Chains wrapped around my identity
Holding me down
Preventing me
From escaping the reputation
Unchosen as it is
Though I'm worthy
Of the words I've been called
Handcuffs holding me to this life
Everyday normalcy I've learned to despise
The same routine
Stereotypes by which I am seen
What happens when you want to be someone else?
If I leave, will I be seen
By the traits that are truly me
Or will the grey cloud that soils how I'm perceived follow?
The weight that holds me down
In unbearable ways
Will continue to strain against my personality
Without the whispers of my mind
The voices of past repeating
Telling me how to take heed
At any moment the comfortable ground on which I stand
Can be replaced with "buried" insecurities

a lot of things never worked out
the older we got
the more we moved along
the unchosen road.

You took it from my hand
Dragged it through the mud
All the while I was standing there
Vision blurred by tears

For a moment there I couldn't breathe
My small frail body hurting all over
Trust shattered
Despair
Pain
Yearning for your old self again
But you where nowhere to be found
Only a two faced liar stood there

She was there too
Playing mender
Smiling at you behind my back

You dropped it
You took out your
Put it on a silver platter
Walked right past my miserable numb body
And you gave it to her
You chose her...

you say that loving the same *** is worth hating.
you say that these people
for their unchosen sin should be paying,
but deep down, you’re the same.
you wake up every morning
hating the same day.

you say that another skin color is what they should be wearing,
but really, you are also truly despairing.

you tell them to be this,
and be that.
you tell them that they’re too skinny,
or too fat.

you tell them how to be and who to be—i wish you could see through your hypocrisy.


because all colors of the rainbow are pretty.

because every size is alright.

because these people try with all their might.

because being different shouldn’t be met with fright.


let us all dance together





and fade into this beautiful night.

Oh the cringing  demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than ***, lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.

Oh, mere ***, be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.

I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your *******;
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial  ******?

I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?

Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.

Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!

There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?

Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see ******* then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
Giving and taking,
  both day and night

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
Some then mistaken,
  some often right

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
Last right of refusal,
  the one holding tight

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
The lows though not many,
  the feelings they wrought bright

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
Words ever radiant,
  the music so fair

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
The sweetness of children,
  my soul they ensnared

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
The darkest of moments,
  their message to share

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
A voice though unchosen,
  inside me declares

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
As the days grew short,
  and the visitors came

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
Their voices cry out,
  now calling my name

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
One verse was enough,
  no time to explain

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
My final breath,
  a lasting refrain

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
The money fleeting,
  any fame now gone

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
A 5-Star boardinghouse,
  no curtains drawn

On my own terms,
  I lived my life
With arms open wide,
  and the peace to move on

On my own terms,
  I ended my life
All that I’ve written,
—turned into song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

I’ve been finding success lately
in all the moments
I choose not to speak.

It’s about time I learned to keep my trap shut,
part of still becoming a man at 36 years old,
I suppose.

Progress not perfection,
always has to do for now.

Men of few words are the best men
Shakespeare's Henry V
(Act 3 Scene 2. Line 41)


yet men still
pleasure themselves oft,
the music of their voices
soothes their conscience,
even as it irritates
those unchosen few
who must deign
to listen to the
ration of their excuses.

I fare not well
in this endeavor,
for as poet and
recorder of all that be
known as human folly,
more is always best
or at least, better!

for no man knows
the limits of his import,
his web of self-deception
cast far and wide,
for it must perforce
hold him aloft,
on all the tissued lies
he hath convinced himself
to be the absolute truth,
and nothing but...  

so let us ascribe
to those fools
who call themselves
mistakenly, men
a smokey, fleeting honour,
for many words
they do employ to
plead their case,
proving well in
a fashion most
contrary and contradictory
that their worth is
worst, when they speak
long and eloquent of their
vainglorious heroics and medals,
watch their words ascend,
and like smoke, forever disappear.

that is why, young reader,
heed the lesson of the
American cowboys
who say little,
but walk tall,
and sit straight
in the saddle,
and sing consoling songs of
lonesome love around the
dying fire.

New Moon Melange

(for Harlan Rivers originally,
and now for Aparna,
who reminded me
how I used to write
in the golden era of
seven years of plenty, so long, so ago...)

                         <>

The softest cotton,
Wears ever softer with every use.

Contemplative introspection,

Like digging a castle & moat in the sandy beach,
You dread and joy, the knowing,
Incoming tide will arrive destructive inevitable,
Yet fill the moat, protect the kingdom,
Till is undone and returned to the blocks of minuscule,
Grains of sand.

Answers found, maybe lost, once more,
Necessitating questioning, non-stop processing,
And a rebuilding tomorrow... Pas de choix

But softer each time, easier with practice.

Even if convoluted, it is still a revolution.
Like twelve new moons, recycled.
(occasionally a lucky thirteenth appears)

Some of us are special chosen,
To essay, to assay, the condition human,
With a rock axe, tiny slivers chipped off,
And yet new moon stones uncovered,
needy of Cataloging,
introspection,

You can change the day,
The month,
The moon twelve, thirteen times,
Hell, You can change your **** hat,
But don't fool nobody,

You are one of the special,
You job to paint the verbal paintings,
And to ascertain the meaning interior.

For in doing so, you do all of us service.
For your eyes see it ever so differently,
For you, task, paint and reveal each
New Moon’s Melange,
your unchosen gift.
to you

Delightfully force thyself to a cheap coat
Frayed winter shelter
Sworn fre-nemy of millennial style
Who kills itself in gale
While the master keeps cozy within your skin
Wonder if you’ll ever be so disloyal to dare ask for a bath
Then, in irony,
Loved and wanted by the living freezed
And the envy of the proletarian blanket
, shining in its absence-Your presence.
Under the carless hands of the master
Buttons drop and thread spills as solid blood
Doomed to fulfill the unchosen goal
Depletion will not be salvation
Just a mute shriek
living decomposition
Hope thy ist warm.

So what of those who aren't sought
Or the ones afflicted with eternal solitude
Where do our hearts go or rather hide
We are the refugees of this so called euphoria
An enigma so potent known as love

We are those not wanted by it
The unchosen and not desired
It chases us away like we're rats
Forcing us to scurry for cover
When all we want is to be fed

We've been shut out of it's presence
Like we are unworthy vagabonds
Sleeping on an empty cold floor
Crying ourselves into slumber
Only to be orphaned again tomorrow

Love, should you choose it,
Grants a slight choice.

Give up your self to keep it,
Or raise, in contest, your voice.

To choose, one must patient sit,
Chosen, at love's court of joys.

But in favor of truths, let's admit,
Some will never be love's choice.

left, sinistral, left sided, left out,
left behind,
gastropod sea shells,
coiling counterclockwise,
when viewed from the apex

when that all alone,
left-out feeling pervades,
to the party uninvited,
for the team, unchosen,
stand out for not standing in,
invisible moat surrounds and suppresses,
life's outward bound sounds,
vision best,
when only looking inward,
remember this too well..

this world, this work,
was created by an
ambidextrous soulbeing
his soul,
favoring neither right or left,
favoring doing right,
and no one
left behind

cognizant that both sides now
are necessaries
for human and seashell existence

proof be that
the creator,
his perfection, at the very least,
in his design motifs,
unquestioned,
made us all
sinistral shells

and sinistral poets


those apex corkscrewing left poets,
the leaven of human fermentation,
you and your sinistral tidbits
are the influencing spice
of an average world,
keeping the world tilting
on its proper axis

make us and
our daily bread rise,
sinistral yeast,
vive la difference,  
you are
the best of us

When my anxiety is extreme I feel
That nothing around or inside me is real
I need to hide myself, to isolate
Feeling of dread and doom, can't seem to think straight

I curse myself for feeling this ****** up way
Live in unreality like a dream, or play
Fingers don't work, have a quiver of my lip
Nervous smile, not wanting this unchosen
script

Don't know what to do...sit, stand, pace or run
Don't want to be looked at, talked to by anyone
Sane, daily things take extra concentration
I try to do them with no coordination

Deprived of social skills, get tongue tied, can't speak
Building discomfort, terror panic will peak
Then it begins- palms sweat, heart rate rises
Worry about all, nothing, no surprises

No longer capable of eating, I'd choke
Get nauseous, the runs, to my body no joke In acute cases toes stiffen, my bones ache
Losing much control, damaged brain waves fake

Avoid going out to a bank or a store
Anywhere there's cameras, prying some more
Always makes me feel like I'm doing wrong
Paranoia, bottom line..I don't belong

I'm thankful for my birth
'cause there are people born into violence
Making it hard to navigate another route
They didn't choose it like I didn't choose mine
They were born into it and grew up in it
Grateful for my unchosen inception.

Music is the expression of joy . . .  Hsüntztu*
 
I have written music
all day.
 
I started with five notes on a line
and ended with eight pages:
many notes, many lines;
I won’t count the casualties,
the unchosen ones
marched off the page
into oblivion.
 
I always think it will
be impossible;
forever the pessimist
my glass half-empty.
 
Imperceptibly,
there is a becoming;
the music forms itself
when I’m not looking . . .
 
The phone goes
I leave it –
though I check the number
in case, just in case it’s you,
and when I return to the page
the elves have been busy . . .
here a solution, there a mechanism,
now a way through
the maze of possibility.
 
It is such a mess, but it is so beautiful:
the doing brings me closer to you
with every scratch of the pen,
every mark on the page.

How many complete pathways of choices are there?
OR
How many choices are left to achieve completion [!]

Either offers an accurate divisor into the number of possibilities "n" roughly at whatever is the above determined level which is a power called "m".  n^m, roughly...divided by either the # of pathways or the choices that are left [!] to completion.

Either divisor will serve by ridding us of duplicate iterations of over-multiplied possibilities inside of roughly n^m.  

Put another way, simple estimations of "n" at the indicated power level do not recognize that
1) more than one path arrives to a conclusion;
Nor do simple estimations at indicated power levels recognize that
2) apparent particulars from which to work toward completion are actually not different particulars--half of them are double counted at the level of being two choices from complete due to the dimensionality of the whole becoming complete.

So the impact of having a divisor is strongest either when:
1) working toward completion from levels that already include almost all dimensions of particulars or else
2) whenever operating at low levels of power which have only a few pathways.
Estimations of possibilities are easily too high if not considering the adjustments for cases 1) and 2).
These are for occasions of having more than one possibility.

However:
The number of complete outcomes that are reachable, divided by all choosable pathways = n/n = 1 .
Or else, any one outcome chosen from its penultimate particulars through to completeness = 1/1 = 1 .
Thus,
Singular possibility is by definition, complete, whole, created, ultimate, and embraced in all of its dimensions.  It is both one easily won and/or one, fully, dimensionally itself.

(Whatever is not and is not divided,
or, is nothing left unchosen
= truly naught and something not found = 0.)

Sources:  Closed dimensional choice paths (the geometry of the powers depicted) and Pascal's Triangle

It’s hard to know
What a life will mean
Mid sentence

Choices made
Driven by the times
Unchosen

It’s no game
But someone loses
Every time

And so we love
To show the other
We’re the same

In the end
You tried your best
So did I

A white porcelain
Porcupine

Sits atop
The stool

Beside a resting
Toilet and silent sink

Drains are clogged
Must be the fog

Airing up
Inside the room

Thick and heavy
Full of cream

Like a hot
French Pastry

Soap melts
Into a fine cappuccino

Skin is soft
Not smooth

Rugged
Tired of the water's touch

Lips separated
Leaking drool

An earlier soft drink
Makes its appearance

Sake makes my soul
Gold and sublime

A snowball I received
To the face

Magical cocktail
Island tragedy

In Paris
Couped up

Stuck in a bathroom
Head bobbing

Up
And Down

Swaying
Side to side

Direction unchosen
Ears sweetened

By a tranquil
Heavenly sound

A song
Heartfelt poem

Layne's voice
Shouting from the void

Guitar strings
Beats of a drum

Native quotas
Unremembered

Just peace
No hate

Possible gain
***** to be given

Snowflakes
Fall upon my brow

Hissing in the heat
Chilling a man-made sea

Fingers tingle
Fabricating a jingle

Eyes swell
Blochted art on the walls

Feet numb
Deciding to stick around

Like a sore gum
Withered with gin

My armor
Solid arms

Continue to fall
Down with my divinity

I am Lucifer
Shining meteor of false hope

Chest heaves
I begin to grieve

Hope for a dawn
Pray to hear a new song

But here he comes
I am bleeding

Shaken by the storm
Overcome

Laughter
And crying

This means
I am dying

But,
Is the time right?

Everything touches every other,
Nothing stays safe in itself;
The ghost moans his fate was unchosen,
The captain, his enemy's stealth.

Fate doesn't rewind in the darkness,
Day doesn't withold it's surprise,
Birth doesn't await our 'hello',
Death doesn't hold out for 'goodbye'.

In the mirror, behold your opposite:
The antagonist of all that you do.
His left your right, his day your night;
Whatever you think, he sees through.

On the ground, stretches out your shadow,
Who follows you through thick and thin:
They'll bury you one day, and he'll go away
And not count it as loss or win.

Cry dear, cry
No one to wash off your tears.
Cry into yourself.

When beauty cried, I laughed.
Flowers and destinies do not lie together.
For years, paths unchosen
have waited.

When I chose flowers
they wilted.
So I choose my destiny,
and cry.

Cry dear, cry
No one to collect your pearls.
Those precious ones fall.

A blue boat
in the Mediterranean,
seven hundred balance,
broken, silent,
an unchosen arc,
rocking hearts dulled
by a slender chance
at survival.

Bitter dread grips
those not in boats,
greeted by the unexpected,
fumbling the knot of wrongdoing.
Surprised faces
bob in peaks and troughs.

Somewhere
between the
abandonment of hope
and the next breath
lies arrival.
A remembrance of
a buoyancy,
a slender space
of kindness,
holds all refugee stories
breathing freely
wave after wave.

Tangled up
in broken lines of
communication,
seeking out a
melody
that was never there.

Discordant sounds,
blocking them out like a
dam of
sticks and stones.

But your words, your
honest
unchosen
words
will never
break my bones.

For they are frail,
crumbling away when I
catch them in my
fingers
if even there at all.

Hanging for a moment
in the flushing heat
between us
before
dropping
like orbs of clouded glass
and shattering at my
feet.

Worthless now.
Fragments.

All the cuts on my
fingers
from trying to
pick up the pieces,
put them together,
nurse them
tenderly.
Seeking some meaning
hidden in
fractured light.

But you didn't
think of that:
do not realise
what I am
looking for.

But I am here.
I am here and I am
listening -
listening to endless
nothing.

For you make
pitiful words
priceless

because they are
yours.

Never to see the white light.
Mask of desperation and doom,
Cursed since the womb.
Locked in a soulless battle,
Will I feed upon mortal cattle?
Fangs sharp points intrude,
I find they have become crude.
Wallow in this plight of misery,
One with shadow and mystery.
Falling gracefully to bended knees,
My sanity, crumbling flees.
Bound to this immortal life of pain,
My existence to all a bane.
Calling out to any who may hear,
Desperate that some life is near.
Save me from my restless torment,
Years I have endured, yet dormant.
Face the greatest fiery threat to my kind,
My weakness now I see as a sign.
Delicious warm life sustaining nectar,
Once mankind’s greatest protector.
Gained mortality only a whisper,
Granted because I am a shifter.
Lulled to my death,
Taking this last breath.
My entrance to any heaven forbidden,
My immediate hell-bound doom now unhidden.
This unchosen descent not willingly made,
Still the demise will be the same, will not fade.
Forgetting these decades
Multitude of facades…
One last glimpse of natures delight,
The sun slips from my dead sight.
© Copyright

-Christina Worrell

Commerce
Unschooled  by  Nature's
Heart
NOOOOOOOOO

Psychology
False Prophet Dr Spock
Enlisted
Whip of the Workers  Flesh
Raw Royal
NOOOOOOOOOO

UNchosen One
Wings Now Given
Astronaut Above

Farm Fields
Sacred To the Earth
Wheat and Oil
Water and Herd
Community, Family, Friends
Tablet of Tradition Love


Falling Cry
Debters  Sorrows
Father....
Oh Lord Forgive Us Our Sins

Instructuon Manual
For the Climb

Family of Man
Secure Yourself

Wrapped Prisoner Earth
Debt Rubbed Together
Like Two Fire Sticks of Announcement
Smokes Arriving Scent
A Star Invisible
Preceding

Bring Me an Army Jacket
For a Farmers Field
And a Holy Flag
For a Decision Makers Voice
A Heart For Freedom Named Compasssion
Burned Colorless Clear
for the Very Purity
From Which it Was Born
Sparkling Diamond
Commitment to Goodness
For Family Life Maintained
No Other Truth Relevant

Silver Grace  

Gold
Of a Fathers Love
Held in The Color of Forebears

Free Democracy
Come Hither
It is for Truth
to Sing
Loudly Now

etiolated shell
ball bearings for knuckles
crimson branches
that shudder in the albumen
of the eyes

palms riddled with skinny rivers
navy straws
wrist fissures
roots of calcium
punctured silver

carrier-bag lungs
interior accordion
sack of cherry fluid
limited edition
throbbing blob

in the mirror
yourself not quite
yourself
unchosen blueprint
modified mainframe

filled with tea
and slabs of cheese
envelope of bones
cauldron brewing
on and again on

Imagine the mind as a tree and the brain as a seed.
The mind is made by the brain as the tree is made by the seed.

Imagine routes growing amongst hostile environments,
akin to thoughts that germinate in the mind of another.

A thought formulates from the combination of accepted truths that spirals out of control like the tree and it's roots.

Yet these moments are only revealed when the earth is disturbed,
if not they still grow but remain unheard.

Thoughts forceful through pastures,
it's in the nature of the living to overgrow and expose like an explosions aftermath.

Repressed and unchosen, but even the best storms pass,
give life to the grass and the elements that surround sound.

The seasons change like the reasons to live again.
The bony tree branches shake away the secrets of human beings leaving footprints underneath that intersperse the leaves.
Like a strong breeze.

Imagine a human being as a growing tree,
naked underneath without the leaves;

The leafs fall in time and reveal the skeletons of the human mind forgotten thoughts of friends and enemies both left behind.

What trope is this,
That the old, wizened, simply submit,
Shedding skin and shutting out the sight
Of the melting candle lit.

Contraire! They still feel that whine
of seductive life blowing by,
Promising kisses and smooth skin.
In the mind, the memory of bare feet
In the sand retains its grittiness;
But life, pitiless, creates the mind's body,
A boardinghouse always in decline,
Leaving lips bereft.

Does the old heart believe
That the memory of that electric touch
Will still change the movie
From documentary to romance?
The young play; the old grieve.

Is it life to sit on a bench,
Next to the stench of old men
And laugh politely at yesterday's stories,
While powdered old ladies lean in
Singing hymns of past glories?

Restless desire inspires man's mortal heart
To resist this predestination, unchosen.
I long to dance, to sweat,
To feel, under the sun, the ripeness start.

Like a game of dodge ball  
      I am picked last
             Or at times not at all.

She was born from a spark called "The Little ******."
An Obsessed Organization of Science thought that they could tame her.
Wrong they were. The burns started to hurt.
The pockets of the public paying for answers
To lies of aa Mental Medicine Breakthrough
Which Lead All Who Created it to ashes and Dirt.
Her Dad tried to keep her safe, "His Little ******."
Forced apart by The Government for their bidding
Took a mother to her grave and a father to his ending.
Now she must finish what they had started.
A drug on test shelves. At a small town University.
No student wants this "Psyche-High"
Not even the heaviest in Druggie Sororities.
The smoke remains and the smell of fear.
She lights the match which is her mind.
"Little ******" has shown those "Evil Think Tanks"
How melted torture leads to an unbreakable spine which it did bind.
Together in a swift and blurred moment.
There she goes.
"The Little ******" goes to her future.
No more chasing....From those Who Thirst For Mental Warfare...
The twisted plot of creating  weapons of the mind...
Lies in ashes as she wipes tears from the force that came
from the same kind.
"I did it for you,Daddy." She exclaimed as The Rainbird Can never fly again.
She protects those who are haunted by genetic's and their unchosen paths....
By the "Bigger Minds" that brought the chemicals through the parent's veins.
Now the records are in vaults as the government seals it with
the blood of a fallen strain...
Of a new hu"man-kind...?"
That was the notion. Evolution Forced too quickly.
Now "The Little ******" shall force Them to Bide by her
terms and the heart from endearment of moments of the same kind.
Flashes Back to moments. Now smoking History.
"Little ******" has brought peace to all of the fallen Souls
Locked in her heart's memory.

Snarly and ferocious, this dreadful child has been gifted to me.
At age 3, I was cursed with a responsibility to protect and mentor this devilish girl.
Fourteen years of pure evil and malignancy drives my mind to a state in which no man should ever have to feel.

My heart shrieks with vengeance as she so deliberately tries to inflict pain on it.
My conscience refrains me from doing the harm she does to me,
Reminding me that I am the bigger person.

Little girl, you devious and vicious soul,
I've dreaded the very day I first glanced upon your face.
As your ruthlessness and your carelessness towards other people causes heartache,
When words fly out of your mouth.

You sadistic young twit,
I must correct you for your behavior.
But I hold no authority to do so,
Yet I have been branded your guardian ever since the devil himself has spawned you.

I listen and feel for your struggles, I do.
So I must question why you don't respect mine?
Is life all about you, little girl?
Or is it you just find joy in driving me to insanity?

No longer will I entertain these loathsome conflicts,
As you are my unchosen inferior.
I will fight the urge to play your game,
And find the humor in your desire to leave me discouraged.

Little girl, you silly child.
One day you will be mournful,
When the time comes where I will not be present,
And you will nevermore have me to fulfill your barbarous needs.

My aura glows with all my heart knows.
My mind feels what this future heals.
Pain & betrayal the past conceals.
With what fate or Destiny deals.
Faith cracks & peels.
Karma reels.
Harmony kneels.
As Envy steals.
Justice doesn't exist or is not real.

My nose is subjected to a stench of death & filth.
Time stands still.
Frozen & unchosen my essence.
Remains a single unwanted presence.
Mutual attraction has no reaction.
*** has no further action.
Unmarried, untouched, unwanted, & unloved.

Eyes of every color see.
Ears without static are clear.
My mind has no fear.
My heart can not hear.
My voice is my gear.
I speak the truth all & every year.

Time rides
but on wings of butterflies.
Hardly noticeable
as they flit by…

From flower to flower.
Underscoring the fragrant,
outlining the beautiful.

Yarrows to daylilies.
Lavender to pansies.
Goldenrods to marigolds.

Supposedly impartial yet,
seemingly bestowing
just a little more
upon those most pleasing.

And the unchosen only watch
with bitter, hungry eyes
that go unnoticed, unslaked
and
          unvisited.