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The Old River Nov 2013
The woods are such a darkened place
Corrupted by the world we live
A cold, undisrupted space
Used by the world as its sieve

I seek to please only the one
The one, the one, which pleases me
It is the dark of which I sung
Near stark ground and the cold tree

But the ground grows cold
And the bark has grown rough
My love has grown old
Yet I have not enough

The crossroads at which I have stood,
Harken first to the land I love
Then to another made from wood,
To be a statue or a dove

Freedom from man or freedom from me
So I choose to build what I cannot destroy
and break from the strains of society.
For I refuse to act as but a child’s toy

On the curb of eternity
Living only to be free
Trapped by the will and the seen
That which is not those but only me
Bill Higham Mar 2016
From the drops of the sun
They made a sphere,
Some imaginary golden globe
Just right for two,
And lay inside the confines
Of its pleasured fields.

All day as if in Eden
All night each other's arms,
Where undisrupted by the ruins of time,
They, vagabonds,
Walked the opened roads of love.

Wealthy with all the world there in their hands
They afforded extravagant prizes upon themselves,
A king and queen
Residing in palaces whose gilded towers
Assaulted the serenity of arching skies.

Time - ah but time - deceived them,
Ticked itself into a thunder
Turned upon their hearts,
Time rambled like a madness inside them.

To and fro along the castle walls,
Unbearably restless, wrapped in herself,
In the thick red knots, the desired desires,
Springtime brought forth blossoming.

So she tore at the seams to get her freedom's worth
Of pleasures picked up in the streets around,
While he sacrificed his agonies, in pubs, on ******,
To the bank and crawl of the surging traffic
Down busy streets, in vagrant alleys
After all night drunks,
He scratched at the diamonds of forgetfulness
In concrete walls.

And she burnt down the bridges which led to her heart
And the great feast lay lonely then,
And the distant road, led by distracted emotions on,
Ran past the door, and the windows stood
Larger than the world,
And the sunlight was conquered
By darkness.
Sequoia Sawyer Feb 2016
The Elysian*
  or *she will study



This year, the walls here
will ring with the clink of glasses and tap
of plates passed among friends, family, and lovers.
Other times, absorb the shuffle and rustle
of quiet privacy, a solitude to where she can escape and recover.

This year, the air here
will hold a healing silence that bends easily
into and out of echoes of music, roars of laughter, and sighs of relief;
while over and around the flicker of good news,
unwrapping of new shoes, and the comings-true of dreams.

This year, the door here
will barricade against the disingenuous
thresh of the city, repel the selfish and insincere,
only to allow crossing by those with capacity to love,
respect, inspire, assist, uplift, rescue, and protect her.

This year, everything here
will be clean, everything soft save for the towels
which will be coarse, of course. Every function flawless,
every debt paid, every sponge holstered,
and every piece of laundry folded for her.

This year, this home here
will be host to a more than occasional clutter:
equipment of creativity, the surfaces strewn with
materials and things she creates with her hands.
Here, she will be prolific and her projects in demand.

And she will memorize the ceiling. She will study
and examine every texture and crevice, every device,
smudge and shine; so that one day when she leaves,
she will retain it and remember the joy and repose
that occurred here, underneath it, undisrupted, all the time.
I'm always seeking critique.

This started as a love letter I scribbled into a card slipped into gift for a charming girl to celebrate signing a lease on her very first apartment.
Luisa C Jan 2022
Why, I ask the sheets of my bed,
the warmth of the covers on me, the pillow rested comfortably.
Why, I ask the shadows in the corner of my room,
the specks of paint on my walls, the chipped wood on my door.
Why, I ask the hour of midnight,
the endless well of darkness, the undisrupted quietness.
The flickers of a flame, the ripples of an ocean,
the peak of a mountain, the trunk of a tree,
the sand of a beach, the coldness of snow,
the petals of a flower, the whistling of a breeze.
Why, I ask the world.
But it keeps its lips sealed tight.
Tapan Susheel Jan 2019
I have a tiny heart
Which has undisrupted current for emotions
And in that emotions you reside like a king
Who rules over my thoughts
I feel you hold me
To guide me that I could travel in those areas of sensation
Where no one could yet reach
However  I want to succumb to those vibrations now and till eternity.
Larada Aug 2018
Amongst this
Untouched
Skin
and all of
these
Layers
Of emotion
Remain
Undisrupted
Thoughts of
You
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
as fast paced as: not necessarily rhyming -
which is all that rap is...
talk quickly and mishap -
i take another refill:
arrogant sloth borrows me once more:
it must be something to
be born in westminster:
i tend to visions of the countryside...
i'll cover 10 miles in under 3 hours
and sweat to the point
where my tip of my trousers
at the belt height are drenched...
it's all about pacing and writing
to some music:
or better still... i start talking...
and the music comes in...
i'm still not rhyming nor detailing
any event of "poet"
as being "europe": a funnel for
squeezing in some ottomans
or some mongols...
the hordes of huns and germanic-
prior:
rubbing a history like it's
aladdin's lamp: there i'm also
rubbing a lamb with some
oil salt and rosemary...
perhaps i have an anemic language...
forever this pangs of
shortcomings:
to a reply:
        well what if i had to be
less of a beheading:
literally talking - lyrical...
not this encryptic: ego-cipher
bilingual "muddle":
as ever i forage for eyes and not
the ears...
i'm slow pacing:
she's over there gun glazing
and reshaping cotton into copper
into easily agitated listening:
a democracy of being left behind...
heaps of scraps:
whether metal or charon ligaments
and sinew...
i write nothing to elevate hearing:
sometimes i will burden myself
with technicalities
my own name is a technicality
of nouns under the hubric of:
tetragrammaton / ha-shem
         for some people...
  will i invoke the caron S
            or merely... delve into more
bilingual nightmares for
the tongue to endure...
seems i have my niche: prospect of
interest:
once more it's not about
the people it's about
grammatical technicalities...
and... you... really can't rap about
that sort of crap...
it must require leisure:
eyes crying or eyes bleeding...
and time beyond: beyond time of my
allowance for anything
to achieve a stature of: ripeness...
such that: in the immediacy of
composition: it's necessarily
mediocre - it's just agitating enough
to know it exists without
it being agitating enough
to be given a phonetic palette of
gurgling: rumble-rumble-oh...
a tongue that trills the R but can also
mimic the numbing tarantula bit R of
Woah-don... all Lone Escapee
not literally: the river that professes
a tide but not bulging at the seams
of a monsoon seasons...
it flows in... it flows out...
it's murky greyish matted zenith for
the eye to peer at...
            again: what's lost this
conversation was never started...
                all these nuances of "jealousy"
and of... limp-**** echo jolting...
it's forever a team-up
of shaking hands with my shadow...
perhaps from fear of "impotence" - aside, aside...
now this really is  relish:
a solipsistic exhibitionism model -
but at the same time:
skim reading into beauty:
that there is: always in traffic of...
let me allow this grand word an outlet:
democracy like in school
when we were told:
it's better to draw a straight line
with three coordinates...
       "just to make sure"...
          i see straights line all the time...
it only takes... from A through
to a B...
unless: the copernican veil:
it always has to become
so grand and devoid at the beginning
then so humble and hollow self
and minding the numbers
for: but reinviting the old
geocentric model for:
our drama of huddling by a fireplace...
orate me this...
i can't reach this focus group
attentiveness for entertaining crowds...
not this writing perhaps
escapes into fiction: but all that friction
i'm back... armed with an x-ray
of words and an oyster for
where the brain is supposedly at work...

- hyphenated new entry: supposedly
either verse of paragraph...
it's a telling sign that i've come to abhor
that i write... juxtapositions any
new tenures of the supposed unexpected...
it's still this inverted "claustrophobia"
of "verbiage":
now bounce... bounce *******
for the suffix -phobia...
to groove into details of:
how best to walk...

    for all the exotic details of
a well composed night... in that all of them
are detailed with people awaiting
hindering... talk of people and people
the gross misjudged inconvenience
of "individual"...

if i don't borrow some cyrillic
or some greek i'll become head from
a guillotine utilised as
canon fodder...
that's me... head limbo tongue
squiggling worm-esque:
now that language has an image
i can't talk briefly: i can't rap
and conjure fudge details
for the membrane...

i write as quickly as the eye deciphers
what can be: limitless
in literacy...
given... the priestly caste kept me
from this, apart, for so long...
i can... wait a little... borrow some blues...
but then by 34 years old
i'm this disgruntled stereotypical
loath... mein zunge ist nein neu...
i'm parrot-phrasing some:
Horace... conversation overtones:
because i hardly think it's necessary
to ingest a tongue through the ears...
sometimes it might require
an eye...

i start drinking i demand of myself:
to forget to blink...
and then... as that happens...
i hardly expect to find my own voice
trapped in giving democracy
for: flowers or bricks or ****-soiled
mattresses my own: echo... prince...
it's so impossible to:
an-ti-thesis...
                ff...           ff: thrist for...
                alTHough...

            V's up a welsh longbow man victory
salute... i look at the corner of
my room... it spells out a geometry of
Y...
         i look at a serpent's tongue...
Y slithers into my tongue...
i curse the sound of J...
in english...            it's beside a dryness
excvated...

now i feel inclined to be
the most workaholic...
the best performing plumber...
i want to be a daily post-office cue:
"anon" walking marathons to no end...
since the day:
the day that paper had to reach
for a route of the horses:
how they are still kept...
to saddle... but hardly... to be exploited
to work...

they... just... graze...
equestrian... in the english "freely available":
i've walked the routes where horses
****...
lucky for me... i have yet someone
arrived at a speeding porsche scenario...
to own... a horse...
but to never... sit in one...
at a gallop...

poland has cheaper details concerning
renting out horses...
and... for all the awe-sigh-pondering...
one would expect...
being able to... saddle up a horse
for prizing a gallop...
two heels digging into the torso
for a "gear change" bravado...

as it stands:
i'll go to either hungary of the czech republic
to take care of dentistry...
then i'll go horse riding in poland...
too little of me investing
in... yachts...
         then again... yachts...
or pedigree dogs... proper...
rottweilers or alsatians...
                and such legs as i have
to walk either genus...
        
not in england... though... these
animals
have been grazing long enough
you'd start thinking...
what if... we... re-painted all
those battle canvases...
with men having mounted...
bulls...
what if we replaced
all those horses
with the charge of men
adoring bulls...
and took to eating more horse-meat
than... these poor castrato beef
hulks...
what if?
it's only impossibly: what if... isn't it?

- such that i delude myself with
my antagonist...
the ferocity of youth and health...
that i cling to shadow like
i might cling to blinking...
prior to old age i am...
walking around a choice of trees...
i tend to burden myself
with birches...
on the continent... furthest east
before you encounter russia:
you can find patches of forest
reserved for birches solely!
not in england... "though"...

well... so much of my life is but
a memory that...
so much of it has to invoke
patterns of debilitating stressors
in the vein of: exaggeration...

which is not... but since so much
is the same:
to the point where... even a *******
in a brothel would have to remark:
'but... you haven't changed!'
i read that as her giving ear to...
a kierkegaard's the changelessness of god...
for that matter: most assured...
a stone is... a mountain a sea...
a river... a man can also...
change very little...
but then again: what are the habits
of mountains...
what makes us... stale impersonators
of a supposedly exciting: yesterday...
last autumn?

i like the idea of being undisrupted:
a mimic a replica...
no clone will ever touch this
crimson lent caricature should
shame dethrone my brows...

they might just... drop off...
it can almost be deemed agitating that
i remain as constant as:
an inanimate object...
prostitutes should know...
you haven't changed...
unchanging is hardly an impasse...
being thus is...

yes... it's enough to pet animals
in order to doubly appreciate
the patience that's required from releasing
oneself from being a music *****...
as to how i became...
the benevolent misanthrope and
not... this... overtly-protectful:
scheming philantrophe...
beats me...

             i supposedly signatured my
presence to a gynocentric / heliocentric...
world order... or a patriarchy / geocentric world...
muddle spaghetti toasted figs monster...
blah blah return...

i am a misanthrope...
but at least i'm not a meddling philanthropist...
quote: mickey microsoft yates
"might have said":
by the time the second wave hits...
they might know... etc etc.

quote me on god:
i intejectd once... big mistake...
i had to satisfy myself with...
let them settled their own battles...
i will not take sides...
they engaged themselves
with crafting the pyramids...
they can escape concentration camps...
it's not like they will be alone
in the endeavour... it's not like
other people will not hear their plight...
the end...

how does this supposed "god" work...
the genius sadistic ingenuity of
the demiurge: new atheism citations
of parasites...
that wriggle into the eyes
of lambs...
        god is not a c.c.t.v.: please put
your chewing gum into a designated bin!
do not! spit! your chewing gum!
onto the pavement!

this is the vain attempt to convert
atheists?!
hyper-escalating
the already hyper-escalated
omni- litany?
  what of pause for death?
can't death be given a romance
and an angelic personification...
it has to be so ******* sterile?!
so... ha ha! alias... "godless"?

the stone becomes godless because...
the cat starts to fiddle with its
tongue for the prospect of reclaiming
genitals: by a smear of a tongue:
and that's why i kosher! chicken protein
pulp used in... a kentucky fried
wings: pigs don't fry:
sort of a spectacle...

             minus one "point": *******
to that...
they start decapitating french history teachers
who are presumably arsonists...
the 'acking ****- has a quest
to re-noun the dire straits
of telling me:
what the concept of reconquista
implores! let alone... implies!

we have achieved a fever pitch
with what book burning provided...
at a time time and a whine
when the monotheistic gods
don't have enough to **** or therefore
enough to settle for...
**** on some sand and let's call it
glue and a sand-castle:
**** it... let's call it...
a kettle of boiling water...

you heave this monstrosity of certain affairs...
you heave this... diatribe of
diabolical quests...
you become this figment
of invested life...
this crease wording...
that has to be met with ironing:

this antagonist hebrew motto
prior to: how their pride...

nasze kamienice: wasze ulice...
our tenements: your streets...
this is how the jews spoke
in ******-land... prior to their great
expulsion:
as most people do when
they talk with a wounding of their pride...
i still acknowledge the testimony
of the hebrews:
god-fearing folk are not...
their-god celebratory allahu akbar esque:
shorthand for...
if you were... circumcised upon
salvaging an inconvenience of marriage:
as to how...
Kant made the bachelor rite
a status juncture... for... right...

i don't own a porsche...
   it's not status symbol: it's not a klup necessary...
but if i owned a horse...
i'd know how to gallop with it...
break a neck etc.

this will not make it for the
egravious, larger, audience?
oh.. sorrow woo for you too...
paid for... mr / mrs. netflix
queening and boisterous king-ish...
no?
  then... pay for your own
******* bread... let me conjure up
mine!
critique for what's freely available is
a bit like:
terming in ******* when it rains
and you're not equipped with
an umbrella...
because... it has to be necessarily:
raining over saint tropez...

****** wriggling await...
for a hand-job cold fingertips
sort of gimmick...
****** of sorts...

i suppose there might have been
an audience... but... the again...
supposing there was never a supposed 'un...
i proposition: i...
i heave a conjunction: thought...
i don't allow myself an
immediacy of "reliving the past":
most immediately...
with: think or thinking...
i brush up on all over
the moral nuances...

and... hey presto!
                      a body of work... of wording...
best left completely ignored...
ergo... moi... or a germanic upper
tier variation: m'eh...
here's to!
how tulips dare to resound
in... keel-y-anyah.
i've never been...
but i'm betting
the lithuanians and the ukrainians
will give me... auxiliary / sputnik...
tabloid press hive mind-set
preemptive details to:
concern myself over / with...

here's to finger-crossing goo!
Joy Seowon Mar 2021
You were born as a puzzle my dear, full of pieces which always had a place to go.
If one piece of you be lost, we would all be incomplete and they would go
searching for miles for that tiny piece of the great world…
she used to say I was a star lost in the world
that had a place to go
for someone searching the world

If I were in space I would shoot through the vacuum
my hidden energy undisrupted

And be such a star
terrific only miles to be looked upon with wonder
Wondrous truth of your worth

— The End —