"uncleansed" poems
Though altercations of a secessionist sound stern,
Their minds are stuck and never learn.
Through a disabled rebellion their built,
Words designed to deplete one's self are spilt.
Although it's said consummation executes in the leaning vice of the secessionist,
The desecration becomes the birth of the segregationist.
The segregation of closed mindedness with those of the voice.
The voice has sculpted our worlds obedience choice by choice.
The voice has seen demons at their best and angels at their worst,
There is a reason why this world hasn't burst.
You see, our world is seen through a lens,
This lens doesn't defy our worth and script the uncleansed.
It simply sets a standard for the closed minded to follow,
The voice, doesn't have a standard to follow, this voice makes the lens for those left to follow tomorrow.
-Joseph B Schneider
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Ambient voices lurk upon the tip of the ears,
As the ruffling of the leaves become faint and dull!
Shaken by those voices clamor your essense to a vilified characters,
And those sound intensified by the roaring thunder they seem to pound like war drums.
As the heavens shed it's tears to calm all senses to a full moon,
One can only indulge in the simple act of nature to light sound of rain drops to sleep.
Do we become the persona others echo,
And does one escape to runaway from energy of darkness?
It is a destined war to meet the oppositioned in battlefield,
And then you ask yourself if you are the truthful conviction of good?
The innocence isn't so much the victor of the scenario,
But the reflective nature to do the right things.
Those loud voices spilled the vile tongue of characters uncleansed,
And the dirt seem to gravitate the bubble you once protected your essense.
You try to rub off the dead skin that sicken your persona,
But seemed fatal attraction and unwelcomed maul of voices protrude.
Tremored hands can't seem to stop,
But the heart had seized it's pulse,
And looked to the self in the mirror no more.
Gasp to get some air in the drowning ocean,
As the weight of the back become stronger,
And reach out the arm to brace upon the nearest shore.
Everything must stay silent,
And then ask am I good enough?
The eternal struggle to find the person on the lake is a journey,
But one can't runaway forever from their own shadow,
Because the shadow will follow you for good.
Once you realize the reflection is your's
It is too silly to have ever feared it.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
Your truth is to blame for my insecurities. That tugs and traps my heart in a never ending sticking, lashing pain.
And because of you, I continued to decay inwardly through transparent hurt. Hurt that gave me the courage to suffer daily despite the effort to conquer the distasteful fear. That built-in machine , that wreckage of my soul.
Dusk til dawn I lay in my cold and wet bed of tears . Giving myself up to the distant voice that fed on my weakness.. Night and day it tormented me, comstantly writing wistful memo's to steal my commitments. I was distraught, a wrecking shame to my faith .I was a disappointment to the dignitaries and a lost cause to my integrities.
I had no hope, being restless and destroyed. I was covered in my own blood. Which bled from my eyes to my toes,that stained and uncleansed my skin . I was in a frenzy for eternity . Pitying myself in confusion. And just when you thought I was over, at the end of my misery .. I made a decision ... I decided .....no more...
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 8:11 AM UTC
Since it was such a beautiful day,
my high school art teacher had us go out to sketch a section of the school.
I have reason to believe we were faced away from the scenery the entire time.
Someway,
somehow,
the sweet sublime of noontime in spring was consumed completely by unbridled,
uncleansed boredom.
We stared down the ugly,
open hallway that our teacher almost tried to persuade us is pretty.
The dirt between the two sidewalks had been so pressed down from rain and being trampled,
it would often be confused for the sidewalk when students didn’t watch their step.
The pebbles by where we sat were covered in dust,
about as dry as the spot made me feel.
There were a few trees that stood like awkward,
gawking freshman boys.
The hall was lined with faded paint,
and asymmetrically placed doors,
windows,
and polls.
Altogether it was an urban obstruction.
Apr 12, 2025
Apr 12, 2025 at 7:53 PM UTC