. Oh, how they glisten.
Frankly, I weep as I'm fighting their wars.
As dark as the night may fall, I'll always listen.

To whose ears may I profess?
Am I not too, simply a mess?

No one to be me, for the father.
Everyday, the man seems closer yet farther.

Who is there when it all seems so bad?
I know who I am, the man, my own dad.
My father passed away 6 years ago. No one stood up to be a father for my younger brother and I, so I took the responsibility upon myself.
Katey Nov 2018
Soft gray clouds wrap around me,
Embracing me like I've always dreamed
Brushing against my skin like a hundred butterfly kissed.

Whispers emanate from them,
Come with us, you won't have to hurt anyone anymore
Come, fly away and be free from the guilt holding you down

Looking back on all of the people whom I would leave,
A soft reminder comes in the form of a breeze,
     Remember your promises
Then fades away.

I can't leave. And not for them, for me.
Come again when my true time has come
Until then I'll learn to fly on my own.

The clouds drift away, turning darker as they go
The guilt of a thousand years falls away
Like manacles on an innocent prisoner

I may not fly with the clouds,
I might never fly,
But when I do
It will be an unburdened flight
Argentum Jan 2015
when the sun surrendered
to the moon's seductive words of sleep
into my mind did
I delve deep--
I visited my memories
Piled carelessly on shelves
An endless library of my emotions,actions and reactions
which with every new day evolved
"Tell me,"I ask,"what is happiness again?for I've forgotten
what it's like to be free
Of gloom,to be unburdened."
"You still know joy,"my memories whispered,"we know you remember.
"We see what you see,hear what you hear,and make it somewhat sadder or sweeter."
"It's almost left my life,"I retort.
"I am idle with indifference,
I can't feel pain nor joy;why chance
pain by living your life at all
when you cannot feel other emotions?Why not just die?
Why bother?"
"Because there is always a way out,"
my memories reply."There's a door,
a ladder,a vent,a reaching hand.You
may be imprisoned,but there's more
to a prison than hopelessness and locks.all locks have keys,now you
must find yours;before you lose your way;there's no going back if you do."

with that in mind,I went home and dreamed of leaving;leaving the confines of the system,leaving my
sorrows behind me.
Vicki Kralapp Dec 2014
I marvel at this broken child who lived inside of me,
who struggled for so many years just longing to be free.

To live a life unburdened by my dark and early years,
that made my youth a living hell wrapped in unspoken fears.

My haunted past and broken heart could never quite recall,
the missing piece tucked safely back behind a guarded wall.

So well my mind protected me from all those silent fears,
that n'er did I suspect what lie behind those childhood tears.

Like the ghost it was, it came to me to haunt me in the night,
and brought me to my knees when life refused to treat me right.

Then suddenly, though sent by God, you've given me the key,
To open up these long locked doors and set my spirit free.

Now each sweet day is filled with so much joy and hope I find,
that little girl, so happy now, is dancing in my mind!
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
We look for Satan with the same intensity
that my mom and dad looked for God.

In retrospect
my parents were always pushing me to expand my consciousness
by huffing glue or gasoline
or chewing peyote buttons.
Simply because they'd done their time,
wasted their teen years
lolling in the muddy fields of Vermont
and the salt flats of Nevada,
naked except for rainbow face paints
and a thick coating of sweaty filth,
their heads festooned
with fifty pounds of fetid dreadlocks,
teeming with crab lice
and pretending to find enlightenment...
That does NOT mean I have to make the same mistake.

Sorry, Satan,
once again I've said the G-word.

Without breaking stride,
Leonard nods and points
to indicate the former deities of now-defunct cultures,
now warehoused in the underworld.
Among them: Benoth,
a god of the Babylonians;
an idol of the Philistines;
goddess of the Sidonians;
the god of the Hevites.

My suspicion
is that my parents treasure their sordid recollection
of episodes at Woodstock and Burning Man
not because those pastimes led to wisdom,
but because such folly
was inseparable from a period of their lives
when they were young
and unburdened by obligation;
they had free time, muscle tone,
and their futures still looked like a great, grand adventure.
both my mother and father had been free of social status
and therefore had nothing to lose by cavorting ****,
their swollen genitals smeared with muck.

because they had ingested drugs and flirted with brain damage,
they insisted I should do likewise.
I was forever opening my boxed lunch at school
to discover a cheese sandwich,
a carton of apple juice,
carrot sticks,
and a five-hundred-milligram Percocet.
Tucked within my Christmas stocking
--not that we celebrated Christmas--
would be three oranges,
a sugar mouse, a harmonica,
and quaaludes.
In my Easter basket
--not that we called the event Easter--
instead of jelly beans,
I'd find lumps of hashish.
Would that I could forget the scene at my twelfth birthday party
where I flailed at a piñata,
wielding a broomstick in front of my peers
and their respective
former-hippie, former-rasta,
former-anarchist throwback parents.
The moment the colorful papier-mâché burst,
instead of Tootsie Rolls or Hershey's Kisses,
everyone present
was showered with Vicodins,
Darvons, Percodans,
amyl nitrate ampoules,
LSD stamps,
and assorted barbiturates.
The now wealthy,
now-middle-aged parents
were ecstatic,
while my little friends and I couldn't help
but feel a tad bit cheated.

and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to understand
that very few twelve-year-olds
would actually enjoy attending
a clothing-optional birthday party.

Some of the most gruesome images in Hell
seem downright laughable
when compared to seeing an entire generation of adults
stripped **** and wrestling on the floor,
grasping and panting in frantic competition
for a scattered handful of codeine capsules.
This is a found poem. I found it in Chuck Palahniuk's ******.

Madison is the thirteen-year-old daughter of a movie star and billionaire who wakes up, dead, in Hell. She soon finds herself and her nearby cell mates, who make up an almost Breakfast Club of the ******-like group, journeying through Hell to discover just exactly why they've all ended up there.
Burning Lilacs Apr 2018
It is strange to move unburdened.
Feet so light that
with each step they shoot high up to the sky,
Threatening to kick the teeth out,
or rip my thighs' tendons,
Restraint so foreign to them.

Quite curious my hands feel
released from the duty of holding me together.
Consumed by bittersweet emptiness
As they confusedly try to grasp
something, anything to hold onto or
at least the meaning of what "freedom" actually is.

So please be patient
as I stumble around in this awkward body.
You see, the me this free wasn't here for growing up
So I'm just beginning learning how to
align feeling with being
All Right
MdAsadullah Dec 2014
Yesterday my childhood came.
Playing and jumping around.
Unburdened, without any aim.
I kept on looking, spellbound.

With half eaten oblong eclair.
He ran after the goats herd.
Stopped to look at the hare.
And scared the tiny blue bird.

He moved slily to catch butterflies.
And plucked flowers from a tree.
I kept looking with yearning eyes.
Baffled, surprised he looked at me.

He ran towards the narrow ravine.
And disappeared into bushes green.
Sara Macey Nov 2012
What is freedom?

Is it the choices we are free to make?
Is it the paths we are able to take?
Or is it to live devoid of lies?
Our right to be without disguise?

What is freedom?

A wrist, unburdened by chains?
A mind, unblemished by stains?
Or happiness attained by few,
Happiness that pulls us through?

What is freedom?

Perhaps it is the leaf that dances in the breeze,
Or the wind that rushes through the trees,
The wolf, howling its dreadful song,
Or the bird, whose travels are long?

What is freedom?

Perhaps it is the relationships we make,
Rather the relationships we break,
Or maybe ignoring what’s at stake,
Not dwelling on each and every mistake?

What is freedom?

Is the way we choose to live what makes us free?
Not creating the you we expect you to be?
Or siezing the moments before they pass?
Not letting the days escape all to fast?

What is freedom?
OC Dec 2018
A picture of your mother
dull colors of a bygone era
a polaroid born faded
a memory bestowed upon you by another
a hearsay tale long lost in time
more far than you can count on fingers
she smiles
a smile reserved for the unburdened
you wonder when this woman is
she looks happy

A finger painting of your mother
all colors watered down
a reminder that you must
some things carry more meaning
other need meaning poured onto them
cupped like water in both hands
presented to a lip-cracked child
some water saturate the soul
while keeping others thirsty
some colors are skin deep

Your mother, wrapped in blankets
in an almost vacant bed
her paint, dry and life-bleached
you sit with her
through all these final hours
watching as the outer coating
peels off and settles to the floor
solemnly, you sweep the flakes
an acolyte on hallow ground
choosing the most beautiful
pasting to a piece of paper
crafting the image of a woman
that once could have been
your mom
Was hesitant to upload this for a while now, as it feels a bit to personal. Written for a friend.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
before i pull this one out of my *** (again - listen, these words are not coming from either head or heart, it's best to pull them from the bowels, a gut-wrenching-feeling is more potent than that "something" that "something" delusional pulled from a clenched heart... as far as i know, the brain is incapable of emotions, it doesn't understand them, and since it doesn't understand them: it ridicules them)... which brings me to point:

(a) perhaps the idea of a soul is out-dated... why wouldn't it be, 21g worth of breath does not equal a soul... hence the autopsy of man, each detail studied seperately, the cardiologist knows the heart, the neurologist the brain etc., but some items work in a solipsistic mode... the heart is robotic, automaton pump queen (and not the kind of pump you'd get from Shveeden) - thump thump thump! come to think of it, most of our bodies are robotic, automated... lucky for me: i don't have to think about the heart doing what it does, it just per se does it... i'm not even sure i'm gifted with the a.i. brain functions... but there's an underlying principle that governs all of these items... some call it the self... i prefer: the Σ ultimatum... some would call it soul... but there has to be something akin to the Σ ultimatum that allows me to become detached from this body, while at the same time be bound to it: high blood pressure, heart attack on the horizon... take the high blood pressure pills... ****... what was (b)? oh... yes...

(b) i'm sorry, virginity doesn't cut it for me, lucky me that it was isabella of grenoble that allowed me to move aside from: god, prior to losing my virginity.... roxette: do you feel excited, you're still the one (shanaia twain), fade to black - metallica... i was such a romantic before i lost this dreaded curse... i was a romantic... 19th century style romanticism... but you really can see past this sort of romanticism unless you haven't ******... these days the right complains about cultural marxism: plenty of things to complain about... it makes as much sense as a pickle in a dollop of custard... or cooking with pale indian ale to make a stew: bad idea... wine, brandy, cider? fine... beer? terrible idea to cook with... but unless you haven't lost your virginity, you can't see what cultural marxism chose as its opponent: cultural darwinism... you know how little you hear about darwinism outside of the english speaking world? zero to none, yes, it's an accepted fact, but this fact does not permeate outside of the fact per se, the fact contains itself and the whole subsequent narrative because subconsciously stored... no other people than the people who found it ensure there are subplot proof statements of a reconfirmation of the validity... the whole social science bogus trap of rating people on looks... contradicting the meritocracy of that old Socratic saying: let me be as beautiful on the inside as on the outside... if you haven't ******: you're still the same old romantic i was at puberty... once you ****... well... cultural marxism dwarfs... yes yes it's there... so? but at the same time you can at least appreciate seeing the antithesis: cultural darwinism... the romantic needs to die the most carnal death via experience... all my ideals were shattered, this perfection of woman... i very much liked the idea / not even the ideal of a woman... but when the idea fizzled out and there was no ideal to begin with... i saw cultural darwinism for the very first time and... it was as ugly as cultural marxism so heavily criticized by the conservative right of the west... so... i decided to walk the middle ground, ignoring both sides (of the argument).

(c) i wouldn't have come up with a point see, unless my favorite square schematic didn't pop into my mind, Kantian, as ever: the best philosophy is the antithesis of English pragmatism and overt-politicisation, so it has to be German, ergo? i will not explain these terms, i figured: if i nail a decent example to fit each category, that's enough: since you can then visualize the concept via the example:

analytical a priori                           synthetic a priori
there's a need to throw                   learning
a ball at                                                to throw a ball
a target                                                 at a target once
                                                            ­  the need has been
                                                            ­  established...

synthetic a posteriori                    analytical a posteriori
there's a  need to                           perfecting to throw
      throw a ball at                               a ball at a target
a target, in order
to perfect this need...

                                            baseball..­. cricket...
at least: that's how i define knowledge of something
simple without having to use mathematics
that Kant used to explain... 2 + 2 = 4...
mathematics isn't exactly a man's best friend
at explaining philosophy...
you write philosophy that alligns itself
to mathematics... no wonder: moths in books...
yawns, unfinished works...
i found that sports work just as well
as mathematics... and you have the already
primitive objects to work with...
rather than pseudo-objects: i.e. numbers...
the abstracts of perception: i'm actually 6ft2...
not 6ft1... karolína plíšková is 6ft1...
       as noted when watching her today...

  i'll admit, i'm always a bit shaky when it comes
to this sqaure, whether it's over-simplified,
notably the top left corner: analytical a priori,
i'm always of a mindset that wants to associated
this definition with: analytical a- priori...
  i.e. borrowing from atheism:
    to analyse something without there
being a prior to example...
               analysis without a prior example...
i guess that's the mojo of science... the driving force...
back to sports... bow and arrow...
   tools: target...
       whether a bow and arrow and a deer
to begin with...
or a hand and ball and a wicket to end with...

there's a need to throw                  
a ball at a target...

            and cricket was the precursor of
baseball, but prior to cricket?
   there was archery...
              and prior to archery...
   there was forever a fundamental need,
e.g. to go from point X to point Z...
   see... as much as Kant wanted...
   numbers don't really solve the "problem"
of explaining something: algebra would be
better suited... x + y = z...
                    with numbers either hovering
above, or below (in the instance of chemistry's

talking of squares... sūdoku...
well, if at any time the french were to receive a hard-on
in terms of inventing something,
the english: rugby, cricket, football, tennis...
the french really did read some of the hebrew
qabbalah literature, as i am doing...
magic squares...
       the secular version of this puzzle
first appeared on july 6, 1895 (the modern version)...

it came to us from India and China...
again... why do western cultural darwinists
always tell our genesis from
the perspective of: "out of Africa"?
aren't there elephants in India?
            i will not believe i originated in Africa,
i'm not an "out of Africa" sorry state of
incompetence... i place my origins in
the sub-continent... at least that's where my
current language originates from...
the great migration across the Siberian tundra,
rather than some African savannah...
after all the Bangladeshi and the Sri Lankans
(the tear of India) resemble burnt cinnamon
in tone, some even as dark skinned as
east africans...
   if the germanic people want to stick to
the "out of Africa" narrative (notably the English):
let them have it... i place my origins in

   never mind, now i'll write a name's dropping
history of how july 6th, 1895 happened...
the "magic" squares...

    from either India or China (chess from India)...
moschopulus of contantinople
  introduced them (the "magic" squares)
in the early 1400s... apparently ancient qabbalists
had knowledge of them
  (so... a trip well spent)...
                             rabbi joseph tzayah (1505 - 1573)
magnum opus: responsa...
             rabbi joseph castro: avkat rokhel...
tzayah in jerusalem wrote his major work
Evven HaShoham (the onyx stone) - 1538 -
   a year later the book: tzeror ha-chaim discussing
the Talmud: he never really bothered about
the Zohar...
               the hebrai word for "letters": otiot...
divided into two:
                         tav aleph (a line of aleph)
and tav yod (a line of yod)...
                   one is to never concentrate
upon the keter within the realm of the sefirot...
hence the matisyahu expression:
   king without a crown...
                         one example of a "magic" square
later dictated into a 9 x 9 newspaper puzzle?
      2     9     4
      7     5     3
      6     1     8     (up down across = 15...
my date of birth? 15th may 1986,
no coincidence, just stating an oblivion's
worth of a "point)... 15 x 3 = 45...
   and that's about as significant as any
                               insignificance can be...

album of choice?
    old horn tooth - from the ghost grey depths...

and without even associating the arabs
to the hebrai practice of gamatria,
i once inquired an old pakistani (who tried to convert me)
what: Alif, Lam, Meem
implied in the opening of the al-baqarah sutra
   he replied: god knew...
        so i thought, you don't know what
alif (letter) what lam (letter) and meem (also a letter)
means? you have to search for god
for the answers? good look making me into
a proselyte... mind you:
if the jews abhor proselytes,
while the muslims are so so oh so *******
welcoming... isn't that a tad bit suspicious?
how can a muslim convert me
when he can't explain to me what
alif lam and meem implies at the opening
of al-baqarah?!
            let's play some hijāʾī order game...
and the three letters...
       28 letters in total...
alif (28), lam (6), meem (5)...
    i'm not even going to go into the gamatria
mental gymnsastics related to any
   point was made upon the question being
asked... if a muslim tries to covert you...
and he can't explain to you
the significance of alif lam meem at the beginning
of al-baqarah... they're letters...
well... how is he going to explain to you
what's bothersome about those letters
to begin with? ALM... does that imply: zakat?!
to give alms? zakat being one of the pillars
of islam?
  **** me... i haven't even converted
and it would appear: i know more than the person
who tried to convert me!

.i. Yuri Gagarin and the yo-yo

if ever the potency of a "keyboard crusader"
existed, it's now -
   i can dangle a mouse above a bear-trap
and tell an elephant of a phobia concerning
mice any day of the week,
          when in fact i'm talking about
a mousetrap: nothing more.
     hence the exaggeration in the imagery
        or it begins with a story told in the 20th
             when women put down their mascara
brushes, men put down their swords:
never mind the voice in the wilderness:
       mind the voice in the crowd -
there's absolutely no reason to speculate
urbanity and tribal environments without
addressing, or regressing the crowd,
or as i like to call it: what Nietzsche said,
minus the Wake... but now inclusive of the wake
and the Bacchus cult of fun fun fun.
            the Wake in condor terms?
we congregate praying for something to die...
      i don't pretend to be whatever
that sachet of concrete-Cartesian labels entitles me
too:        for the most part
        people say 'i am' without a thought to
govern the rain shaman telling you what thought
is required to 'be', oh, a very old ontological
stipend: you need people to experience a collectivisation,
a herding, a "bound together" sort of mentality
before the critic arrives and says: well, that's not
what i'm really about.
                    a bit like the **** firs, mouth second
                but what heart they had, our predecessors!
what heart!
             they'd wage war over a woman,
a Helen,
                  would you wage a war against
the feminist version of Helen these days?
would you pluck a Scottish thistle over an English rose?
      true: you might be a bishop
and of lesser rank... but would you wage a war
over the women of these days?
my **** is in a pickle jar anyway! we have become
a *** of a species unburdened by an obligation...
             finally! we can become eternal bachelors
sort of ******* that we're here, and hear less and less
of sayings about the "things that matter".
            you know what vile? really really vile?
oh i know my contemporaries when i bother to
hear them talk, oddly enough never bother when they
think, i'm quiet content with a Godot stage of
a park bench and an old man as my company,
      i know Douglas Murray,
               i know the wild-eyed Icke,
but a thing that concerns me is why: the safety room
parallel to the leftist thesis of offensive speech
was put in play when a discussion took off
concerning feminism, between milo yiannopoulus
and julie bindel - that's like saying:
ask a pederast to talk for a heterosexual man
with a woman safe-space...
                                no one wants to hear
the heterosexual side of the argument....
  you'll sooner see heterosexual intellects have their
marriages come undone then get paired with either
side of the argument...
     little richard is in the pickle jar anyway,
and he's not coming out...
                it's a bit like ****** for dummies....
       hence i have to succumb to violence without
the glory, tongue waggling blah blah
when i'd gladly take a weapon and shove it into
a shattered cranium bone: had i the ****** chance to
do so!
           no heterosexual is taken seriously:
and won't be:
    of a woman to be like a rosy cushion on which
i can lay my head after the darkly toils of
    roofing, or laying bricks, or excavating the sewers...
no! let the Chinese do that:
the basic argument of slavery, although imported
therefore ****** ******* fine.
                         cryogenic fathers,
      pickled *****:      where's the middle in all of this?
     a coconut just fell from the Boddhi tree:
money!           and those that defend it,
don't know squat about the tribalism of squatters!
but hey! they have the ****** stage!
         i have a bench when someone approaches me
and talk, doing the best thing possible:
               knitting opinions -
i don't want the truth of opinions: i want a sweater,
or a pair of socks! that's metaphor for something
different altogether.
  keyboard crusader? really? can i ask you for
directions to the high street, in every single town
across the country? i can't find one!
         no one hears a heterosexual argument
on the various topics: because there isn't one -
                     as of the end of the 20th century,
working classes in the west striving to ensure
there is something mundane to do during the day
and kick back with the family in the evening
are the "inferior" neanderthals: who
haven't jacked into discovering a 3D reality
of what's otherwise a 2D computer screen and
aren't hooked on #crack;
honestly, so much debating ought to be opera,
and so much opera ought to be debating -
    ah: that famous tingle of utopian paradoxes
never in duality, but always in dichotomy.
   keyboard crusader?
really? i thought people were always moaning
about how many emails they receive:
   and never a single postcard from, say,
someplace like Venice?
           it's still early days,
                   and already we're brewing enough
cliches to replace all known nouns in
    the surrogate mother that's the dictionary
of our completed version of a soul -
if ever to be experienced upon meeting the omni-vocabulary;
jigsaws, i know my idiosyncratic version
of events, he says photosynthesis within parameters
                            of photon deconstruction of hydrogen;
'cos' it's sub; d'uh! i say god i say this perfected
version of nearing telepathy - you say god i hope you
don't mean satan's clause - great anagram to frighten
children with: the Babushka surprise of a Pumpkin head
laughing it's way toward: how easy life would be
if we had all that time to think it through as being hard,
rather than that mortal fleetingness in both thought
and body.

ii. Macbeth

it really dawned on me, when i was watching the film
Macbeth (2015) -
            there was an eeriness to it, a near perfection
of Shakespeare on screen...
           honestly? i'd rather read Kant early on in life
while i have the vigour, and leave old age to Shakespeare...
but it truly was eerie all over the place.
      i do recall seeing Romeo + Juliet
          and reading the script, and imagining the fallacy
of word for word translation from theatre to cinema
of the script: the narrator a news channel anchor,
and everything said, word, for, word.
that film with DiCaprio as Romeo and Claire Danes
as Juliet - it just felt itchy, uncomfortable -
                            Shakespeare, word for word, on screen?!
     (surprise, then astonishment, not !? or astonishment,
   then the surprise, because: it didn't really work);
and it didn't! you can't adapt Shakespeare to the screen
and put everything in! i noticed it at that ******
generous scene in Macbeth concerning the battle
of Ellon... so i was like like... this isn't typescript...
(and thank **** it isn't) -
you can't depict Shakespeare word for word,
to be honest, Macbeth (2015) is the only worthy
translation of Macbeth (the text) into Macbeth (the movie);
all this scientific exactness in previous examples
like Romeo + Juliet, the Merchant of Venice
and a Midsummer's Night Dream don't work,
it's their precision making,
     a theatre cast can take it, but a cinema going crowd,
with all these cutting and copying and repasting
    succinct moments? it doesn't work!
maybe because there's no actual narrator in the staged
examples? narrator as a necessary character understudy:
surely Puck and the news anchor are there:
don't know about the Shylock scenario...
           but these screen adaptations didn't work for me,
too rigid, too formal... in the case of Macbeth?
finally! the long awaited piquant version of Shakespeare:
all that matters, and the rest is thrown into
poetic technique: imagery, metaphor,
                everything that's necessary can be given grammar
as image and not word!
       want an example? from the text...
the Royal Shakespeare
  from the text of Professor Delius
  and introduction by f. j. Furnivall, ll.d.
         vol. v (special edition)
Cassell & Company, Ltd.

        sure, it feels like a Roman Polanski moment
akin to the 9th Gate scenic affair of a bibliophile
fetishist, and it is:

     ... (the only enemy of enso poetry
is the bladder) ...

well the screen play first:

banquo: what are these?
macbeth: live you? or are you aught
                          that man may question?
       speak if you can - what are you?
1st witch: macbeth! hail to thee
                    thane of Glamis!
2nd witch: macbeth... hail to thee,
       thane of Cawdor!
3rd witch: all hail Macbeth! that shalt be king in-after.

but such disparity, such **** as if once
of Lucretia, then of the authority,
for i have before me the original composition:
which is not worth cinema -
nonetheless, a **** takes place:
an assortment for the abdication of a king:
or as ever suggested: the wrong footed path:
never was tossing a coin in a gamble
that of tossing a crown into the air
for a court jester to appear less amusing
and more scolding.

act i, scene iii: post the battle of ellon...
  if ever the refusal to give up Greek myth,
then Macbeth's witches
      and Perseus' Graeae -
                            or naturalise a myth:
like you might not naturalise a strengthened
economy.... canonise the nation
with Elgin Marbles - Elgin: less than
what's said to be the exfoliation of the Aegean -
a municipality somewhere in Scotland:
west of Aberdeen, on the Northern Sea's
battering of the coast...
but word for word? or how to write Shakespeare
into cinema?
                 herr zensor must come into play -
you have to bypass imagery in poetic tongue
and relay it with actual images, a direly needed

just after the three witches arrive,
enter Macbeth and Bonquo...

   Macb. so foul and fair a day i have not seen.
Ban. how far is't call'd to Fores? - what are these,
     so wither'd and so wild in their attire,
that look not like th' inhabitants o' the earth,
   and yet are on 't?
             live you? or are you aught that man may

                  (how word for word, but the words
waggle from a different tongue, namely that of
Macbeth, and not that of Banquo, hence
       you seem to understand me,
by each at once her choppy finger laying upon her
skinny lips: - you should be women, and yet your
beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.
Macb. speak, if you can - what are you?
         the witches. all hail, Macbeth!
     hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
         all hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane
of Cawdor!
         all hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.
so does he really belong on the psychoanalytic
couch? is he really that necessarily wonton of talk?
  Cawdor v. Gondor - it's an ongoing narrative.
but is he in need of a couch?
                 what sort of talk is talk when
in fact the only talk that's need to be said is the talk
of man's sexualised naturalisation for strife,
and here: as if knocking on a door:
you want to simply hear the onomatopoeia of
the Kabbalah in a woman gasping for breath
while puny Jewish boys under strict rabbinical
studies study?

                mama, take this badge from  me,
i can't use it, anymore,
            it's getting dark, too dark to see,
feels like i'm knockin' on heaven's door -
      my big mouth and man as a piston
                                               Ferrari acrobat

(even the soundtrack is a shrill, a strangulation
variant of higher pitch of the bagpipes -
not that braveheart ****** of whisking out
a song like for the love of a princess addition to:
  and can i have a madonna to boot too?
it's piercing, a whale sonar above refrigerator
white noise hum for the new age Buddha -
and that's because all the poetry has been excavated
  to suit cinema: not theatre).

and this is the first adaptation of Shakespeare i actually
could stomach...
     the genius was in how Macbeth spoke the lines
of Bonqua - so the character didn't start smacking
the narrative ****** in terms of solipsism:
even Shakespeare can be attacked on this front...
        if in the movie Banqua said all that was in
the typescript: the film wouldn't have worked...
i don't know what the big deal is with Lady Macbeth:
i thought that in the olden days
Macbeth suggested to King Duncan that:
can i leave the warring if you **** my wife?
i can go on the contract that you **** my wife
and i stop serving you?
      first impressions: strange English.
well, i'm sure she's important as it might be said:
within the programme of Orthodoxy,
            but never catholic (metadoxy) tradition of
saying: way hey! ensnare the mare in a funfair!
       and play the game: pin the tale on the donkey!
heads or tails?      it looks pretty damnable
     in the first place: as all honesty hogs to pout and
***** a hoggish sneeze out of the story.

iii. shaken, not stirred

and indeed, how many a times
did not a neon blossom sprout,
thinking it might rattle an oratory
with an oak in autumn, and behold
a swarm of leaves descend -
not out of passing ease,
but out of wishful thinking
that some indentation might be made:
with whom the hands of will reside,
and yet: to no gratifying effect,
to whatever atomic-centralisation
dream, be that ego or be it hydrogen
(lending hands: so too
electric or thus negative, neutral and
thus proto) - shake foundation
and give a revising repertoire of
              the covering dust humanity
that once made famous: never
again to learn the humility of the start;
        to whatever centric dream that
does not waver in demands of orientation,
be it father (sun), son (shadow)
  or the holy spirit (night) -
  make them earn! be obscure!
            or simply say: in the community
of the stated congregation:
  i find all to be as night,
   and safer that plague the father:
  i am not akin to the shadow:
                   but the shadow in mirror.
so, a centric dream that does not
waver in demands for orientation,
has ever or will be enthroned in man's
heart as the stability of Sabbath's demands
       for less, oh so much less to agitate with!
as too, when the ancient appliances
were adorned by countless demands of
mimic, so too our modern
fibbles are to stage a usurping of
such things demanded and their mimic;
for with such disclosure does all fate
of anewed become burdened in what
history could be: shaken,
rather than simply a stirring of the void,
nothing more than the unburdening
of sweetening a cup of coffee, of that and
the layers: or bitter at the top, drank
through toward the sedimented sweetness -
and all that: hoping i could have retained
that silver spoon lodged in my ***
          when i first met her and thought about
consolidating marriage: so fresh, eager prune
of the flesh embodiment as first
    watered ash, then entombed in marble
and the eternal... ah
               but it was all just the faintest of dreams;
so lumberjack sleep ensued,
                      as did a kindred worth ethic:
we are a long way from Eden...
      there is but the idyll of the absurd fruition of
albreit macht frei... or a redefinement of
such stakes as: what occupies our days?
                    if not war, if not disease,
if not the Chinese... what does, occupy our days?
Adam Childs Dec 2014
Softly and steadily we munch
A roller motion action
As we gently pass over
Living in a contented silence
Randomly we each call
Hollow pipes we are played
By the holy organist
As life plays its tune
Understood be very few
As we submit to the herd
And spiral around a oneness

Mooing and mooing
With a great gusto
We send out O's
circles spiraling
Softly blowing bubbles
With an oily shine
We are carried forward
In these bulbs of light
Air filled with vibration
Caressing and holding
Our community with
An invisible film
As we all feel this
Light headed embrace
And the golden ring of community
Is placed on our finger
We say "YES YES YES "
For we love her very much  

Living free of hierarchy
As everyone is equal
Servant and master
Divorced from the conflicting
Ties of politics
We are as level and free as
The planes from which we graze
Living a freedom faraway from
Rank and power
And enjoy the vast out stretching
Places where our hearts unburdened
By mountains unfold into unlimited spaces
Collapsing within each breath
We spread our Love with the ease
Of melting butter in the African sun
Far and wide

In the mating season
We may bumble around
Like bumper cars
As you can not underestimate
The force of each individual
As we bang and bang our way  
Through life until opportunity knocks
Until life says yes
As our our stubbornness
Is not just the perfect No
But the perfect Yes to
And mothers reward our newborns
With her loving milk
The perfect colostrum
A silky bliss

In the expansive community
Of wildebeest and cattle
Where endless love
Can spread like water
We can learn so very much
community love wildebeest
Pétra Hexter Nov 2018
A skeletal stag standing ten trees tall
Hanging moss adorning His wide antlers, patches of rocky lichen covering His driftwood bones
Large cloven hooves stepping carefully yet purposefully among the bleached remains littering the forest floor
He alone reigns here, in this place beneath ours
Even the pines fall silent as He passes
Even the stones
The air is old here
Thick with a power lost to time
Only He is left; a dimming flicker in a collective consciousness
Keeping a lonely vigil in an ancient forest a thousand miles deep and a hand's width beside us
No breath is drawn here
The soft rattling of His timber ribcage is the sole sound as He moves
Without rest
To a place always changing, never quite there
The ossuaries lay in a heavy silence
He assures the eternal slumber of all who rest here
The hollows in His skull seem to observe them, undisturbed
He moves on
His name has been forgotten for millennia
This sacred ground has become but a fleeting memory
Few old gods remain, lost to the quickening of time
He remembers, as He stands keeper of this place
Of an age before ours
When they would polish the skulls of the hunt with holy oils in His name
Dancing wildly and unburdened around towering flames
Primal sounds ripping raw from reverent lips
Now He is all but a wavering in the annals
He pauses in His endless march
Raises His great antlers to the thick canopy above
He listens
Feels the shift -- another one has faded
He will most likely be the last of His kind
A somber sentinel tasked with ensuring the dead wake not from their final sleep
Ensuring the silence is suffocating
A deep, weighted vibration
As if the place under ours was itself thrumming with power
Though none remain who once spoke His true name in fearful whispers
He will outlast
For all will eventually come to know
The one they now call death
E Dec 2013
Sway seconds ecstatic bliss
The taste of lime and salt
Skin glows, criss crossed shadows
and a panic of lights.

Shifting music
Rhythm intoxication and
Shifting energy

Boldness alights
like a flock of crows gliding in at dusk,
landing on the shoulders
cast in neon-disco light

They fan feathered-dollar bills
With prospects of revelry and dancing
odes to debauchery and youth
and feigning adoration
from the swaying, neon hips.

Subtle chants and hungry eyes
We deserve this
We deserve this
We deserve--

Disappearing in her act,
She arises, in the fame of a dove
Unburdened and free
in the whitest of lights.

She thinks briefly of flying away.
I’d have to be really quick
to describe clouds -
a split second’s enough
for them to start being something else.

Their trademark:
they don’t repeat a single
shape, shade, pose, arrangement.

Unburdened by memory of any kind,
they float easily over the facts.

What on earth could they bear witness to?
They scatter whenever something happens.

Compared to clouds,
life rests on solid ground,
practically permanent, almost eternal.

Next to clouds
even a stone seems like a brother,
someone you can trust,
while they’re just distant, flighty cousins.

Let people exist if they want,
and then die, one after another:
clouds simply don't care
what they're up to
down there.

And so their haughty fleet
cruises smoothly over your whole life
and mine, still incomplete.

They aren't obliged to vanish when we're gone.
They don't have to be seen while sailing on.

Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh.
Wisława Szymborska (2 July 1923 – 1 February 2012) was a Polish poet, essayist, translator and recipient of the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature ("for poetry that with ironic precision allows the historical and biological context to come to light in fragments of human reality"). Her work has been translated into English and many European languages, as well as into Arabic, Hebrew, Japanese and Chinese.
The place is a meadow. Warm sunshine and a light breeze blowing. A young girl, graceful and free spirited. She is laughing and dancing her way through the soft grasses. She is dressed in a light airy dress; it blows in the wind. A ring of flowers in her flowing hair, little golden locks bouncing, rays of the friendly sun reflecting off of her. I hear her calling to me "Take my hand" in her small but very strong voice. She is light and unburdened. Her spirit so willing to extend and trust, the honesty and love of the soul shining through.

I know this child, the free love, and the trusting soul. This girl has been through more hurt and shame, more than enough to fill a town. She lives in the absolute now, protected and safe.

It was I who brought her to this meadow. She was lost in the dark forest for years. Each step of the way out we took together, walking the fear together. Each step through the forest so dark the fireflies along the way lighting up just enough for us to find the wildflowers. We gathered the flowers along the path of fear. We collected the beauty from the darkness and placed it on her head. The ring of wildflowers was our gift from the darkness.

She dances freely, light and unburdened. She has a pure soul, free to love. I saved her; I held her hand at every thought.

Now she returns to free me and hold my hand. A love that is counted on more than any other love could ever obtain. I am never blind to her. I carry her always. I give her everything she has never had.

I am that child.
Our souls are enfettered
By an Inexorable Penance,
Sorrows & Lamentations:

In pining for
The Light of Transmutation
The Adamantine Wings
Of Stalwart Bahamut
Unburdened our etherealized hearts.

(Speaking for the future)

Spira has lost its
Yoke of Communion
To this Cimmerian Millennium.

Redemption’s Revelation:

Aeonic sin hath reigned
Under the Cathedral of Deception
Forged by the taught tongues
Of Yevon;

Despotic Lunae
Eclipsed the light
Of a forlorn sky,
Divine Pantheon
Numen of Sol.

Cast a
Stygian Shadow of Sanctimonious Suffering for Souls.
Seems eternal; truly, ephemeral.

the Hearts of nations
Sacrosanct Luminaries.

Our tears
Have been shed,
Our vanities

Skies shall bleed Empyrean Bliss
The Opus of Life
Shall cleanse
This wearied Spira of Pernicious Sin.

Inspired by Final Fantasy X. I attempted to encapsulate the story, thematic undertones, fantasy elements, ambiance of the musical piece (of same title as piece), as well as the penitence, sorrow, hope, and mirth set out before our heroes/heroines. Was a bit rushed as I wanted to get this out to you guys as swiftly as possible. Thank you for all your support because you mean all the world to me. Any constructive feedback is most appreciated! Enjoy! :)
Najwa Kareem Feb 2017
A backdrop of gorgeous hues, tints, and shades peeking in from afar draw near, I on one side, it on the other, the two of us bidding for a glance at two white doves on center stage.  
Their eyes converging, their glance coinciding, a replica of the simplicity in which they were brought together, a dual recognition ignited by the burning of hearts and the lumination of souls. 
Affectionate hands coupled in an orbit of serenity, her passionately embracing his with a tug of excitement gushing I’m yours, his tenderly and securely supporting hers and in acceptance of gifts of admiration and approval, he is humbled whilst mesmerized by her captivating beauty and elatious smile.  
Two distinct bodies standing still between an air of transparency and vulnerability, they occupying an endearing space serenading to sweet melodies reminiscent of one exclusive life. A bit of haze lingers behind her, her ***** drumming to a cheerful step toward his, there she waits in an affirmative reply of what much he has to offer her, what much he has given her. He consumed by her presence, his face speaking something his mouth cannot. A yearning for each other unspoken, the romantic harmony of a moonstruck light and a synchronized kiss. Their bodies held captive by their souls set free. 
An impartial unfinished hallow sits as a canopy above, gracing its cascading rays on the couples’ faces creating unique shadows on each, one caressing the other in a playfully warm exchange. Overwhelmed by his serenade, emotions overflow and an innocent blush appears, his heart unburdened, skipping to a resounding beat and the words, I found my soulmate. With a slight rise of her jaw, she’s smitten with this king, the delicate skin of her countenance warmed by the glow of his, a pink dusting of her freshwater pearls.  
A love affair unconventional, a duo in adoration, a marriage of crisp airiness and a desire for discovery ringing true, a fondness between man and woman precious like a round cut diamond, weightless as dandelion fuzz blowing in the wind, beaming identical to that of a fluorescent night star, the twosome looking into one soul rejoices intimately at their romantic chemistry and unyielding bond. 
A gracious audience of ink, navy, and Prussian blue, antique and porcelain white, emerald green and scarlet pink in a pose of calm celebration, honors the mister and missus with an exuberant ovation. Entangled in a web of love with a sincerity stringing them in unison, the two in a trance cherishes a declaration so glamorous, a devotion so light.
This poem is dedicated to a soul's light romance of a recently married couple whose display of love moved and touched me.
matilda shaye Aug 2014
my hands melting on the page as my eyes close
begging for unconsciousness
but if I don't get this out now, I never will

to be completely unburdened
by anyone, and that includes me
would be simple and easy
and it would bore you to death

to need someone
why do bodies crave other bodies?
a body is just a body
until you get down to the soul
your purple and blue bruised soul

If I don't get this out now, I never will
because honey really does come from bees
and the night you kissed me for the first time
you mentioned how you were deathly allergic
so honey, do you have time to hear me?

If I knew you wouldn't
get scared and run away
or two-
get bored and ask for your CD's back
I'd give you every last bit
but I have to hold some in,
to make sure you stay

words are hard so you use your hands
and looks,
and the tilt of your chin
and the shaking of your knee
words are hard so I choke out syllable
until you hand me a glass of water
and I simply sing out your name

If I don't get this out now,
I never will
I'll follow the leader,
I'll obey my command
did you expect me to make this easy on you?
oh honey, I'm not that sweet

I'm the venom in your morning Cheerios
I'm the paper cut at your favorite part
I'm the black in the morning sky
honey, I'll only make this harder,
as hard as I possibly can.
Robyn Johnson Dec 2012
Wild woman
Uninhibited by inhibitions and
Unburdened by her need to be
In the limelight
The spotlight on stage with
Off key notes and
A voice of sin
Wild woman
Devil woman
With her wiles and winks from
Just far enough to make me want
Make me pine for what once was and
Can never be
Wild woman
Kink woman
Teeth to neck and
Chilled fingers on feverish flesh
Reminding me
Taunting me as
Whispers of lust
Flood my ears
Oh, wild woman
Wicked woman
Pouted lips and
*** in heels
Who wants when drunk and
Forgets when sober
With no care for her actions or
The hearts she breaks with
Fluttering lashes and
False promises.
Wild woman
Drunk woman
You’ll forget it all
When morning comes.
where do old people go to find ***? their sagging wrinkling barnacled skin easily torn or bruised thinning wispy hair dry tongues raspy voices gray teeth wobbly legs malformed brittle spines rickety stance shaky hands misshapen arthritic fingers foul stale odors itchy scratchy orifices ***** stained underwear where do old people go to find ***? their vanishing generation locked away in reclusive lonely dusty rooms creaky dim apartments when i was young i thought old people were unburdened of lust no longer bound by libido urges somehow grown free of base desires needs this constant horniness i suffer where do old people go to find *** is it wrong to politely ask or beg a younger person indecent to plead for a little charity where do old people go to find ***?

there is a wooded area outside Paris where some couples drive and park man behind the wheel woman in passenger seat her window down clothed anonymous men approach with exposed penises in hand staring at woman’s fingers massaging between her thighs spread as she watches the men stroke themselves sometimes she kisses licks even ***** these strangers' erections the driver sits composed empowered sharing his companion amused aroused admiring her lasciviousness oh the French they are so ****** with their stinky cheeses pate de foie gras rich sauces refined wines briny scented ***** tresses seductive lingerie licentious literature DeSade Zola Rimbaud Foucault Derrida Deleuze Deneuve Belmondo Goddard Truffaut Depardieu

the oppression of money in every gulp of air we breathe all the secret arrangements sick crooked associations complicated deceitful ***** deals the great divide between gated community and ghetto slum how can we feel proud knowing our insatiable self-absorbed hunger greed oil carried in ocean channels spreading evaporating into atmosphere air rain groundwater rivers lakes vegetation animals us poisoning killing off everything the oppression of money i hang my head

the oppression of time memory longing for that which we once knew felt i remember running into a very **** pretty girl whom i had not seen in a year carrying bag of groceries in her arms on street asking why didn’t i call her back she repeated why didn’t you call me back wide smile tempting eyes ***** blond hair dark roots enticing bush exquisite floppy lips lanky cowgirl physique narrow hips i did not know what to say said nothing simply stood there looking with sad eyes at her i remember several different girls hinting to take them more seriously i thought to reveal i am too weird tainted ****** up do not want to ruin your life each one of you with my wounded heart troubled thoughts twisted feelings searching stumbling soul my uncertainty do not know what to say said nothing just stood there looking in stupid silence the oppression of time memory longing for that which we once knew felt where do old people go to find ***?

dance with me lift your spirit listen to your heartbeat rhythm of your breath lift arms roll shoulders flutter fingers loosen hips wag **** bend knees tap toes make animal sounds pretend we are young with time to waste whirl around until you feel dizzy forget gravity imagine bliss dance with me
Odi Dec 2011
I remember that summer by the lake
How you were surprisingly quiet that day
and nice to everyone which was weird
no sarcastic remarks
or swearing

so unlike you

your wit had died down
if we hadn't known better
we would of said you were distracted
But grateful for the change in your
and teaching me to skip stones
If only you had taught me how to place my heart in my palm
and throw that away

You weren't one for smiles
but you didn't like dramatic send offs either
that's why I was surprised when we found your cold body on the floor
bathed in the afternoon sun
In your fathers cabin
by that god forsaken lake
Under that red sky that turned everything the shade of your blood

Cassie slipped and fell and screamed
But I didn't hear her I was too busy focusing on you
willing myself to see a chest rising and falling
but all there was, was static
somewhere beyond Cassies screams

And Luke rushed to somehow clasp your wounds shut
The reflexes of a Doctor's child
But he didn't see that there was no more blood left to flow
and you were blue and cold
but you seemed unburdened of whatever
was eating

I remember feeling relief
I stood there

We laughed at your funeral
At the irony of it all
and when your aunt got up and said you were the most
kind, generous young man
we almost died of laughter then

you were the most cold sarcastic ******we ever met

but still loved you

Jake elbowed me and said "What would he do if he was here right now?"
I smiled  "He'd jump out that ******* coffin and give his mother a heart attack"
Because it was you after all
You did love dramatic endings
Filmore Townsend Jul 2013
and the sweat lingers with a
thin film of dust, dirt, mold --
whichever what have you.
what little hydration left of
this soft fleshy vessel seeps
through this veil. creating
rivers of mud that flood the
eyes and blind. though hue
of general existence if silh-
outted. and we follow the sou-
nds hoped spoke on the proper
path. shambling the brush,
ankles caught tight in the
thorns of the undergrowth.
never a first in leaving a
blooded footpath home. and
false words call us upon a
path in Life long returned to
Nature from man. and with blin-
ded eyes and gnarled sense,
trouncing the threshold of door
long closed, fearing only the
chance of having all ended.
the Ocean's desert is nothing
but the sweat of Man's ages'
turned to dust. ended of a
vessel when purpose has seen
fulfillment. to nurture, and
bring forth perpetuation of the
curious disappeared mysteries
resting unburdened, with ponde-
ring left nulled. and recreation,
re-mythologizing aeons not long
past. only a couple thousand
since the last hoarfrost blast.
you wrote me
within the lines on your palm
like a fragrance
held back too long
i hold this space
finding no cause for fear
in this unspoken emotion
that hangs between us
like a cozy muteness
our eyes
are two cliffs
pulled apart,
our stolen glances
daring to vault across
burn into my consciousness
the visions that you see
make me unburdened
of this cold i feel
and let me
join your flight
over the stars
repose with you
on the soft grass
read to me
and let me
sing you a lullaby

this is what life
should be all about.

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oh give me neither love nor tears,
   Nor dreams that sear the night with fire,
Go lightly on your pilgrimage
   Unburdened by desire.

Forget me for a month, a year,
   But, oh, beloved, think of me
When unexpected beauty burns
   Like sudden sunlight on the sea.
Ann Beaver Jul 2013
Glue comes out too fast
But not at the right angle
Adhesion unburdened
Learned it
From living just second-by-second
Was the reason ever reckoned?
I don't remember.
It was in late December
When I opened my eyes
Covered in glue
Still not dry, realizing:
The glue comes out too fast
And never seems to last.

— The End —