"undergoes" poems
When I have a yen to sin , I do it with my unbounded pen.
Thick black ink turns blood, spills in a mysterious patterns,
And it simultaneously writes my own redemption.
My spirit undergoes a transformation,sings freedom song.
In this unreal plane of my action, I become superhuman.
Every word that swims in the deluge of emotions quickly,
Sends SOSs, incessant, demanding sublimation.It's done.
I pay heed and then find, I am in the word's possession.
That decides, what would be my next course of action.
I stay firmly put between agitating emotions and imagination.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
I’ve been treating myself like there is something very wrong with me, particularly my emotions. Every emotion I get (most often, my “negative” ones), I’ve been monitoring and trying to control, when all I simply needed to do was to allow for their expression and not do anything. For a long, long time I’ve considered myself to be someone ill and in need of healing; what a difference a label makes. To be “ill”, in essence requires that someone “do” something to fix themselves as a “problem”. The very nature of thinking yourself “ill” promotes action and effort. I’m glad I don’t go to a dr, can you imagine how many other disorders and syndromes I would have to “fight” and contend with.
A lot of the time when someone gets traumatised, or undergoes some sort of negative event, they always look to the happy part of themselves as the “real” them, or at least the part of them deemed to be acceptable enough to be “real”. They lament losing the “real” them. But who are people really? Are they only who they are when they’re happy? Does the extent of one’s being only pertain to their happiness? What if a part of me is in despair, what if a part of me is in intense fear and anxiety — aren’t these parts of me also real and equally valid as happiness? Particularly if they’re perfectly natural reactions to intense suffering and pain. These parts of me scream for catharsis after having been invalidated for a long time and instead of allowing them, I've condemned myself as being ill for feeling them. This is why society is in part sick; repression is healthy and expression is deemed ill. We drug away “negative” emotions for fear we are somehow damaged for harbouring them.
From now on, I am no longer “ill” — what a difference such a perception makes in how you treat yourself. Whatever you do is acceptable, whatever you do is allowed and expression is an inevitability. My intense sadness is not a problem, my intense pain is not a problem, my intense fear is not a problem — do you know how freeing such an attitude towards self is?
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
His eyes penetrate the mirror,
And the glass penetrates him back.
Tears rain down his cheeks,
And his semblance undergoes a crack.
His head hits the pillow,
His eyelashes flutter along to dreams.
Mother watches with weepy eyes,
Then sunlight through the window beams.
His heart flutters like a leaf in a breeze,
Excited by the man before his eyes.
For years he has struggled
With this affection he was taught to despise.
Even as his heart tells him what to do,
The boy continues to hide his truth.
It seems there is much to lose,
It seems a way to ruin his youth.
But the secret ails him—
A condition untreated.
Without exploration,
His heart remains defeated.
Destruction clasps onto him, an iron grip,
And his demons come alive.
He begins to hate himself,
Struggling to survive.
Hatred finds him during his adolescence—
Like a deadly blade wishing him dead.
To survive, he learns a simple truth—
His beliefs must be shed.
Now a cloak of happiness hangs from his shoulders—
His boyfriend is in his arms.
He has parted with society’s silly notions,
Of which only dealt him harm.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 11:46 PM UTC
Living on borrowed time
Decision at drop of a hat
Down an empty vandalized street, I walk
through the horror of silence
and silence of serenity
perdurable pathway of life
The ghastly sights
and the rustling gates
scattered people with unknown tastes
emptiness in their eyes, anger in their words
void is profound
down the perdurable pathway of life
Bifurcated roads upfront
my perception, one to hell and one to heaven
the other end of roads, a mystery
I stood there comprehending, while
my mind harks back to before I came
down the perdurable pathway of life
Endurance of a toiler
Stoicism, a rare trait, out of gratitude to employer
pain and suffering he undergoes for common good
loyalty to his master, inspire of hardships
sincerity and humbleness of the bloke
will inspire me, down the perdurable pathway of life
Deprived of education
desolated on streets laboring
disparate from parental love, subject to father's fury
fractious relations but still ignores himself, for family and domicile
The kid's love and determination, will inspire me
down the perdurable pathway of life
Spurn love took her down
Her heart wrenched and pushed her beyond limits
killed herself, leaving her parents to sore reality
not a wise choice, but courageous
I ponder upon courage, rather than cowardly suicide
Death is not an option down the perdurable pathway of life
Happy faces around taunt me to do simplest
Reality speaks otherwise
Reckoning on past, the pathway is wrought
conscious and hard choices right ahead
The bifurcated roads to heaven and hell?
I've seen it all, down the perdurable pathway of life
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 4:52 AM UTC
I will never be
ensconced in
charming lace
valentine
hearts
candypink encased
You will not see me
withering away
back of hand
upon brow
in fainting stance
in a flowing silk dress
swinging on a
perfect bough
For I am a river
wild and true
sometimes quiet
sometimes
roaring and
soaring in
shimmering hues:
Blues and greens
mixed with shades
of earth, of fire
bespeaking emotions
in tones of desire
My river can get messy
can flood over too fast
because my heartstrings
get pulled
by the strength of
the blast
It can bring up
colored stones
in its undertow
fish and otters
spinning
in voodoo
overflow
As the colors rise up
in this heated coolness,
this deluge
the influx overwhelms me
with a power so huge
and then I need
some metallics,
flecks of silver and gold
to soothe
passion's piquancy
when it gets
particularly bold
Specked within rocks
to ground me, keep
my feet on the soil
prevent my heart
from slipping
down into
a choking,
hot oil
Bronze minerals reflect
peaks of sadness,
searing pain
from rawness of hurt
with no one to blame
Yes, it can be a balm
and also a burn
to be so linked
by spirit-threads
to another, in emotions
that churn
just on the brink
but never truly there
to experience the
fullness of rush
ripe culmination
abundant and lush
and that's when the
river turns
into molten
lava...
and I must dig
deep under
layers of ancient strata
seeking relief
in coolness of earth
as my spirit
again undergoes
a kind of rebirth
For when we
grow to love
strange things
happen, indeed
In the core of
my essence
you are the root
of my
seed
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
As the moon
undergoes phases
of darkness...
it turns both cheeks.
Becoming
fully enlightened
by the sun.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
(Preta प्रेत (Sanskrit) or Peta (Pāli) is the name for a type of (arguably supernatural) being described in Buddhist, Hindu, Sikh, and Jain texts that undergoes more than human suffering, particularly an extreme degree of hunger and thirst. They are often translated into English as “hungry ghosts”, from the Chinese, which in turn is derived from later Indian sources generally followed in Mahayana Buddhism.)
The series of blurs that was summer 2006 makes me wonder what kind of evils we committed in past lives. What otherworldly desires plagued us with this need to feed upon the surging tidal wave of young blood? The days from May 16th to August 23rd were black mirror images, indiscernible. I kept the 1997 Honda Accord running, tapping my fingers to the beats of Built to Spill on the dashboard, waiting for you outside your father’s newly constructed home on ice. You would bleed forth, blue sun light reflecting off windows to face like an eight point filter. What we did with the day mattered not. It was as important to us as the script of action flicks. We were the only people that we wanted to know and we were the places that we wanted to go. The day lived and died, as the nighttime was when our karma sprung curse would take us. Turn off blurred screens, ignore details of the war, pull the hatch shaded curtains tight. We shared a bed in which we did not sleep, bodies silent, blaring alarms. The same hungry ghosts feeding and choking on ash all night. We burned out, successful slow turns into frail husks. It was then that we couldn’t get full anymore, we realized that we fit like clothes made out of wasps. It hasn’t gotten better for either, a ghoul roaming in the night, hunting for the next lay like a record skipping. We will asphyxiate on stones or have our throats burned by water. Hopefully we’ve suffered enough to respawn into more advanced forms. I hope I see you in the next life as anything else.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
The faint smell of the watery sugar
is barely noticed. The starfruit's fragrance
swept away into faint nothingness
at the hands of the tropical winds of Hawaii.
Hanging onto the tree, the fruit once sour and bitter
undergoes a seemingly emotional transformation.
The sun's sweet-tempered fingers are secretly and appealingly molding it.
It learns to be sweet instead of sour,
our taste buds tingling with the power to taste,
but being held closely like bloodhounds on a leash.
It brings an exotic originality to the table.
The Vietnamese fable, blah-blah-bitty-blah its unknown.
It's skin kissed by golden rays,
and the once green fades
into a sweet banana yellow.
on the inside, it still knows its roots,
it still knows the sliminess of negativity,
and on the inside it holds tan pellets shaped just like tear drops,
embraced within its boogers of its old bitter soul.
Droplets of water drip-drop down
off the waxy fruit, and it lays silently on a freckled
black marble counter. Sweating sickeningly after a cold shower,
its cool glistening skin signals its execution.
Soon enough the executioner arrives,
the sharp shining blade blinding
with bright lines of reflected light.
No, it wasn't nearly as crisp and sugary as an apple,
nor was it even as sweet and citrusy as an orange,
and yet, it was a little bit of both.
The little stars stuck somewhere in-between,
alone in the galaxy of oranges and apples.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC
A grin as wide as the ocean, his lips the smooth ribbons in waves as the sun undergoes a setting.
A dance with words in greeting, the effortless lack of cumbersome voids
but in them our dancing shapes and laughter.
An embrace embodying our unity in which we have become a foreign groove;
the orchestrated melody in which minds cannot comprehend how to move to.
We, in our own, a language no one else understands.
And if in our foolishness the world around us falls into shambles, I know ours won’t.
But he is only the faint wisp of an echo in the mountains, the mere illusion of an oasis, the waterfall in the far woods under a bright white sky, twigs and leaves interrupting a brook, the last firefly alight in a jar,
the fluttering words on the breath of two seekers.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
The phoenix is a bird said to rise from its own ashes
being a symbol of immortality and spiritual rebirth.
So life in this world undergoes many similar flashes
which determine the degree and quality of our mirth.
_________________________
Oct 31, 2023
Oct 31, 2023 at 10:24 AM UTC
At first when it happens
it's like a spell, I cast it, it moves me, and I use it.
To the youth with it. Some hollow-gutted frogs' yolks and thrice its weight in pigeon carcass and fly.
Gruesome fruit loosies.
Then somehow the trance begins, the anecdotal watch stopes moving, to the hedge-burn up to the meadow go the witnesses, moving under the guile of fresh addiction. Wicked words, fiery,
a conflagration.
Burning us up. Two in two out. And just as they get it right, the moon hollows itself out, the sky undergoes a change, a nuance splits open the gut of the world and comes indifference, apathy,
anxiety.
A poem comes.
It crashes down over my head like an arrow-carved apple, from the Natives. Bending me on my side, my flat side, where I have lived one-hundred years on my side, my left leg nuzzled in between you and the blankets we bought at the thrift store on 26th and Valencia. And it worries me, now that they shift from top-floor to basement in some corner of the Salvation Army. No one owns that magic. They touch the bruised knots of its cotton fibers, and for what-
a throw blanket in a common room.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC
Her poetry was like a living organism
that changes form every minute
by the chemical change it undergoes
within me, the reader's mind,
each avatar did a dance different
so much the symbols and cryptograms spoke
right from time capsules of subconscious,
I had to choose from this or that.
I looked deep in to her eyes and read silently
words, one feels are severely limited, at times
much goes unexpressed for want of words
"exquisite" in such occasion is an expression
that has lost its sharp edges, due to overuse
so i smiled, I hope in a way most expressive
of the spirit the poem reflected
but more was in the poem, I sure felt,
beyond my view, some hidden pathways exist
my ears craved for hidden voices, and I told her this
evening set the stage for her recitation
we walked the country road and she began
very solemn at first, then the words took
a life of their own and became palpable
I felt I was in presence of an oracle
who receives divine command from universe
a spirit that sprung from subconscious
was heard speaking in her throbbing words
the folk walking the path stood and listened,
the look on those faces were unmistakable
a knowing beyond the meaning it was.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
The battle is far from over, since the battle is yet to be won.
As of now in the present the battle continues.
The risk of failure of failure remains somewhere at the back of mind.
The thought about failure not only triggers, but also gives surge to an anxiety from time to time.
What now?
What next?
What else?
The battle continues.
Not only the battle needs to be fought,
also important is to fight the battle with a positive mindset and a never give up attitude.
Important to keep in mind the fact that a win in the battle is the only thing that needs to be achieved at any cost.
Agreed and accepted that winning and losing remains part of the game
Still it’s winning that makes the real difference
It’s winning that counts.
As and when you win, then only things and people around you change
Definitely everything will not change on it's own,
nor do the people around you,
it's the mindset that undergoes a change
It's winning that makes all the difference.
The outside world looks at winners from a different point of view.
So once you win, then things change for you.
The outside world will then look at you differently.
Even you have to change your views about the outside world and look at with the same level of difference in mind
At first you were no one,
now that you have won,
winning has given you an identity, a new face.
Definitely, then it will come to mind that it’s winning that has made all the real difference.
It’s winning that counts
Keeping in mind the fact that the battle needs to be won,
move ahead with a desire to win and fight the battle till the very last moment in time.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
A Prof. Ed. subject – Curriculum Development
The “total learning experience” subject to assessment
Assessed, Hidden, Learned & other types
Curriculum is designed for our school lives
This mechanism must be evaluated
In a school to be accredited
Curriculum undergoes planning, implementation & evaluation
It experiences innovations as education goes on!
-04/01/2017
(Dumarao)
*PEN Poems
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 9:58 PM UTC
Sometimes, I see the God descend to ground.
Lowered on pulleys, creaking as he comes,
He booms his monologue to waiting crowds,
While they - all certain that this God will make
Things right, will get the parents and the kids to talk,
Will mend the broken marriage vows, will fill
The bank accounts, will take the heartbreak out
Of growing old – they hearken to this voice.
But after, when the dummy-God ascends,
Departs in peace to mechanistic skies,
The crowd must stay to watch the empty stage
Repent its trick of mercy by design.
They shiver as it undergoes its shame -
See Faustus at the Hellmouth once again.
Jan 25, 2011
Jan 25, 2011 at 10:28 AM UTC
All thoughts are individual. It is impossible to take the energy and apparatus to which that energy is transferred through to develop a thought. Therefore no knowledge is taken, all is perceived to wit a schematic and the apparatus developed by our brains to develop the thought. The thought is then subjected to the body and undergoes scrutiny to provide a relevance, priority and application. Therefore it would be safe to assume that all knowledge is neither subjective nor objective but an entirely new word that could exemplify itself as "Understood as developed by ones own." Where I got this schematic for this idea was in counterance to the percieved robbing of thoughts and ideas from books and ideas. Would it be proper to call it the same thought? No. Would it be proper to call it a reaction? Only in the most mechanical of senses that is cause following effect.
This idea would be to liken to a computer having a file copied from one machine to another, while the content remains the same in its physical interpretation on the screen would completely change. As if being opened by two seperate programs. And we are not talking about the files being the same when we talk about ideas, ideas are consequences of what is perceived therefore consequences of the that is copied. Ideas are the effect and in their way, an individual interpretation by how the schematic of an idea is followed by what is transferred.
This idea in itself makes up for the massive hurdle that is misunderstanding between two people, each hearing fundamentally the same things while producing two differing ideas. In summation, an idea is a scrutinized original built on the schematic of that which is perceived and is each independent of a person and their surroundings.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
WE WILL STOP WRITING **** POEMS WHEN WE RUN OUT OF MATERIAL BUT UNTIL THEN WE WILL CONTINUE TO SAY WHAT NEEDS TO BE SAID TO THOSE WHO REALLY NEED TO HEAR IT BECAUSE THE HALT IN THE FLOW OF THE SCARLET RIVER DOES NOT MEAN WE ARE WEARING SCARLET LETTERS
DON'T EXPECT ME TO BREAK MY BONES FOR YOU BECAUSE YOU'RE WORRIED ABOUT MY BONES BREAKING, MY HEAD SHAKING, AND MY HEART QUAKING
I AM SORRY THAT I AM ATHENA
I AM SMILING BECAUSE I CAN AND MY LIPS ARE NOT ENFLAMED FROM KISSING YOUR *** BUT FROM KISSING THE BOY WHO TOLD ME HE LOVED ME FROM THE BOTTOM OF HIS HEART, NOT THE TIP OF HIS DICK, AND MEANT IT
I AM LAUGHING AT YOUR VIRGINITY THAT YOU ARE SO PROUD OF BECAUSE MINE NEVER EXISTED, AND NEITHER DID THOSE OF YOUR BELOVED ADAM AND EVE
AND I AM ATHENA
AS MY SCARLET RIVER BEGINS TO FLOW AGAIN, THE HANDS OF GOD RETRACT BACK TO THE SHADOWS HE IS NOT HER GOD, BUT HERR GOD
MY BAD FOR THINKING THAT HE WAS OURS
I SHOULD NOT BE LIVING IN FEAR BECAUSE I AM ATHENA
THE PATRIARCH QUESTIONS MY BODY AND MAKES ME ASHAMED OF MY NATURAL ANATOMY
AND I AM SORRY THAT MY BODY UNDERGOES PROCESSES AS NATURAL AS ******* PHOTOSYNTHESIS
BUT IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT YOU FORGOT THAT THE LAST TIME YOU ****** OFF
BUT DON'T FORGET THAT I AM ATHENA
GO AHEAD AND COMPLAIN ABOUT MY ENDLESS PREACHING BUT THIS IS NOT MY FIRST **** POEM AND IT IS DEFNITIELY NOT MY LAST
BECAUSE THERE IS SOMETHING TO BE SAID WHEN ROBIN THICKE CAN SAY HE HAS A BIG **** YET I CANNOT WEAR A SPAGHETTI STRAP TO SCHOOL
AND GOD FORBID I HAVE TO *** AT A PARTY, YOU'LL JUST POISON ME INTO YOUR SHEETS
AND IF BY CHANCE I MAKE IT OUT OF THAT PARTY ALIVE, I CAN'T WALK DOWN THE STREET AT NIGHT WITHOUT MY KEYS SCRAPING THE CREVICES OF MY FINGERS
REMEMBER WHEN NO MEANT NO? AND STOP DID NOT MEAN GO?
I AM ATHENA BECAUSE I NEED TO BE PLEASE DON'T TURN INTO HEPHAESTUS
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
My unprotected heart
Limply falls out of its chest
Loses its way down the left arm and
Slips right out of my sleeve
Rolling right past my cuff, my open palm, my fingernails
No time to catch it, no room hide it in my skinny wrist.
No time to take it back, to swallow the incredible lump of tears swelling…
There it spills. Pumping blood into cracks and crevices on the unfinished table.
My unprotected heart
Cold and birthed
Lays there beside the elephant in the room
Gathering slivers and stains
Too scared to move, too weak to breath
The room gets a good look.
A car wreck, gazes glued to the scene.
So many gazes…
Unprotected, it is dissected.
Focused and scrutinized
It is analyzed
Thoughts like a string of pearls so perfectly placed
The perfect calculation for my imperfect equation
Lab work is drawn up.
My heart becomes the experiment.
Attention in humiliation like a trip on the sidewalk, a
Stumble on the road.
My unprotected heart undergoes surgery
Open on the table
It cries out to be back in its cage.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
If you are not recovering you are dying
A phrase I have taken to heart
Tattooed on every bone of this skeleton inside of me
Despite its harshness, it's beyond true
If you are not recovering you are dying
Naturally, it didn’t offend me until I learned it was supposed to
I often sit and think of you for hours on hours
Wasting my time, as most people do on thinking of those they love who do not love them in return
It is the bittersweet past time of humans
Coffee shops are stained with more than coffee stains
I wonder how many chairs I've sat in that held someone else broken off of the ground
I wonder how many salt water lakes I have walked over when approaching the barista
My coffee burns my tongue
But no other feeling lingers worse on my mouth than the feeling of your lips
I have taken understanding that love does not mind giving scars
Remorse was never it's best attribute to conscience
We must know that in the midst of something wonderful chaos is making blueprints
Planning attack like a predator that has not eaten for days due to the winter
Nutrients to keep it alive have been hiding in trees and under snow
It is the middle of December and I ache for nothing more than your warmth
No amount of coats and sweaters can comfort me like your arms
Wrapped around me like a Christmas present
My coffee burns my tongue
But the flame of his words pressed against my skin
I do not love you anymore
Does not amount to the physical distress my body undergoes
My coffee burns my tongue
And I have not eaten because I am too full of a love
How strange it is to feel so empty but so unable to consume
Like a vase with no flowers
I am waiting for something beautiful to offer me meaning
And though waiting is not deemed to be the worst
The hands of my clock are leaving bruises on my wrist
My coffee burns my tongue
But in a few hours, it will heal
And I will taste cold coffee as the heater in my car warms my hands
If you are not recovering, you are dying
And at this point, I fear I will not see tomorrow
The dew on my window will not meet the ashes from my cigarette
Tomorrow I will not make it out of bed
Tomorrow I will not go downstairs and make coffee
It will not burn me
Cause I fear I will already have burned out
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
It shadows a figure that's afraid to embrace their inner talents or undiscovered strengths
Fearful of the consequences of the planned mishaps and failed attempts.
It creeps in and traumatizes your character and demoralize your determination,
Sweat drips from your face, your hand soaks in fright and your body undergoes a burning sensation.
Starstruck in judgement and animosity,
Who knew that life came with a policy?
Emotions and faith consistently triggered by the inability of credibility
Eyes inflamed with tears while my mind attacks me physically
As it continue to haunt and knaw on my self esteem,
I now found the answer to why my efforts weren't deemed.
Thinking that maybe the criticism were the problem but the problem lies beneath a surface of glass,
A glass that won't allow a bullet to pierce through but enclose the demons that feed on the hope so it won't last.
Knees quivers, stumbling accelerates, panting starts to become a way of breathing,
Nervousness sinks in, failure feeds back and anxiety becomes the prominent feeling.
It's not the result that scarce the mentality, it's feeling that you're not good enough, it's seeking validation and disappointing yourself.
It's feeling worthless and useless and denying you need help.
The lack of confidence shadows a goal driven individual that misses out on opportunities in fear of not being enough.
The lack of confidence manipulates a talented soul that makes success become so rough.
Confidence become a puddle of melancholia with false hope and desired faith,
Stuck in a trans and the cycle begins again as I wait.
Wait on the moment to empower myself and encourage my abilities,
Turn my insecurities into security to soar for opportunities and amend unity.
It's time to stop waiting and breakthrough.
I believe in me.
I hold the key.
And I will let my confidence free.
-dpk
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC
I look into my pocket and I find a card
On it my photo, my identity
Is this really me,
Or who I'm supposed to be?
I go to sleep in fear, not for me
For someone else.
No alcohol to numb the thoughts,
No book to lose myself,
No film to ponder.
I turn to writing these things
In my head, in my mind,
All around.
At first something to leave my body,
Grapple with my fears
Before being taken by exhaustion.
Failing that I feel the need to cry.
Now is the first time I truly
Miss my old friend,
Someone to talk to 'til i sleep,
Comforting and kind
To reassure my mind.
I realise that writing this down
Could result in its finding,
My thoughts and feelings falling into
Wrong or right hands.
Maybe its what I want deep inside.
Regardless I do not want to stop
For the tears well up inside.
Besides, this kind of creativity
Doesn't come too often.
Something like this should be taken advantage of,
It may well be useful.
But had this be found
Please not by my kindred,
Or those that I live by.
For their worry would be needless,
Like I pray mine to be...
As I come to the end,
My heart is happier.
Temporarily free of it's burden
But my stomach still undergoes
The brutal battering of the storm inside,
Tearing it apart,
Unknowing to the world outside.
But it will die down.
After a good nights sleep,
A new day and some company.
Least this way I can remember another feeling,
Another experience
I can say I have achieved.
Before I go to my sleepless grave.
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
The life of man here in this world is an adventure and one of self discovery
the emphasis being in searching for something that is lost and its recovery.
Through the accumulation of knowledge man gains a little wisdom
but it's only with self knowledge does he ever attain true freedom.
Man's life isn't only that which is confined between birth and death
but includes that between death and rebirth and beyond in breadth.
A human being is not just a creature with only a body and a mind
but is also a soul which is of a spiritual nature or essence in kind.
The life of man undergoes many ups and downs in his worldly travail
and is only after much struggle here beyond it he then also has to sail.
The body and world are like prisons from which he longs to find a way out
and it's from within himself only does the right answer ever come about.
Man's life is caught between many opposites his reason can't fully comprehend
but then reason is limited to the mind and beyond it does not normally extend.
It's through a spiritual awakening his mind can get a glimpse of something more
and so begins another journey of man's life in which his soul lies the secret shore.
The life of man is like a paradox and man himself is also an engma
and through all his dealings in life usually gains unwanted stigma.
By thoughts and actions man can either achieve freedom or *******
in that play of knowledge and ignorance then lies his fateful heritage.
Man's life becomes what he knowingly or unknowingly makes it out to be
but behind all his efforts and accomplishments he really strives to get free.
It's by questioning his individual existence in relation to a universal one he may find
that he is a very part and parcel of That Whole to which also belongs all of mankind.
The life of man has many meanings and it's to one or a few of them people cling
as the world goes round some people, with all their heart and mind, often sing.
These songs of life not only do tell of man's inner yearnings and aspirations
but also sing of his eventual freedom in past, present or future generations.
Man's life is accomplished when he realizes and identifies with his hidden soul
and life's purpose or meaning has brought him to that actual and common goal.
The life of man is an eternal one and can be known through and by The Truth
which is really a song of Infinite Love and can give man his freedom forsooth.
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 7:44 PM UTC
The sweet tryst of your love has had its end
Which fadeth through the dawn, it coexists
The keen affection descends like a trend--
You slowly, but surely, have to desist.
The sickness spreads, continues to rescind
A whirlwind of sentiment takes it's place
Your mind undergoes sins of rue chagrin
Your life, just a sad blur, will end it's pace
Will you tell yourself it was all a lie?
Or will you own up to fabrication?
Your goal in life was to personify,
To move man with simple revelation
In your last breathe, you find the true meaning
To live as king, and to die demeaning
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
Illusory
thoughts that this mind creates
at night where these thoughts
just doesn’t seem to stop.
Nostalgic
vibe that this mind brings
at night where the melancholy
appears from out of nowhere.
Somber
experiences that this mind relives
at night where secrets
are out in the open.
Overly
deafening silence that this mind hears
at night where your own heartbeat
seems to be the only sound.
Manic
thinking that this mind undergoes
at night where these memories
are suddenly brought up.
Nocturnal
body that this mind controls
at night where the eyes
should be closed.
Incoherent
words that this mind forms
at night where drunken sentences
are actually sober thoughts.
Abyssal
state that this mind goes through
at night where darkness and
silence slowly kills your soul.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC