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Phosphorimental Sep 2014
He was love’s fool
A drop of rain
In a downpour of seasonal shame
A farthing in the fountain
Spent on wishes
Glistening in the fenlands
Of unreplenished riches

A plea, among the rustling
In a vast forest of variegated leaves
Sorrow among garrulous winds gusting
A path through
His wooded pathos
Blazed with love and lusting

Then a tear finds wing
On a falling leaf
Snapped from the limbs
by currents of heat
rockabye'd into halcyon
so misery and his companion
Forge a new coin

Thrown and flipping along an arc
A pinwheel casting solar sparks
Purling hope in a tumbling fall
promises anything can happen
To anyone
Anytime
at all
making up titles is fun
mc Jun 2013
streetlights ignite
the darkness after nightfall
setting the shadows ablaze
and, all the while,
remain endlessly
unprecedented unattractive unappreciated and unnoticed
despite their best intentions
and unaltered loyalty to illuminate our nights

without them, nighttime wanderers
would be absorbed by the night
and not be seen til morning
they are the only guides left
when twilight swallows the adventurous whole

so this is a thank you
to the undervalued streetlights
Isabelle Apr 2017
Your smile is free
But never undervalued
2 liner entry for Day 5. Write anything about what you think is important or undervalued.
nivek May 2014
daydreaming is getting stronger
one of the unsung heroes
in every ones life
Lee Feb 2013
I think of you
the same way
modern society thinks of hygiene.
You are severely undervalued by most
and eternally needed.
A Thomas Hawkins Jul 2010
The value's not dictated,
by how hard it is for me?

I think finally i get it.
I think finally i see.

Just because I find it easy,
doesn't make it less.

Just means that its a skill,
with which I have been blessed.

For the longest time I struggled,
to know the worth of things I do.

But now I see the value lies,
In how hard it is for you.
Julia Low May 2012
It’s something about the
way you say pathetic,
the words sting and burn

like the shots of a diabetic.
Overused and undervalued
by a simply judged fanatic.
The looks you cast,

as I slink past,
are all but few and
far between,
let alone sporadic.
thymos Apr 2015
take any society:
the most productive element
is women.
the most rewarded
is man.
(and the most annoying
is the one lamenting the state of affairs
who disrespects his mother.)
Paul Butters Aug 2019
Running the gauntlet down Midchester Road,
A veritable suburb of Gleethorpes City,
You pass a line of house-castles
Of the well to do.

But don’t be fooled
By what you see,
For I know someone
Who lives there.

And he will tell you,
Of bountiful gardens
Stripped bare
And concreted over
So that families can park their fleets
Of expensive cars.

See those conservatory extensions
And widened pavements.
A lady poses,
Doing her best
To emulate the Kardashians.

Money attracts
No end of thugs
And dodgy dealers:
Swarming parasitic wasps
Around the honey ***.

Nights of drunken revellers
From the local pub:
Swaying from trees
And kicking cans about.
Boy racers tearing down the road,
Music systems booming
With a mindless
Moronic drumming.

“Where has reality gone?” asks
My despairing friend.
They have their money
Their riches,
Expensive toys
But few of them are Happy.

What happened to “Goodness” and virtue
And dreams of Utopia?
Where are the heroes
Inventors and creators?
Instead we have a world of celebrity,
In which true talent – even genius
Is ignored and undervalued.

“Where are we going?” my friend exclaims.
Things get worse and worse,
The world all in reverse.
For it’s “Unreal City”,
Far from pretty.

So have a think,
Don’t let yourself sink
Even further into the mire.
Just get real,
You know the deal,
It’s you I’m trying to inspire.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\8\2019

(with help from a bloke who lives in such a place. Same town as me).
Open, honest and raw methinks.
Connie Buchan Oct 2013
You were one of the first to teach me about value.
You helped me gain independence, little by little.
I shared my desires with you and you helped me to fulfill them.
Sometimes I needed just that little bit more and there you were,
Ready to pitch in and help out.

I remember a smile breaking onto my face with the very glimpse of you,
Your shining face gleaming at me from afar.
Sometimes those you thought were your friends would just toss you away,
But not me, not ever.
I cherish you for everything you are worth and then some.

You have always been unique, different than all the rest I would come across.
You have your own look.
Yes, you may look similar to others in one way,
But with a quick flip you are shining again like only you can.
Time may tarnish your gleam, but no matter how rugged you get you will always be of worth.

Special childhood moments come back to me now.
Holding you in my sweaty little palm, I would fill with excitement
Knowing you were about to deliver to me the sweetness of my dreams.
All I needed was you and maybe a few more of your friends.
And off we’d go to spend a Saturday afternoon in delightful company.

Seniors would push you away, unwanted, undervalued.
They would take one quick glance to see if they recognized you.
Then they would pass you on to a youngster,
As if they had far too much of you to care for more.
But not me, I would swoop you up and run off, delighted.

Now you are to be no more. No replacements.
You will be allowed to discolour and erode with age as so many of your ancestors have done.
But to me, you will always be the highly valued shining copper penny
Who taught me to count, to value goals and how to use money to attain some of them.
And most importantly, how to take the first steps towards my independence.
Did I have you thinking?
Canada retired the penny just a while ago and I miss him. :-)
SheCaldWar Nov 2013
Every time you write you get this sparkle in your eyes
A supreme gleam that is your dream to win the grand prize
Between the King and Queen, you're just the joker going nowhere
But you're my turtle and I am your hare
You finish first even when all odds are stacked against you
Undervalued and underestimated, no one understands, no one knows
Better when empty; the bottle spins and lands on eenie meenie miny Poe
No need for gin and tonic, you're iconic without the sin
Paper may be thin but the words on it crawl under my skin
Your pen may bleed through but only because you put your heart on the page
You may age but your poetry will not be caged by thyme or sage
People can try but no matter what you type up, it will never be as good as what comes from his rib cage
David Beltran May 2011
Today I met a man who didn't like surprises,
I met a women who didn't like consistency.
I saw a friend that undervalued himself.
Another that sold herself.

I've done pills before,
shared bottles and beds too,
I think it's called damage control,
Or a colorful past on my wall,
You can hear it, feel it with every step I take,
A concert of every foot fall and shake.

You can even hear the child's heart beating,
At least I think it's still alive.
You can hear the surprising rhythm it carries,
Not a single beat of consistency.
Its kind of like you,
You are ineffable, not un-f'-able.
Jeni Aug 2016
I love the costume you wear
Discounted and undervalued
But I see it for its true colors
It's a method, a mood, a mystery
How after so much pain
You're still here somehow, and smiling.

I love the costume you wear
Ocean blue sadness
Veiled by the violet warmth of your acceptance
Indescribably beautiful melancholy
Like the sunrise I watched today
The night wistfully accepting the inevitable morning
Knowing that midnight's velvet comfort will once again return.

I love the costume you wear
But I wish you wouldn't hide your true colors within
Its fierce red curtained folds
Or behind those miserably memorized monologues that just don't ring true
It's like you've got stage fright but
The stage is yourself.

I love the costume you wear
But come with me
And let's dance until the pain glows like the sun and becomes beautiful
Until the moon lights your way and you are no longer afraid
Until the wind takes your hand and you can release the curtain and let go
Until you can drop the script and let your words fly like birds, of their own accord
And until you can embrace the world
With only your heart, your smile, and yourself
And dance beyond it all, freely.
Woke up this morning with this on my mind
Hannah LePage Aug 2011
Under the sun, you shine like the incarnation of youth

At nightfall you glow, like you just made love to the moon
You are elegance, you are patience, you are reflection, you are still

Your beauty shines from your inside out,
Reaching outward upward into the skies,
Your branches know no realm too high,
Your roots know no soils too deep
There are no limits to your courage

Under the sun
Your fruitful seeds spill out over your skin
You are open hands and generosity
You are selflessness

Under the moon
You are wisdom, enlightenment and truth
You are humility and grace

But your sacredness is undervalued at best, neglected and challenged
They raid you, from your insides out
Deep inside your mines and your waters so deep
Scavenging for a dollar
exploiting all they reap
******* the air right out of your lungs
You are exhaustion, you are bare
You are forgotten

Yet still your tides rise and fall with the moon
You are forgiveness, you are hopeful, you are inspiration

In your image I will teach my children to grow
Through your eyes, I will show them the world
With your hands I will build their home
"Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts." - Rachel Carson
EC Pollick Oct 2012
Ella Fitz’s rendition of Dream a Little Dream for the umpteenth time.
Louie comes in tune with that righteous horn.
I drink more as I sing along, off key.

There could be an entire SECTION of books written about us.
How we fell into that great whirlwind.
How we learned to hate the world when we didn’t have each other.
How we re-kindled, for that brief, brief time.
How I thought maybe we could love again.

We had hours that turned to days that turned to months.
We were the perfect piece of short fiction
An art form so gloriously undervalued,
(by both the audience and the creators)
Until we found ourselves in the Middle
(the worst feeling in the world.
Because like purgatory or super glue:
you're stuck.)

We said goodbye.
And I found I had residual emptiness.
I became residual emptiness.

I loved again, but it wasn’t anything
Like the masterpiece we had.
I knew because
Every day with him felt real.
Every day with you
Was a dream.
Something rooted in intangibility
Something I was astonished to find
happening to me.

It happened again-
We found ourselves in the same place
At the same time.
And after just a few weeks,
You gave me the greatest gift:
The indignity of silence.
And you gave me it
For the most ignoble reason—
You’re afraid.

Honey bun,
We’re all afraid.

It made me think
That maybe  the story of you and I
can only have a happy ending
in a place where it’s not so scary.

So me, Louie and Ella all ask you,
That
In your dreams
Whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me.

[Because that's the only place you'll find me now.]
Kaitelka was in the Equinoctial Aftó, she bathed but always oriented herself as an Argonaut star bathing in the Aegean while waiting for the ******* of Áullos Kósmos. Between both Aulos and Citara, she modeled the auletic- citaristic, in glimpses of her Psychic Trisomy.  In effect of the existence of an extra chromosome in a diploid organism 158, for a number of chromosome fifty-four, instead of a homologous pair of chromosomes. From this position she was limiting her chromosomes of normality in the genetic proximal when entering the bay of Skalá that she was waiting for her native, where the art of navigation danced in the nitrogenous water that brought her from Skalá; from Eleios-Pronnoi, about 39 km south of the main city on the island of Argostoli, in southern Kefalonia, on one of the Ionian islands of Greece. From here, mimetic was thrown towards the art of the unknown sea, collapsing and disoriented by its territorial similarity, and maritime per se of its Otolith that brandished it in dual places of Ionian-Dodecanese geography, following the semiotic songs of Leiak that emerged from the auletic to infer Ballenid genera, which acted precisely between the island and the Bay of Patmos with the same name as Skalá.

Kaitelka's Vernarthian tenor carried her behind her with another Ballenid, this one carried the Demiurge Ezpatkul, with his prominent Augrum or Gold teeth that rotated on the backs of all the borer beetles, being Scarabaeidae that delimited towards a dialectic, and paraphrase of a qualitative satirical one, especially in the form of Vernarth's sub-mythological subgenre. To commend all the hypotheses of this whale, it sang with the native cephalization ultrasound, where it continued to harmonize media in its cranial cavity, and in the muzzles of its larger fins that transmitted waves of parapsychological regression towards Vernarth, parodying the transparent sendal ballads that it made. with his transit through the water, however, not having members that strengthen his controversial cetacean passerby by waters of a melodious literary language, such as a great inspirational propeller, and satires that host greenhouses in most of the jubilation, related to rudders that furrow his verbal poetry, easing restrictions, and possessing the genome that was deprived him in his gestation, of a maternal expropriation victimized with fears of an end, and Apocalypse hungover by the sea and freshwater. They piloted their heart valves, mere and Dantesque with Zeusian buttress spauto, muddled and bundled in their bombastic myocardium like omitted ships without ever lifting anchor and setting sail, a very brief tulle of water satirizing formula additions, and a piece of dull wood on its spur that was It bore like a whale, it was carrying its weight in a literary category where there is no way to test it. Without hindrance, she laughed alongside the breakers in the manner of a belligerent tendril in thick keel skins, dramatizing him and perhaps delaying the investiture of Vernarth's Himation Proskynesis, peering jocularly and foreshadowing his encounter with her. Her chains were Caucasus icebergs, demystifying seasonality by residing linked to a single Down Whale destination, ******* with her dorsal to exhale genome rearrangements with Cinnabar, refining hormones and stereotyped whale chromosomes.

The concordance of the Satirical subgenre, and the polarized gender correspondence inanimate Kaitelka, usurping the intentionality of the sub-mythological drama, in two roads of Skalá that appeared to lose the standard of their ears, in tragic representation versus the comedian staging, harbinger of an interlude between two areas that struggled to have it directed towards three comedies that plunged into three tragedies, missioning the furrowed features of the ideals of survival, with preceded parables of the psychic-linguistic being, due to its canonical supernatural modality by blending itself with disciplined domains. Of a rhetorical poetics, rectified in religions that grant Orphic and messianic structuralism; foreshadowing the hymns of Orpheus in the Bible, and metaphorical in revealing divine truth, accessible only to spirits worthy of it. The purpose of metaphor in her poetry has the deciding function of the ineffable of thought, through simile, comparison, or image.  Song and poetry, song and prayer, prayer and ritual forming an inseparable phrase of meaning in it, impossible to differentiate in the biblical psalms themselves. The penultimate of them recalled number 149, being a hymn destined to accompany the dance; "Make melodies for him, with drums and lyres." It is known that the classical instrument of Orpheus reaches the level of the sacred in biblical texts. Psalm 150 contains an orgiastic ending to a symphony, in the description of the instruments that accompany the word and the voice that praises God, with sermons from Kaitelka blooming from an oceanic being and printing songs of the subgenre, without blemish of sub- mythology and the unconfessed proceeding. The comical exaltation of him recreates aspects of great joy, for those who feel vibrations under his belly in his orphic water, portraying semis or semiotic cathartics of their own trisomic roots, in an effort to decode drama, for intermezzos of the mythological subgenre. Borker with his sword Mythos interpreted the story of Kaitelka when he told her about the melting of Horcondising, seeing in them friendly glaciers that included her within the storytelling of provinces that sensitize the culture by rebirth on spherits and plasma hematocrits, for an apologist that admits inanimate corporality actor. Its genesis is Bereshit, "which names and does not start", from the undervalued parashot of the gods and kings, commanding them ibid to the inter-dogmatism that it contributes in its credit reserve, in large consortiums besieging colonies by the southern seas of the Borker  Nótos. "Evil tears their veins heal their goods and relegate the forgetful in the tradition of existence alongside the demiurges, incontinent to their ills that enjoy making creation sleep, soothing it in innocuous myths that are often more than a truly supernatural!

Helios went out to the road by the west and not by the east, in the nascent instant of the ectoplasm that revealed micro satires that led to the station of the hero who lives hidden, behind the proscenium of cultural and religious intimacy, Kaitelka plunges a few meters below the Aegean where he was already arriving, and he can realize that he did not see marine species around him, only beams of light that distorted his view of those who flatter him on a descent? Underwater a mythical mission wailed on dry surfaces, and the phenomena of the underwater stones were relaxed before any reflection of the veracity of a myth of expression in the mouth of a fish, brushing against systematic hermeticisms of what was infinitesimal. All this dialectical journey towards inevitably alternating molecules of his genome, to re-establish himself in his hybrid status upon reaching Skalá, here he would have to use his two neurochemical brains for a mortal instinct that does not die inside the mouth of a whale but in interrogation. …?  Based on Leiak's sexagesimal nanoscale extension, endowed with a fractional comparison that collects mythologies within them, for the uncertain truth. The only burden of etiological myth in Kaitelka is a consequence of her suffering, which is offered in psychic trisomy, for being **ized by three chromosomes, disorganizing her reality as a specimen that unfolds as a congenital disease.

Kaitelka says: "Who am I and where do I come from? I am reaching the floodgates of my lord Vernarth, and I can see that I am reborn in his astragalus and honeysuckle, which tell a story ****** under the tripod of Herophila.  Authoritarian truth that will bow before the pig to become, smelling here the tragic essence in truths that are hidden in symbolic denial"

Kaitelka is instituted a few miles before she begins to navigate in a zigzag, trying to condense forces for the origin of her ethereal, with sarcasm techniques that the self encourages to plunge into diluvian tears and moan in the scenarios of uncertainty, in the judgment of pouring out real myths, transposing its flow in the destination that is flooded in imprecise gestures and between cries with super sounds that lifted it on the swells, and these, in turn, were shedding the mystery Masken by raising water concentrated in onerous polymorphology. With joys and hilarious meltdowns on the mountains, she approached everything when she reached the pleasant Skalá, escaping from the cosmogony that bound her ungraciously on the light water, overflowing towards the very origin of a Vernarthian deity, in pasts and futures that do not intersect in the radial of its origins. The sky proclaimed laughter and mimicry gestures that adhered to the vitrifying phenomenon of past-present pashkien images, ready to lightning that heals the invalidations of walking on disturbed waters, a dipsomaniac leitmotif in early Christian justice. Kaitelka sins irascible, violent and proud, urgent and judicious, but conciliatory despite carrying a cross and a harpoon on her back. She will remain Kaitelka Down, but Patmos will arrogate her Thracian gift from her Orphic origin to her, for purposes of radial preeminence in the Ballenids that hoist sacred sites. The adventure prescribes a univitelino twin, but when she goes beyond the hirsute destiny of her Iliad, she begs to go transforming into a rainy sphinx on the thick bronze roof when the coins are broken, towards a seduction stop that is enthroned in the gloom of the minotaur, in the numinous hands of a daffodil and on the face of the Epsilon. Or crawling in mitral of valvulopathy with the carriage messengers, with the swans or pigeon birds; perching on a wreath of roses and myrtles that surround her red bozos. Almost always appearing undressed next to her escort, usually more than multiplied towards her, with the amazement of her animal consorts, which are dolphins, and Thracian pigeons, a priori of being covered by the Pythia of Delphi that is migrating in murky triumphs of the Achaemenides in Gaugamela.
Equinoctial Aftó by Kaitelka
Patrick Austin May 2019
For many years
I felt tormented and undervalued,
now I have a lot more peace.

If I live with my heart on my sleeve
it may hurt at times but at least I know that
I did the right things for the right reasons.

I used to worry about next year or next month
but if I can just be happy in the moment
and live through today with positivity and being present,
I feel that is the best chance at happiness.
It's never too late to turn it all around.
Choose your own adventure.
Manonsi Nov 2013
What’s help for if we’re not allowed to ask for it?
The disquiet head turns and eye shifts
Of people who have never felt
Have never endured
The anxiety of short breaths and wide eye whites
Wanting to sob and stuttering on silence
– shunning non-believers.
Did they know muscles choke?
They try to sink the lungs into giving them no oxygen, no relief,
When every new breath is a fresh
Batch of sewer water clogging throats.
What to do with these torments,
Better hidden still than cuts
On wrists (those cries for help),
The ones that show only in the rifts
Of a discarded soul, a stepped self,
An undervalued confidence.
Help? I cried my cry for help,
And was rewarded with one very
Awkward
Silence.
birdy Mar 2021
Drown out the laughs with your own internal screams.
Now you wish for that undervalued state of oblivion.
R J Apr 2013
I'm excavating strained crevices in complete caves of royal silence,

A coil of better-left-behinds trail me
Frail me,
Bear in mind that I'm to blame.

Brute valor left undervalued
Caliber I drowned to death in her
A messenger of baptized alibis

Who am I who am I

Distant soundscapes of times ago
Blue-light memories aglow
I thought this was what I wanted…

If (only) I told you all my vaulted causes,
My daunted losses haunted with flaunted gauzes

I could have had what I always daydream of
But the day seems to have, still, just begun.
JW Carter Apr 2013
A gift bestowed me kindness
The warmth of your thought my crown
But came with it one deviant voice
Whom if I spoke would let you down

The small voice belonged a girl
Who might long-ago have said thank you
For the very same small gift she went
Onto forget and break through

And I do feel so unkind
For thinking things, questioning why
When I know you only shared it
'Cause it's now me who makes you shine.

...

(There is a conflict in my head
Between my waking and half-dead,
Where I judge my deemed importance
As menial, in your head)

To myself I know it's preposterous.
But at times I'm wont to think this way.

If you save that bit of love
that you made another girl
Should I feel special or dishonored,
Or ungrateful, for asking

I am a hypocrite, when I say
Nothing on earth should go to waste
When I do secretly wonder
        Why you kept the old remains
                of things for someone who was not worth it
And give them to me, if I'm so special?
Am I not special enough to earn
        something I inspired you to love?
Or have I just the trust and merit to guard keepsakes
        others sewn and snagged you from?

Please do not take this to mean that it is undervalued,
I really do love it so much.

I'm just bitter hands besides ours have wrapped around your heart
Despite knowing that the both of us have contributed that part
It's a truth of life I must respect, as I too, had past remains
I was just lucky enough, that those I'd shared with, were good and kept them safe.
Jon A Fernandes Aug 2014
What worth is a flow’r to a bunch; and its hidden message?
Or if ev’n a cherry; to a box of chocolates indulged in, and gild’d?
As ev’n what worth is a drop to a summer’ rain in fall.
Or the autumn zephyr to a winter wind unceasing?
Its essence, finesse untold; undervalued.
Quantity; is it not what our hearts seeks, unabashed, unrelenting.
When it must, it should instead quality.

So as the sole dewdrops, from the ***** of the heavens descend
And, that seeks refuge in a flow’r bud silent, and tacit
So too does a tear drop, from the jewel of the eye
In a hearts element, succour.
Ella Gwen Dec 2016
I wasn't sure of
those words, that holy
trinity pressed to give back,

until your heart stuttered systolic.

Contracted, you underplayed every line as
I fought, undervalued, omitted and flat-lined

that singular skip your two-******, beated rhythm
warning beacon, red-flashing, blaring signal flared sign

granted every second second of each stolen time, when those
planets and these stars became so fiercely yet finitely aligned,

yes, I understand now, as we lay entwined, cyclic, chest
deep, life-defying leap, gasp of breath, wake from

sleep, it is this that I seek, sunlight unconfined
crushing breath divine, beat of two, separate

singular, unexpected yet still

defined in-kind, of your
continuation bringing
life back to mine.
Michelle Mar 2013
Sometimes I think that
Love's undervalued
Sometimes I believe that
We should be more free

To express and believe what
We feel inside

Sometimes I think that
You don't feel my gaze
Yet sometimes I believe that
You are just afraid

Too many things are left unspoken,
Yeah - you understand what I'm trying to say.

This is what I know when
I'm alone -
This is what I think when
I am cold-
Even if it isn't said in words
You know what is true
By the way that you act and react.

And when your gaze locks into mine
When I feel your smile shine
You know, I know you know,
I breathe differently.

Sometimes I think that
We are locked inside
Sometimes I believe that
We cannot escape

The armored cages we lock
Ourselves into

Too many things are left unspoken,
Yeah - you understand what I'm trying to say.

This is what I know when
I'm alone -
This is what I think when
I am cold-
Even if it isn't said in words
You know what is true
By the way that you act and react.

Do your hands get sweaty?
Does your neck crane to see me?
Do you feel what I do,
Or am I just a foolish girl?

And when your gaze locks into mine
When I feel your smile shine
You know, OH you know... (pause)
I breathe differently.

I breathe differently.

I'm feeling differently.

The effect you have on me...

This is how I feel

And when your gaze locks into mine
When I feel your smile shine
You know, OH you know...
(looong pause)
I breathe differently.

© 3/13/13
To you: The song I composed in five minutes after watching you walk away, not knowing I was following you with my eyes.

To all the rest: I wish you could hear me sing this, dear HP readers!

I'm really bad with titles -- does anyone have a good idea?

Thank you for your support!
The Jolteon Jan 2015
When the economy tanks
Unregulated globalized free market capitalism run amuck
People are told to be thankful to have a job
Even if you are miserable with that job
And with service sector jobs making up 80% of employment
Misery is widespread
Underpaid, undervalued, underappreciated
We are human beings for ***** sake
We are starved for more than selling shoes
If being thankful for misery is the best option
It's time to re-evaluate
Not to knock service sector jobs or ppl that sell shoes
Mikaila Jun 2014
I'm starting to understand that I have learned to say
"I'm sorry" when people are cruel to me, and
"Thank you" when they undervalue me.
Don't let your life teach you that.
Eventually you blacken your lungs with it.
Eventually you're jonesing for it when you should be indignant or angry or proud.
Don't learn to survive.
Learn to live.
Cause it's a lot harder to do when you have to start in the middle.
The people who hear the most apologies from me are the ones who are hurting me.
The people who get the most of my gratitude are often the people who give me the least.
It's backward. It's dangerous.
It's what happens when you learn all alone.
You learn the wrong way to get to the right goal.
And eventually it starts to ******* you, and it dawns on you that you need to change, to recover, to quit, and you just don't know how.
Don't let your life teach you to be sorry.
To be grateful when you're underestimated and undervalued.
It will try. People will try.
The world pushes.
I wish someone had ever told me that it's okay not to be contrite,
That I should demand what I deserve,
That when I am cast aside or ignored, it isn't something I could have prevented if I'd simply been
Better, happier,
Easier,
More humble.
Because that thought right there ruins people.
Love yourself.
Do it quick, before someone else gets it.
Learn to thank yourself, to forgive yourself, before you turn around one day and discover
That someone else's eyes hold your galaxy.
Because love is wonderful, but...
I wish I'd had time to learn not to be afraid,
To learn to fight back,
To learn that being quiet is highly overrated,
Before I learned that somebody's smile could fill every empty part of my heart I'd ever cried over.
If you are still young inside, this is your chance.
Love yourself. Don't apologize. Don't lower your eyes. Don't restrain yourself.
Do not let this world teach you to be owned.

Love,
Someone who learned too well.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i studied chemistry, i'm not going to write you poetry like someone who graduated university with a degree in creative writing or English literature, i told you, time and again... philosophers have a strain on them to become scientists, but scientists have a strain on them to become humanists... philosophy is the only medium that chemists, biologists or physicists can become remotely humanistic in expression... and even if they do! humanists don't like it! it's just the same repeat of: et tu, Brute?! no one wins... not if you want to escape this Tartarus and gain some respect for the universality of man in hell taking tea with Mussolini and pass from their realm... not otherwise you won't; and i'm way past Dada.

writing Brexit Smokescreen / Cromwell and the Parliamentarians
i just had a few equations in mind -
at bit like mathematics - only slyly different,
slyly i mean - not really sly -
self-evident from lack of encouraging it:
predating the instigators of existentialism we have Descartes,
and that predates Kant's influence,
in simple geometric rubric, invoking = meaning therefore,
but not necessarily continuing from - to sequence,
more as pinpointing a a chiral symbiosis overcome -
ending with Sartre - the concept of bad faith and
the prime negation, meaning the lost utility of thinking,
a lax, preserved organically with a demented expression -
so:

i think = i doubt                  thinking does not precipitate
                                                  into existence

since many who exist do not necessarily question / think
out their existence - they do not equate the mere act
of thought as the prior expression of existing -
and that's egotistical - many say necessary, i agree -

i doubt = i'll attempt denial* - which turns all cognitive aspects
of my being in unreasonable examples lessened,
less mind more heart -
which is a precursor of something greater in the diminished
sense of responsibility to come undervalued -
the constraint without a straitjacket -
and so after attempting denial away from doubting i
can't exactly think, since my heart is no longer wavering,
hence my mind can't be either - i am bound
by the omni pre: precursor, predestined,
given a script before acting etc. -

i deny = i'm not thinking - and so much is true,
instead of saying that denial = not thinking, it also means
i'm left with apologies, i'm therefore not a thinker
but an apologist - notably C.S. Lewis - meaning i
have a script readied - so that i fake not having a conscience -
me? i wants to sees a striptease dances of politicians
and silver-back ancient gorillas shaving -

then where's China when i start digging from
the point of i think? well, it remains in i think,
one cubic of atmosphere experiences a butterfly flap somewhere,
while one cubic of atmosphere experiences a hurricane,
or the quantum theory exclusively partaking electrons
solely - meaning i think doesn't exactly equate to
a proof of existence per se, well, it does, i think
is a proof of i am per se, given the two are acquainted
with solipsism and mundane question
of being serf-conscious: cartesian solipsism is i think = i am,
but at the same time i = thought ≠ being -
the unwritten bestseller, the uncontested 100 metre sprint
to be challenged, e.g. - but this is carstesian solipsism,
this like a deviation in religion is not an orthodoxy -
based on a presupposition that Descartes wouldn't have
minded the addition (of solipsism to explain) -
what's more pronounced is bound to the explanatory
pivot-reflection ipso facto rather than per se, minding
that we have i think to take care of - and that's one
of the two units of solipsism - the other being i am,
ipso facto or simply alter ergo - rephrasing in the
superimposable Chiral, unlike simple Nietzsche's sum ergo cogito:
but as in sum ipso infacto - cogitatio -

(i am, by the fact
in-itself - thought - meaning i exist by a fact in-itself
compared with all other facts that are bundled up within
replicas / phenomena - the being thought, a factual
reference above: i brushed my teeth in the morning
two days ago - a as in a medium of what's being emphasised
on distractive enterprises, twins of atheism α- -θέ - as one points
as something, the other always points at itself without
the thing pointed at by the other, affirmative orientation
including nothing, or the grey multitude of the urban throng
and a self-worth - with a de-affirmative orientation
and a passerby, including self-perpetuation in the cartesian
cinema) -  
                       I TRUST THE RUSSIANS TO LOVE
                       READING...
                       NEVER TRUST THE ENGLISH
                       TO READ... THEY CAN'T READ,
                       BECAUSE THEY DON'T ENJOY IT!

the one abstract trans-grammatical
association, requisite of moral explanations and deviations
from the placebo of solipsism as being an utter
non-interactive entity - crudely as with cogito ergo sum:
sum ipso facto... now thought isn't allowed to finish
that equation - hence the perplexity at criminals -
i am by the fact itself - whereby guilt passes from the reins
of the perpetrator to the instigator - the crude: think,
therefore be - so many failed deviations from over-simplifying
this; i never write about philosophy as if i know -
i say: thought the precursor of knowledge,
given the benefit of doubt, meaning a heart,
not thinking being the precursor of ignorance,
given the benefit of denial, meaning the genitalia -
so many mistake their thinking as what others
define thought to not be -
and v. v. so many mistake their being as what others
define being to be - most notably
the contemporaries of prior Socrates were said
to be idiots - given Plato and Aristotle - only
later they regarded the pre-Socratics are equally footed
to be called philosophers as the un-adventurous academics
of Athens.
What do you want to hear???

It remains to stay clear…

I can go back 100’s of years…

Different people…

Different times…

Different Obstacles they had to climb…

They connected and made groups and formed bonds..

You can easily tell the difference by the decade…

They appear in different forms but they all were followers….

So me I’m careful of all my bonds…

I wonder how history will remember me…

The one that stood out…

Or the one that was easily forgot about…

See lil ol’ forgot about me…

Didn’t lose my soul in a money bag…

I lost my mind in a book…

So maybe that’s why I’m overlooked…

But I’m undervalued…

Whats the price of education…

A leg and a arm..

And a promise to do no harm..

What you going to do with all that money???

And all them guns???

When you can barely hit your target instead…

You hit a little kid, who was too tired from having fun…

So she was unable to run…

And so now she lay dead..

So now them diamonds in your ear…

Them rims on your car…

Them so called friends that are no longer here…

Were they really worth it???

Who am I talking to???

Well it depends on Who’s listening…

The “Truth” they dont want to hear…

Well I’m a poet so I’m going to take you there…

Everybody got flowers and dressed in all black…

To grieve for a soul that they wish they could have back…

Tears from her mother…

Angry shouts from her father…

You want to give your condolences…

But don’t bother…

Because nothing you can say will bring their little angel back…

Ignorance is Bliss…

I cant tell you where you came from..

But I can tell you where you going..

Heaven or Hell…

As the bible tells…

Read and You’ll know..

Only listen and you might not hear…

Ask the Lord question…

And when HE knows you are ready…

He’ll answer…

Question is will you accept his answer???

This isn’t what you want to hear..

But this is what you need to hear..

So will any of yall shed a tear 4 the angel that is no longer here??

Or do the Devil have control over your ears???
Underestimated
A sidekick to an ally
When can I become a leader?
For my own life held inside a cage
for the blind eyes……?
A war criminal
Marked as an invalid
An undervalued bright mind
Weighed in Economics
A strong soul
A powerful nuclear force
A simmering Slow cooker ready to explode its lid
Spoken for…
His  ideas are  deemed “illogical :
A "Vulcan”  in despair
Cast Away from His “Home Planet.”

Does any other soul notice your value?
As you stand beside them…?
Is this true Care?

A ghost who cannot be seen nor heard
I’m standing in two dimensions at once

The value of gold which  they fail to let shine
As the surface simply needs a dusting

Of the coverage of the afterbirth
of a war to fight
People’s Conceptions of Your Past Mistakes
Underrated Accomplishments
Pathways blocked by their forced “parenting”
of this “child”
Trapped in an Adult’s body
Who simply wishes to be a shining Somebody?

I become trapped in a void
Enraged like an animal in a cage
A soul who Wishes for equal judgement
Freedom to roam
and for Creative  Expression
No longer suppressed by those who “judge”
A convicted life where they never opened up their eyes
to be seen as equal
He needs to be free to roam
Away from the Blind ones
to his suffering…
He plans to break free
From their *******
The road he must start walking down

A twisted, dark, barren and lonely road
He must carry, onward, through his lone strength
To prove himself a warrior
silent and strict followed moral  codes
Ethics of battle he follows…
Never to  lie down to die for the ones who limit him
He has his eyes wide open


To his rightful success
to  his future
He shall win.

Underestimated
A sidekick to an ally
When can I become a leader?
For my own life held inside a cage
for the blind eyes……?
A war criminal
Marked as an invalid
An undervalued bright mind
Weighed in Economics
A strong soul
A powerful nuclear force
A simmering Slow cooker ready to explode its lid
Spoken for…
His  ideas are  deemed “illogical :
A "Vulcan”  in despair
Cast Away from His “Home Planet.”

Does any other soul notice your value?
As you stand beside them…?
Is this true Care?

A ghost who cannot be seen nor heard
I’m standing in two dimensions at once

The value of gold which  they fail to let shine
As the surface simply needs a dusting

Of the coverage of the afterbirth
of a war to fight
People’s Conceptions of Your Past Mistakes
Underrated Accomplishments
Pathways blocked by their forced “parenting”
of this “child”
Trapped in an Adult’s body
Who simply wishes to be a shining Somebody?

I become trapped in a void
Enraged like an animal in a cage
A soul who Wishes for equal judgement
Freedom to roam
and for Creative  Expression
No longer suppressed by those who “judge”
A convicted life where they never opened up their eyes
to be seen as equal
He needs to be free to roam
Away from the Blind ones
to his suffering…
He plans to break free
From their *******
The road he must start walking down

A twisted, dark, barren and lonely road
He must carry, onward, through his lone strength
To prove himself a warrior
silent and strict followed moral  codes
Ethics of battle he follows…
Never to  lie down to die for the ones who limit him
He has his eyes wide open


To his rightful success
to  his future
He shall win.
Kaitelka was in the Equinoctial Aftó of Áullos Kósmos IV after geomancy was oriented as a star Argonaut bathing in the Aegean while waiting for the ******* of various sectors of Áullos Kósmos. Between both Aulos and Citara, she was modeled with the aulética-citarística, glimpses of her Psychic Trisomy. In effect of the existence of an extra chromosome in a diploid organism 158, for a quantity of chromosome fifty-four, instead of a homologous pair of chromosomes. From this position she was limiting herself with her chromosomes of normality in the genetic proximal, upon entering the Bay of Skalá, which was waiting for her native again, where the art of navigation flourished in the nitrogenous water that brought her from Skalá; from Eleios-Pronnoi, about 39 km south of the main city on the island of Argostoli, in southern Kefalonia, on one of the Ionian islands of Greece. From here, she mimetic, she turned towards the art of the unknown sea next to Wonthelimar who endorsed her with his favorite, collapsing and disoriented by their anti-gregarious territorial similarity, and maritime per se the Otolith that brandished him in dual places of Ionian-Dodecanese geography, following the semiotic songs of Leiak that emerged from the aulética to infer Balénid genres, which acted precisely between the island and the bay of Patmos with the same name as Skalá, to meet everyone and be a participant in the construction of the sanctuary.
Kaitelka's Vernarthian tenor carried her behind her with another Ballenid, this one again carried the Demiurge Ezpatkul, with his prominent Augrum or Gold incisors that turned on the backs of all the borer beetles, being Scarabaeidaes that were delimited towards logic, and paraphrase of a qualitative satirical, especially in the modality of the subgenre, and sub-mythology of Vernarth. To commend all the hypotheses of this whale that sang with the native cephalization ultrasound, where it continued to arrange means between the middle and in its cranial cavity to the percentage of the world map, with the muzzles of its larger fins transmitting waves of parapsychological regression towards Vernarth, and parodying the transparent cendal ballads that he did with his passage through the water, despite not having members that strengthen the controversial cetacean passerby by waters of a melodious rhetorical language, such as a great inspirational helix, and satires that house greenhouses in most of the jubilation, akin to rudders that I furrowed in his verbal poetry, easing restrictions, and possessing the genome that was deprived of his gestation, of the maternal expropriation, victimized with fears of omega, and of Apocalypse hungover by sea and water candy. They piloted their heart valves, mere and Dantesque with the Zeusian buttress spauto, muddled and bundled in their bombastic myocardium like omitted ships without ever lifting anchor and setting sail, a very brief tulle of water satirized aggregates of their formula, and a piece of stony wood on their spur he braced himself like a mammal, he was carrying his weight in a literary category where there is no way to test it. Without hindrance, she was hilarious next to the breakers in the manner of a belligerent tendril with thick keel skins, dramatizing him, and perhaps that would delay her in reaching the investiture of Vernarth's Proskynesis Himation, some looked out jocular and foreshadowed to meet with her. Her chains were Caucasus icebergs, demystifying seasonality by residing linked to a single destination of Balénido Down, ******* with her dorsal that exhaled rearrangements of the Cinnabar genome, clarifying hormones and stereotyped balenid chromosomes.

The concordance of the Satirical subgenre, and the inanimate polarized gender correspondence to Kaitelka, usurping the intentionality of the sub-mythological drama, in two Radas of Skalá that appeared to lose the standard of their ears, with tragic representativity versus comedian staging, heralding an interlude between two areas that struggled to have it directed towards three comedies that pounced on three tragedies, missionizing crossed features of the ideals of survival, with parables preceded by the soul-linguistic being, due to its canonical supernatural modality when it was mimicked with disciplined domains after of a rhetorical poetics, rectified in religions granting orphic messianic structuralism bis of the equinoctial aft; foreshadowing the hymns of Orpheus in the Bible, and metaphorical in revealing divine truth, accessible only to spirits worthy of it. The purpose of metaphor in her poetry has the deciding function of the ineffable of thought, through simile, or in comparison to imagining. The song is one poetry, and the song such a praying too, prayer and ritual forming an inseparable syntagma of meaning in her escaping from Arbela's zither, impossible to differentiate in the biblical psalms themselves. The penultimate of them recalled number 149, being a hymn destined to accompany the dance; Orpheus says: "make melodies for him, with drums and lyres." It is known that the classical instrument of Orpheus reaches the level of the sacred in biblical texts. Psalm 150 contains an orgiastic ending to a symphony, in the description of the instruments that accompany the word and the voice that praises God, with sermons from Kaitelka blooming from an oceanic being and printing songs of the subgenre, without blemish of sub- mythology and the unconfessed proceeding. The comical exaltation of him recreates aspects of great joy, for whom in his Orphic water, he feels vibrations under his belly portraying cathartic and semiotic of his own trisomic root, in an effort to decode drama, for intermezzos of the mythological subgenre. Borker with his sword Mythos interpreted the story of Kaitelka when he tells her about the melting of Horcondising, seeing in them friendly glaciers that included her within provincial storytelling that sensitizes the culture being reborn on its spheres and plasma hematocrits, for an apologist who admits acting corporality and inanimate. Its genesis is Bereshit, "which names and does not start", from the undervalued parashot of the gods and kings, ordering them from the ibidem to inter dogmatism, in which it contributes in its credit reserve, in large consortiums besieging colonies by the southern seas of the Nótos of Borker. "Evil tears their veins heal their goods relegates the forgetful in the tradition of their existence alongside the demiurges, incontinent to their ills who enjoy making creation sleep, soothing it in innocuous myths that are often more than a supernatural truth!

Helios went out to the road by the west and not by the east, in the nascent instant of the ectoplasm that revealed micro satires that led to the station of the hero who lives hidden, behind the proscenium of a cultural and religious intimacy, Kaitelka plunges a few meters below the Aegean where he was already arriving, and he can realize that he did not see marine species around him, only beams of lights that distorted the view of those who flatter him on a descent? Underwater a mythical mission wailed on dry surfaces, and in the phenomena of the underwater stones, they relaxed before any reflection of the veracity of a myth of expression in the mouth of a fish other than Theseus, brushing systematic hermeticisms with the gloomy and infinitesimal. All this dialectical journey towards inevitably alternating molecules of his finite genome, to reestablish in his hybrid status when arriving at Skalá, here he would have to use his two neurochemical brains for a mortal instinct that does not die inside the mouth of a whale, but in the interrogation after being swallowed…? based on the extension of the sexagesimal nanoscale of Leiak, equipped with a fractional comparing that collects mythologies within them, for the uncertain truth. Kaitelka's only etiological myth burden is a consequence of her suffering, which is offered in her psychic trisomy, for being bastardized by three chromosomes, disorderly the reality of her specimen that unfolds her as a congenital disease.

Kaitelka says: Who am I and where do I come from? I am reaching the floodgates of my lord Vernarth, and I can see that I am reborn in his astragalus and vines, which tell a story ****** under the tripod and vapors of Herófila. Authoritarian truth that will bow before a pig to become, smelling here in the tragic essence, and in truths that are hidden in its symbolic denial?
Kaitelka is instituted a few miles before she begins to navigate in a zigzag, trying to condense forces for the origin of her ethereal, with sarcasm techniques that self promote her to blink in deluded tears and moan in the scenarios of uncertainty, in the opinion of pouring real myths, transposing its flow in the destination that is flooded in imprecise gestures and between cries with super sounds that raised it on the swells, and these, in turn, were shedding the mystery Masken by raising water concentrated in onerous poly morphology. With joys and hilarious meltdowns on the mountains, she approached everything when she arrived at the pleasant Skalá, escaping from cosmogony that linked her weightlessly on the light water, overflowing towards the very origin of a Vernarthian deity, in pasts and futures that do not intersect in the radial of its origins. The sky proclaimed laughter and mimic gestures that adhered to the vitrifying phenomenon of past-present pashkien images, ready to lightning that heals the invalidations of walking on troubled waters, a dipsomaniac leitmotif in early Christian justice.
                                            
Kaitelka sins irascible, violent and proud, urgent and judicious, but conciliatory despite carrying a cross and a harpoon on her back. She will continue to be Kaitelka Down, but Patmos will arrogate her Thracian gift of her of Orphic origin to her, for purposes of her radial preeminence in the Ballenids that hoist all the sacred sites. The biological diagnostic prescribes an univitelino twin whale, but when she goes beyond the hirsute destiny of her Iliad, she begs to go transforming into the rainy sphinx on the thick bronze ceiling as she breaks in the minting of the coins, towards a stop of seduction that enthrones in the gloom of the minotaur, and in the numinous hands of a daffodil on the face of the Epsilon. Or crawling in the mitral and in her valvulopathy with messengers, carriages, and with swans or pigeon birds; perching on a wreath of roses and myrtles that surround her red bozos. Almost always appearing undressed next to her escort, usually multiplied in excess towards her, with the amazement of her animal consorts that dolphins are, and Thracian pigeons, a priori being covered by the Pythia of Delphi that is migrating in the murky triumphs of the Achaemenides in Gaugamela.
Áullos Kósmos IV
n White Apr 2015
games like small children
fire like the hell pit
relentless stupidity
disgust and aching soul
all the dogs are black
barking and biting
chewing to the bone

syphilitic like groupie ******
sycophantic like talk show hosts
skies of swine
and rivers of dirt that can't flow
people undervalued
fighting and clawing
for a morsel to take home

dreams like night terrors
opportunity like a flu vaccine
black hole emptiness
always night but never peaceful
militant peacekeepers
targets all lined up
wrangled into old chains

longing for the end
for the end of the world
trying to bring it ever closer
just to hold it tight
TheConcretePoet Aug 2021
There is
undervalued power
in forgiveness

Dive in


Đaviđ
🙏🏻💞🙏🏻
TheConcretePoet
Free your mind
SC Jun 2015
My soul is on the discount table -
          buyer beware
             ~DAMAGED GOODS~
It's there - can't you see it?
.....with the dinning table- chipped and scarred.
You'll find it with the day old breads
     or fruit that's badly bruised.
Even last seasons dresses and shoes
    ~ have far more utility
Than that withered
undervalued
     fragmented
       abandoned
         discarded
             scorned
                infinitesimal
~mere shadow of my former self!

— The End —