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Something happened this morning
when I awoke to you lightly breathing.
It was sublime.
My chin rested on your shoulder
the skin so soft on my cheek.
I couldn’t help but kiss the sweetness.

On nights when I sleep alone
it does not matter how many blankets
wrap my restless body.
I wake cold.
Nothing is as warm as your arms.
Like that of a Texas breeze
on an August night.

I can only think to kiss
your unshaven face.  
The kisses are planted gently,
first your cheek,
then your temple,
and your forehead,
when I come to the tip of your nose
you stir slightly,
but I cannot stop.
I want it more then
the ocean waves need
the shoreline to crash upon.

Looking at your face
I smile at the odd way we met.
With a breath of *** and an intoxicated
grin we spoke.
“I don’t like you”
“Yea? Well I don’t like you first!”
Like children picking
on their first crush.
Tying to fight back the giggles.
Our childish ways still
run strong.

In your absence I sit
and watch the ticking minutes
laugh at my uneasiness.
Hours with others
are mere minutes with you.
The clocks envy
our cherished time
and tick-tock more rapidly
when we are alone.
All our time
would never be

When we get lost in each other,
the way the lonely roadrunner
looses himself as he runs
up and down
the oak covered hills,
it is love at its best.

This morning
when the soft breathes
you took woke me
and my chin rested upon
your shoulder,
something happened.
As the kisses fell
and your eyes continued to sleep;
I realized that this
is where I belong.
Drifting slowly  
into love with you.
Thank you for reading! Comments and criticism are always welcome!
Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
Suffering stirs up the soul
In agony, there are new realizations
Right in the middle, starts a chaotic vortex
Draining up all the energy, leaving the body numb
The mind is aware, yet it can’t control the situation
Getting more and more ****** into the commotion
The uneasiness unsettles the whole constitution
Shaking the belief for some time, yet, takes a heavy toll
Suffering gives a new awakening, to life’s adversities
Sometimes, we have to silently and vehemently fight
Like a lone fighter, up against, so many enemies
The mind as a weapon, is all you have
Sharpen it and keep it agile, as it’s the only weapon
To fight the sufferings, that gets hold of you
13 Apr 2015
I’ve been reading a bit about positivity, this past hour.
I have been trying to project what I’ve read, mentally, in scenarios where I’m under stress to see how things work out.

I couldn’t make peace with the fact that sometimes letting go and keeping quiet is the best course of action.
That sometimes, just sometimes, shutting up and letting things happen is the only way to get over a bad situation.
The fallout can be dealt with. The one percent of our animal nature within helps us rebuild every time.

I can feel an uneasiness settling, making its home in the center of my being.
Writhing in malcontent and uneven distaste, counterbalanced hatred for this feeling I’m riddled with. Where is the good in all this?
Is that what forgiveness is? Swallowing the bitter pill? Turning a new leaf?
Among other euphemisms for being a **** up.
Something that’s very hard to do.

Two minds too blind to make themselves up. Nothing is accomplished in confusion.
One kills while the other cries.
Despair and hope side by side, waiting for one to rise and the other to fall.
Positivity is elastic, it can be stretched to fit over what you deem right.
It can be mistaken for a rush of energy, a thirst for life, a sense of achievement, an inebriated night.
All the while festering, brooding, decaying inside, a heart of sadness, that once did smile.
Posted on February 17, 2015
toomanywords38 Jul 2015
Let's celebrate indecision!
The weighing of pros and cons
The doubts and what ifs.
Rejoice in the feeling of uncertainty
When all the options seem equally weighted.
When doing what you please doesn't seem pleasing at all.
Suppose there was only one choice,
Now add five more.
Conjure up that feeling of confusion
Cherish that back and forth
Like tossing and turning at night
The uneasiness with which you approach
A fork in the road, which
Sounds more like a headache.
The longer you teeter the more you totter
Until at last! The decision seems made
...Or does it?

If only they made one brand of toothpaste.
“I need to talk to you.” I hate these words. Because in a nanosecond I felt nervous; uneasiness filled my heart, afraid of what you are going to say & afraid of what will happen next. These words are just like the introduction of all the stories I have read. The stories that will always end up breaking my heart.

“I don’t love you anymore.” There. I know that was the second line you are going to say. I expected that. But I guess even though how much you are prepared for the situation and how much you expect that that may cause your heartbreak, you cannot help not to be hurt so much. I did not know what to feel that time. It was a myriad emotion and inexplicable feelings, tears are falling down my face and at the same time my body suddenly feels weak. And I did not know what to do.

It seems like yesterday since you told me that you will always be here when I needed you and that we are going to see together those places we are never going through. Your lips that tell me you really love me and your eyes that can tell it is true; that you are sincere. It has been just like a storm that came in and you are that storm that suddenly destroys my whole life when you left me.

Now I finally understand why storms are named after people.
Shlomo Oct 2018
Emerging economies.

What they’re emerging from I don’t know.

My guess, the depths of hell.

From the frying pan, right into the fire, or worse; a well.

A deep hole stronger than gravity, the force.

To be forever under the thumb of remorse.

A modern era of endless acts, policies and bla bla bla.

Shut up with all your platitudes.

I see what’s really going on. Aha!

You speak of sustainable development.

Nice to know that you’ve led by example.

Carried the mantle for all these years.

Centuries of ruthlessness, now veiled in sheep’s clothing.

But you won’t shut up. Because you don’t speak.

You never have. You just do.

Each day that goes by, you carry on anew.

Behind all the talk of hope, equality and more progress,

it seems the wolves are lurking.

Cooking up the next tool to subdue countless.

This time, not behind closed doors. But in plain sight.

It’s scary to imagine such spite.

Each year that goes by it becomes clearer that you never cared.

You sold guns, drugs and all kinds of war.

And each time, you kept coming back for more.

You’ve built up antibodies that ensure your survival.

But sometimes I wonder if you’re alive at all.

But what do I know?

Maybe you’re more alive than ever.

Doing what you do best but always more clever.

That not even the most stable of geniuses can evade your pressure.

A strong enough foundation that each break makes you stronger,

So strong that not even the Gremlin can take you under.  

Against this dreary background, foregrounded is nothing short of magical.

Beyond hope, prayers or a thoughtless radical.

Or maybe this is all just fake outrage.

An attempt to evade the boredom of this endless monotony and baggage.

Or maybe, the term is out of date.

Like every other, that makes me increasingly more irate.

In which case, this poem is at least ten years late.

Or maybe there are too many maybes’.

And I’m perfectly suited for this time of vague uneasiness and indifference.

In which case, my imagination probably needs more sociology and less a lesson in rhymes.
Piano backed narration @
Soumia May 2014
I am a person of colour

Whose simple presence can cause outrage
they use their tongues as swords
and slay me with slurs
Whilst there are others who pretend to be my ally
but I can see their disgust in their eyes
their uneasiness in their smile

I am a person of colour

Whose beautiful traditional garments are cherry-picked
and woven into a disgusting replica
brandished on “Designer labels”
and mocked as exotic

I am a person of colour

Whose skin is secretly envied by them
they exhaust their expenses on tanning salons
and “bronzing” creams
Yet simultaneously they spit on my “darkness”
and promote their products with the so-called beauty of “lightness”

I am a person of colour**

I shall not hide my anger at their ignorance
I shall wear my skin with pride
Because being a person of colour
No matter what I do or how I conform
They will never be satisfied
I am a poet.
I am an artist.
A lover of words, a shaper of thoughts, a master of feelings;
A player of emotions, a speaker of charms, a thinker of minds.
A giver of taste-and at times, a succulent creator of madness.
Madness outside such lines of timid regularity;
The rules of the common, and the inane believers of sanity.
For to me, sanity is as easy as insanity itself-
On which my life feedeth, and boldly moveth on;
And without insanity, t'ere shan't be either joy-or ecstasy;
As how ecstasy itself, in my mind, is defined by averted uneasiness,
And t'at easiness, reader, is not by any means part of;
And forever detached from, the haunting deities of contemporaneity.
Thus easily, artistry consumeth and spilleth my blood-and my whole entity;
Words floweth in my lungs, mastereth my mind, shapeth my own breath.
And sometimes, I breathest within those words themselves;
And declareth my purity within which, feeleth rejection at whose loss;
Like a princess storming about hysterically at the failure of her roses.
Ah! Poetry! The second lover of my life; the delicacy of my veins.
And I loveth, I doth love-sacredly, intensely, and expressively, all of which;
I loveth poetry as I desire my own breath, and how I loveth the muchness of my fellow nature;
Whose crazes sometimes surroundeth us like our dear lake nearby;
With its souls roaming about with water, t'at chokes and gurgles-
As stray winds collapseth around and strikest a war with which.
And most of the year-I am a star, to my own skies;
But by whose side a moon, to my rainless nights;
On the whole, I am an umbrella to my soul;
So t'at it groweth bitter not, even when t'ere is no imminent rain;
And be its savior, when all is unsaved, and everything else writhest in pain.

Thus I loveth poetry as well as I loveth my dreams;
I am a painter of such scenic phrases, whose miracles bloometh
Next to thunderstorms, and yon subsequent spirited moonbeam.
And t'eir fate is awesome and elegant within my hands;
They oft' sleep placidly against my thumbs;
Asking me, with soft-and decorous breath;
To be stroked by my enigmatic fingers;
And to calm t'eir underestimated literariness, by such ungodly beings, out t'ere.
Ah, poor-poor creatures-what a fiend wouldst but do t'is to aggravate 'em!
As above all, I feeleth but extremely eager about miracles themselves;
and duly witness, my reader-t'at t'is very eagerness shall never be corrupted;
Just as how I am a pure enthusiast of love;
And in my enthusiasm, I shareth love of both men and nature;
And dark sorrows and tears t'at oft' shadowest t'eir decent composures.
When I thirstest for touches, I simply writest 'em down;
When I am hungry for caresses, I tendeth to think them out;
I detailest everything auspiciously, until my surprised conscience cannot help but feeling tired;
But still, the love of thee, poetry, shall outwit me, and despise me deeply-
Should I find not the root, within myself, to challenge and accomplish it, accordingly.
I shall be my own jealousy, and my own failure;
Who to whose private breath feeleth even unsure.
I shall feel scarce, and altogether empty;
I shall have no more essence to be admired;
For everything shall wither within me, and leave me to no energy;
And with my conscience betrayed, I shall face my demise with a heart so despaired.
Ah, my poetry is but my everything!
'Tis my undying wave; and the casual, though perhaps unnatural;
the brother of my own soul, on whose shoulders I placeth my longings;
And on whose mouths I lieth my long-lost kisses!
Ah, how I loveth poetry hideously, but awesomely, thereof!
I loveth poetry greatly-within and outside of my own roof;
And I carest not for others' mock idyll, and adamant reproof;
For I loveth poetry as how as I respectest, and idoliseth love itself;
And when I idoliseth affection, perhaps I shall grow, briefly, into a normal human being-
A real, real human being with curdling weights of unpoetic feelings;
I shall whisper into my ears every intractable falsehood, but the customary normalcy-of creation;
And brash, brash emptiness whom my creative brains canst no longer bear!
Ah, dearest, loveliest poetry, but shall I love him?
Ah-the one whose sighs and shortcomings oft' startlest my dreams;
The one whom I oft' pictureth, and craftest like an insolent statue-
Within my morning colours, and about my petulant midnight hue?
Or, poetry, and tellest me, tellest me-whether needst I to love him more-
The one whose vice was my past-but now wishes to be my virtue,
And t'is time an amiably sober virtue-with eyes so blue and sparkling smiles so true?
Ah, poetry, tellest me, tellest me here-without delay!
In my oneness, thou shalt be my triumph, and everlasting astonishment;
Worthy of my praise and established tightness of endorsement;
But in any doubleness of my life-thou shalt be my saviour, and prompt avidity-
When all but strugglest against their trances, or even falleth silent.
Ah, poetry, thou art the symbol of my virtue thyself;
And thy little soul is my tongue;
A midnight read I hath been composing dearly all along;
My morn play, anecdote, and yet my most captivating song.

I thirstest for thee regularly, and longeth for thee every single day;
I am dead when I hath not words, nor any glittering odes in my mouth to say.
Thou art my immensity, in which everything is gullible, but truth;
And all remarks are bright-though with multiple souls, and roots;
Ah, poetry, in every summer, thou art the adored timeless foliage;
With humorous beauty, and a most intensive sacrifice no other trees canst take!
O poetry, and thy absence-I shall be dead like those others;
I shall be robbed, I shall be like a walking ghost;
I hath no more cores, nor cheers-within me, and shall wander about aimlessly, and feel lost;
Everything shall be blackened, and seen with malicious degrees of absurdity;
I shall be like those who, as days pass, bloometh with no advanced profusion,
And entertaineth their sad souls with no abundant intention!
How precarious, and notorious-shall I look, indeed!
For I shall hath no gravity-nor any sense of, or taste-for glory;
My mind shall be its own corpse, and look but grey;
Grey as if paled seriously by the passage of time;
Grey as if turned mercilessly so-by nothing sublime;
Ah, but in truth-grey over its stolen life, over its stolen breath!
I shall become such greyness, o poetry, over the loss of thee;
And treadeth around like them, whose minds are blocked-by monetary thickness;
A desire for meaningless muchness, and pretentious satire exchanged '**** 'emselves;
I shall be like 'em-who are blind to even t'eir own brutal longings!
Ah, t'ose, whose paths are threatened by avid seriousness;
And adverse tides of ambition, and incomprehensible austerity;
Ah, for to me glory is not eternal, glory is not superb;
For eternity is what matterest most, and t'at relieth not within any absence of serenity.
Ah, but sadly they realiseth, realiseth it not!
For they are never alive themselves, nor prone-to any living realisation;
And termed only by the solemnity of desire, wealthiness, and hovering accusations;
For they breathe within their private-ye' voluptuous, malice, and unabashed prejudice,
For they hath no comprehension; as they hath not even the most barren bliss!
And I wantest not to be any of them, for being such is entirely gruesome;
And I shall die of loneliness, I shall die of feasting on no mindly outcome;
For nothing more shall be fragrant within my torpid soul;
And hath courage not shall I, to fight against any fishy and foul.
My fate is tranquil, and 'tis, indeed-to be a poet;
A poet whenst society is mute, I shall speak out loud;
And whenst humanity is asleep, I wake 't with my shouts;
Ah, poetry! Thy ****** little soul is but everything to me;
And even in my future wifery, I shall still care for, and recur to thee;
And I shall devote myself to thee, and cherish thee more;
Thou hath captured me with love; and such a love is, indeed, like never before.

But too I loveth him still, as every day rises-
When the sun reappeareth, and hazy clouds are again woken so they canst praise the skies.
I loveth him, as sunrays alight our country suburbs;
With a love so wondrous; a love but at times-too ardent and superb.
Ah, and thus tellest me-tellest me once more!
To whose heart shall I benignly succumb, and trust my maidenhood?
To whose soul shall I courteously bow, and be tied-at th' end of my womanhood?
Ah, poetry, I am but now clueless, and thoroughly speechless-about my own love!
Ah, dearest-t'is time but be friendly to me, and award to me a clue!
Lendeth to me thy very genial comprehension, and merit;
Openeth my heart with thy grace, and unmistakable wit!
Drowneth me once more into thy reveries of dreams;
And finally, just finally-burstest my eyes now open, maketh me with clarity see him!

Ah, poetry, t'ose rainbows of thine-are definitely too remarkable;
As how t'ose red lips of thine adore me, and termeth me kindly, as reliable;
And thus I shall rely all my reality on thy very shoulder;
Bless me with the holiness confidentiality, and untamed ****** intelligence;
Maketh me enliven my words with love, and the healthiest, and loveliest, of allegiance.
Bless me with the flavoured showers of thy heart;
So everything foreign canst but be comely-and familiar;
And from whose verdure, and growth-I shall ne'er be apart!
And as t'is happens, holdest my hand tightly-and clutchest at my heart dearly;
Keepest me but safe here, and reachest my breath, securely!
Ah, poetry-be with me, be with me always!
Maketh me even lovelier, and loyal-to my religion;
In my daily taste-and hastes, and all these supreme oddities and evenness of life;
Maketh me but thoughtful, cheerful, and naive;
And in silence maketh me stay civil-but for my years to come;
and similarly helpeth my devotion, taste, and creativity, remain alive.

Ah, poetry, thus I shall be awake in both thy daylight, and slumbers;
And as thou shineth, I knoweth that my dreams shall never fade away;
Once more, I might have gone mad, but still-all the way better;
And whenst I am once more conscious; thou shalt be my darling;
who firmly and genuinely beggeth me t' keep writing, and in the end, beggeth me t' stay.
Leave me not, even whenst days grew dark-and lighted were only my abyss;
Invite my joy, and devour every bit of it-as one thou should neither ignore, or miss.
O, but needst I to listen to t'ese wishes, benign as t'ey are, but wild and inevitable-yet inaudible as dreams. Burnt by sophisticated passion, and whirring hells of torpid astonishment as my being at t'is moment, but smooth and glowing tenderly with affection-as thy love still I long for, woven so secretly ye' neatly alongst th' tangled paths of my mind! Yes, and its layers-turbulent patches of skin, yellow skin, crafted passionately by whose Creator, and imbued with unconquerable infatuation just like 'tis now. But no breathing soul canst I bestow it on-this overarching destiny, healthy and red as t'ose garden plums-impatient in t'eir wait for the shiny May summer-aside from thee, as 'tis but always thee, Kozarev! Uninvited as I am, by any other'ness' t'at might as well enrich my love story, as enough I feel, about t'at unrelenting history! Thou art th' sole man, th' only justified heart whom I adoreth, and want, so selfishly, to marry! As ripe as t'eir lips might be-but stifling, and immature in constitution, thinkable only when juxtaposed merrily with t'ose squirming nymphets about yon schoolyard; corrupted not as a newborn fern-with thighs carefully fastened to greedy-looking material, basked in immaculate sunlight, and so fresh to human sight, when all t'ese circumstances art but chaste no more, but beg, beg our hearts, and implore our worrying souls, to stay.

O Kozarev! Startled wasth I, to enter into thy proceedings, yester! Like an imbecile now my whole countenance-and its entire, ****** constitution-ah, but depleted, harmfully depleted, by laughter. What a raft of cynical conflagration! How grimly sadistic, ye' poetic in some ways! And t'ese remarks, and praises of love-begin but to dwelleth upon me all over again. Distracted is my firmness-by thy invincible power, guileless as thou hath always been, seeming not to hath heard my volatile heartbeat; and how doth I uttereth t'ose chuckles to my own mirrors upon flinging back into my bedchamber whenst our exchanges areth over. But indignant art thou not to my reddish blushes-which, like t'ose thorns of morning roses-enliven my soul up from within, after t'eir bleak winter!-and blanch darkly all my griefs away. In a thousand years and I shalt still miss thee, just like t'is, but 'tis just now t'at futility seemeth no more capable of wooing my calamity-and indulge it so adversely t'at it shalt turn towards me! Yes, how thou hath, with holiness, touched and entrapped my amorous passion, my love! In t'ese dreams-flourishing dreams, just like th' greenish pond and its superficial foliage outside, I but walk by thy moonlight and be blessed in thy fascination. Mighty and balmy shalt be th' sky overhead, hanging aloft with its mild arrogance, smelling like roofs of restrained rain-musty and soaking with glittering reproof; and wan abomination. But pure! Purity is but its sanctity, and protected by miraculous heavens, dwindling about like whitewashed statues being shoved around by a deadly lagoon of children-unknowing of what tomorrow shalt baffle us on, with faces of steel-like jubilance. And th' trees! Tropical wands be t'eir refuge-but horrifying as t'eir remorse-ah, in which souls shalt be brought about whirls of contemptuous winds, enslaved and stupefied all th' time-by mounds and havens of gruesome cruelty. But no care doth I fix on yon mortification-as thou art t'ere with me, Kozarev! Strolls shalt we take-t'ose encompassed by purplish and cheerful verdure, who admire us from t'eir gold-like stems afar-and into each other's cleavages shalt we retreat, by th' means of stories-yes, my love, stories of glee, pleasure, and yet-uneasiness, in order t'at t'ey shalt be wounded away and superseded by joy. Our love, rings of love, t'at is to come as immediate as nature might permit, and shalt allow us to admit-as yester hath unfolded, by bracing my feet for bouncing outside, across t'ese carpeted tiles-into th' very vicinity of thy chamber. Ah, thy handsome face! As white as pearls-yet frail as th' bulbous chirping snow. May I console 'em, my love, by my hands proffered-in th' most honourable marriage I desireth to come? But look, look afar, how t'ose stars-in t'is merciless universe, whispereth to one another, and talk gaily between t'eir wicked souls, of plans on bewildering our love-our bonds of vivid, mature fragrant compliments! How t'eir jealousy is mockery, and a swelling threat to us. And th' moon t'at is combing the hair, again, of t'at vicious ethereal princess-with a snooty swish of anot'er black hair-which is but a sea of anguished torment to me, should she descend the steps of her own ***** maidenhood-and carry herself off into our earth. Hark, how she doth it! How heathen, and indecent! But canst thou hear that-Kozarev? Canst thou be knowing of her shamelessness-and her counterfeit jewels? And her claws, her foster claws-ah, sharp as bullets, and notorious as her own evil heart! Luxury t'at is fake, ye' miserably auspicious! How I loathe her! Boil doth my temper at her genteel sight-and hostile auras, with t'at pair of necklaces t'at wasth born from falsehood, and ah! concealed deceit by portraits of clever contentment. How should thou hath seen her lips twitch over and over again, upon her setting t'at blackening imbecile gaze on me-me, who albeit from th' same brethren, but far from her flawless marches and stately refinement. And a creature, just a minuscule part of th' others, t'at she deems unworthy ye' deserving of torture! Silver and gold is she exclusively acquainted with, whenst torches in my garden art not even set alight. But look! How thou proudly saunter forward to welcome her, and salute her unforgiving cordiality with th' marks of thy lips, on her hand! And how t'is view scythes my chest, my heart, and tears it open just like th' blade of a sneaky knife shalt do. I am dying, dying from t'is tampered heart! And t'ese candles of my heart t'at hath been heartlessly watered-look how t'ey art brimming with sweat in cold demise. O Kozarev! Hath I been too late to seek thy love? Thy hands, my faultless prince, art but th' only mercy I canst pray for! Hath nature been so unfair as to savour all my dreams, ah, and even t'is single longing-and bequeath onto me a tragic life of undesired ghostlike mimes-in th' wholeness of my future? Thou art th' lost charm of t'at wholeness, my love, and should be I bereft of thee again, I shalt but be robbed of my entirety-and pride, womanly pride t'at I sadly out'ta hath. Ah, Kozarev, in thy movements doth I find bliss-a creaking blow to my wood-like stillness, and a cure for my sickly contrivances. I came here for thee, and always didst! Canst thou hear t'at-and satisfy this fierce longing with just a second of thy soundless touch? Lights flicker, and smile in t'eir subsequent death-but t'is is a token of subservient passion. And I shalt not give up like 'em-as t'is life greets us once only, before transporting us into regions of th' unknown-yes, it doth, my love, wherein eerieness is still questioned and overtly unfathomed. Ah, and before death I long to have you-Kozarev, and sit as we shalt-side by side, charmed by our generous yet moronic affection, until th' earth doth make us part, and shalt then we retreat into our most dimmed apertures.

Thou art my blissful paradise, Kozarev! Thy presence but bringst out my well of solemn cheers and proud, sun-like congeniality. And in t'is warm, gentle spring I shalt write but merely on thy vivacity! O imagination-blame, and curse her as thou might do, is in fact, my key, to my newborn triumph and infallible victory; th' marks of glimmering satisfaction-and visible restoration of my sin, my soul. T'is is because I believe, strongly, with all th' forlorn might of my heart, t'at sincerity shalt forever tower over every tweak of malevolent innocence and repressed wishes for destruction. 'Tis, Kozarev, is th' voice emanating towards me from within; and bracing t'ese lips, and *****, for facing her-t'at accursed rival of mine, with bravery and independence I hath never been brought to acknowledge. Ah, petrified as my customs let me be, conviction shalt stay within my hands; and t'at shadow-o, picture of our old days together, on th' veranda-yes, decorated with lights of our love, spur me on. Thy love is born as, and devoted to mine, my love! Crafted, shaped, and designated for me only-and to be mine, only mine-for evermore. We art but a chain of perfect concord, as God hath so sweetly decreed! And I shalt doth nothing else as remarkable as determine to retrieve it-with all th' charms and intellect t'at I possess-and my words as sugar sweet, as well as th' leaves of grace and my becoming, comely wit.
[Greek: Mellonta  sauta’]

These things are in the future.



“Born again?”


Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These were
the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long
pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood,
until Death itself resolved for me the secret.




How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I
observe, too, a vacillation in your step, a joyous
inquietude in your eyes. You are confused and oppressed by
the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was of
Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts,
throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!


Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often,
Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its
nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human
bliss, saying unto it, “thus far, and no farther!” That
earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our
bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen
with its strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts
the dread of that evil hour which was hurrying to separate
us forever! Thus in time it became painful to love. Hate
would have been mercy then.


Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine, mine
forever now!


But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have
much to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I
burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the
dark Valley and Shadow.


And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in
vain? I will be minute in relating all, but at what point
shall the weird narrative begin?


At what point?


You have said.


Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the
propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say,
then, commence with the moment of life’s cessation—but
commence with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having
abandoned you, you sank into a breathless and motionless
torpor, and I pressed down your pallid eyelids with the
passionate fingers of love.


One word first, my Una, in regard to man’s general condition
at this epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise
among our forefathers—wise in fact, although not in
the world’s esteem—had ventured to doubt the propriety
of the term “improvement,” as applied to the progress of our
civilization. There were periods in each of the five or six
centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those
principles whose truth appears now, to our disenfranchised
reason, so utterly obvious —principles which should
have taught our race to submit to the guidance of the
natural laws rather than attempt their control. At long
intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each
advance in practical science as a retrogradation in the true
utility. Occasionally the poetic intellect—that
intellect which we now feel to have been the most exalted of
all—since those truths which to us were of the most
enduring importance could only be reached by that analogy
which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone,
and to the unaided reason bears no weight—occasionally
did this poetic intellect proceed a step farther in the
evolving of the vague idea of the philosophic, and find in
the mystic parable that tells of the tree of knowledge, and
of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant
condition of his soul. And these men—the poets—
living and perishing amid the scorn of the
“utilitarians”—of rough pedants, who arrogated to
themselves a title which could have been properly applied
only to the scorned—these men, the poets, pondered
piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when our
wants were not more simple than our enjoyments were
keen—days when mirth was a word unknown, so
solemnly deep-toned was happiness—holy, august, and
blissful days, blue rivers ran undammed, between hills
unhewn, into far forest solitudes, primeval, odorous, and
unexplored. Yet these noble exceptions from the general
misrule served but to strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we
had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil days. The
great “movement”—that was the cant term—went on:
a diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art—the
Arts—arose supreme, and once enthroned, cast chains
upon the intellect which had elevated them to power. Man,
because he could not but acknowledge the majesty of Nature,
fell into childish exultation at his acquired and still-
increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked
a God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over
him. As might be supposed from the origin of his disorder,
he grew infected with system, and with abstraction. He
enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other odd ideas,
that of universal equality gained ground; and in the face of
analogy and of God—in despite of the loud warning
voice of the laws of gradation so visibly pervading
all things in Earth and Heaven—wild attempts at an
omniprevalent Democracy were made. Yet this evil sprang
necessarily from the leading evil, Knowledge. Man could not
both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking cities arose,
innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath of
furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the
ravages of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una,
even our slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-
fetched might have arrested us here. But now it appears that
we had worked out our own destruction in the ******* of
our taste, or rather in the blind neglect of its
culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis
that taste alone—that faculty which, holding a middle
position between the pure intellect and the moral sense,
could never safely have been disregarded—it was now
that taste alone could have led us gently back to Beauty, to
Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure contemplative
spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the [Greek:
mousichae]  which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!—since
both were most desperately needed, when both were most
entirely forgotten or despised. Pascal, a philosopher whom
we both love, has said, how truly!—”Que tout notre
raisonnement se reduit a ceder au sentiment;” and it is
not impossible that the sentiment of the natural, had time
permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency over
the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing
was not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of
knowledge, the old age of the world drew near. This the mass
of mankind saw not, or, living lustily although unhappily,
affected not to see. But, for myself, the Earth’s records
had taught me to look for widest ruin as the price of
highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our Fate
from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with
Assyria the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with
Nubia, more crafty than either, the turbulent mother of all
Arts. In the history of these regions I met with a ray from
the Future. The individual artificialities of the three
latter were local diseases of the Earth, and in their
individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no
regeneration save in death. That man, as a race, should not
become extinct, I saw that he must be “born again.”

And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our
spirits, daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we
discoursed of the days to come, when the Art-scarred surface
of the Earth, having undergone that purification which alone
could efface its rectangular obscenities, should clothe
itself anew in the verdure and the mountain-slopes and the
smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at length a fit
dwelling-place for man:—for man the
Death-purged—for man to whose now exalted intellect
there should be poison in knowledge no more—for the
redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal, but still
for the material, man.


Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the
epoch of the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we
believed, and as the corruption you indicate did surely
warrant us in believing. Men lived; and died individually.
You yourself sickened, and passed into the grave; and
thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion
brings up together once more, tortured our slumbering senses
with no impatience of duration, yet my Monos, it was a
century still.


Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably,
it was in the Earth’s dotage that I died. Wearied at heart
with anxieties which had their origin in the general turmoil
and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever. After some few
days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium replete with
ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for pain,
while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you—after
some days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless
and motionless torpor; and this was termed Death by
those who stood around me.

Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of
sentience. It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the
extreme quiescence of him, who, having slumbered long and
profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a mid-
summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into consciousness,
through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without being
awakened by external disturbances.

I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had
ceased to beat. Volition had not departed, but was
powerless. The senses were unusually active, although
eccentrically so—assuming often each other’s functions
at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense.
The rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my
lips to the last, affected me with sweet fancies of
flowers—fantastic flowers, far more lovely than any of
the old Earth, but whose prototypes we have here blooming
around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless, offered
no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in
abeyance, the ***** could not roll in their sockets—
but all objects within the range of the visual hemisphere
were seen with more or less distinctness; the rays which
fell upon the external retina, or into the corner of the
eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which struck
the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only
as sound—sound sweet or discordant as the
matters presenting themselves at my side were light or dark
in shade—curved or angular in outline. The hearing, at
the same time, although excited in degree, was not irregular
in action—estimating real sounds with an extravagance
of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were
tardily received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted
always in the highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure
of your sweet fingers upon my eyelids, at first only
recognized through vision, at length, long after their
removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. All my
perceptions were purely sensual. The materials furnished the
passive brain by the senses were not in the least degree
wrought into shape by the deceased understanding. Of pain
there was some little; of pleasure there was much; but of
moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and
were appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but
they were soft musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to
the extinct reason no intimation of the sorrows which gave
them birth; while large and constant tears which fell upon
my face, telling the bystanders of a heart which broke,
thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy alone. And
this was in truth the Death of which these bystanders
spoke reverently, in low whispers—you, sweet Una,
gaspingly, with loud cries.

They attired me for the coffin—three or four dark
figures which flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed
the direct line of my vision they affected me as forms;
but upon passing to my side their images impressed me
with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other dismal
expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone,
habited in a white robe, passed in all directions musically

The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became
possessed by a vague uneasiness—an anxiety such as the
sleeper feels when sad real sounds fall continuously within
his ear—low distant bell-tones, solemn, at long but
equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy dreams.
Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight,
and was palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike
the distant reverberation of surf, but more continuous,
which, beginning with the first twilight, had grown in
strength with the darkness. Suddenly lights were brought
into the rooms, and this reverberation became forthwith
interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression
was in a great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame
of each lamp (for there were many), there flowed unbrokenly
into my ears a strain of melodious monotone. And when now,
dear Una, approaching the bed upon which I lay outstretched,
you sat gently by my side, breathing odor from your sweet
lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
tremulously within my *****, and mingling with the merely
physical sensations which circumstances had called forth, a
something akin to sentiment itself—a feeling that,
half appreciating, half responded to your earnest love and
sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the pulseless
heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then
into a purely sensual pleasure as before.

And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses,
there appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all
perfect. In its exercise I found a wild delight—yet a
delight still physical, inasmuch as the understanding had in
it no part. Motion in the animal frame had fully ceased. No
muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no artery throbbed. But
there seemed to have sprung up in the brain that of
which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental
pendulous pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man’s
abstract idea of Time. By the absolute equalization
of this movement—or of such as this—had the
cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted. By
its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the
mantel, and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings
came sonorously to my ears. The slightest deviations from
the true proportion—and these deviations were
omniprevalent—affected me just as violations of
abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense.
Although no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the
individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no
difficulty in holding steadily in mind the tones, and the
respective momentary errors of each. And this—this
keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of
duration—this sentiment existing (as man could
not possibly have conceived it to exist) independently of
any succession of events—this idea—this sixth
sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first
obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the
threshold of the temporal eternity.

It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others
had departed from the chamber of Death. They had deposited
me in the coffin. The lamps burned flickeringly; for this I
knew by the tremulousness of the monotonous strains. But
suddenly these strains diminished in distinctness and in
volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my nostrils died
antxthesis Dec 2014
I got out of bed with a bit of uneasiness,
I decided that it's been too long since I've written.. I think the last time I did was last week
...or the week before ?
I looked at the date, and make me twitch,
Made a tear, or two fall
Made my heart break in a few more pieces.
DID YOU KNOW, that you've broken me into minute pieces ??
Pieces unable to be detected by microscopes ??
Pieces that can't be felt or touched with your naked hand?
No you don't.
You've been too busy missing her every second, like you did with me.
Been too busy upset with her, like you were with me.
Been too busy telling her how much you like her like you did with me.
YOU'VE BEEN TOO BUSY telling her of your childhood, and how you missed your dad
..too busy telling her how suicidal you were, and how placed a gun to your head.
And you're probably too busy, telling her of me.
And I'm sorry that I made a mistake and liked you so much. I'm sorry for letting you taking up my phone space,
With pictures of you that an artist would find hard to formulate.
Sorry you were my screensaver.
Sorry I told my sister about you ..yeah I told her how adorable you were
And I told her you were my ''soon to be boyfriend" ...
And I'm sorry that I pushed another into the fire because of you
Yeah I'm sorry I pushed him aside.
But karma's a ***** and I knew it would get me, I told you it would AND I TOLD YOU IN THE END I'D BE HURT, and you told me no, and I would be.
Darling being replaced doesn't bother me, it doesn't make my bones crack,
It doesn't make my heart cry ..
It's the mixed signals.
Today you're all flirty with me, tomorrow you're calling me names.
I know you no longer need be, and to be honest you never did,
So be honest with me and let me leave you alone ??

I'm also sorry for listening to your lies.
I should've known though, by the signs you gave,
"Let's be friends with benefits?"
Special to be used then thrown aside ?
What did you want ? A piece of me ?
I should've have know when you said I was special, after I said you were my "soon to be boyfriend "
And I'm sorry you'll never get to see this.
But I hope you suffer from your mistakes
And rot in the arms of any other you come across,
Because no one will EVER adore you like I DID.
Traveler Jun 2013
I hear the weeping of a motherless child
My conscience is clear, my awareness defiled
Global warming, melting icecaps, disappearing bees
All these different threats of our accelerating entropy
By the recklessness of our desires our species is driven
We ignore matter of fact, and scientific proof given

Green behind the shadow, peace behind the fist
Greed behind the reason for the evidence we dismiss
So allow yourselves to experience this uneasiness of mind,
The dread that holds us fast, cause it's our species on the line...
Traveler Tim
The bees are coming back so perhaps we've nothing to dread over.
SG Holter May 2014
Brother Bear (your name in English)
once again we meet in joy.
Soon our laughter rolls across the fields
and plains and forests, boy.

My best friend, my twin although
you're twin years younger than I am. 
Still in many ways superior to this
rough and rugged man.

*Hark, I feel my stomach shiver.
I can hear my liver sigh.
I can sense my brain's uneasiness,
I hear my kidneys cry.
I can feel my long intestine curling up
and screaming WHY!?
I can smell the smoke from meat ablaze
across the summer sky.
The last verse is a poem I sms' ed to my brother when recieving the news that he was going to celebrate Norway's Independence Day with our parents and me. First time we're all gathered since Christmas.
Matthias Mar 2011
Worry results in uneasiness.
Uneasiness results in Vomiting.
Vomiting results in vomiting.
And the cycle continues.
And repeating,
And repeating.
Audrey May 2014
I don't know who I am.
I don't know why I smile at
Mrs. Next-door's daughter.
I don't know why I wake up
At 3:26 AM. I think -
I think I'm scared.
I am scared to know why I hate my hips.
I am scared to know why my sister's laugh makes me  
Cheer up.
I am scared to know who I am - what if she (me)
Isn't who I though she (me) was?
Every single person who anyone will ever meet,
Every man, woman, and child on the train,
On the street, in a chapel or a classroom or
At the beach - is scared.
I'm not sure why we're scared. It just kinda
I want it to stop. I want that pretty girl in the red,
Polka-dot dress to stop crying,
I want that young man with the troubled uneasiness of a secret
In his eyes to come out of the closet
Stop second guessing your heart.
**** it, find yourself.
I sit and stare out of rain-streaked windows.
I still don't know who I am.
one llucy Oct 2014
As I open the door

The cold engulfs me first
raising hairs on my neck, shivers down my spine, prickles on my scalp

Next the smell
so mild, pleasant, crisp. similar to rain or dew
my lungs take in this air for the first time

The light begins to peek over the mountains
clearing the fog, cutting away the dark

The quiet is both a comfort and an uneasiness
Only the earth under my feet whispers as I walk the dirt path

The lake unblemished, like a mirror for the sky to look upon
no wind, no waves, no life

standing there, absorbing the surroundings
I am the one to break the silence, to shatter the utopia
as I drop the pebble in the waters…

these ripples go on                                                              *­Forever
Hailey Renee Apr 2017
Suppose you aren’t living, yet you aren’t dead. You have a conscience, and you don’t understand what you are. You are not a physical form, but are closer to an empty spirit. Although you do not have a physical form, you can still feel things. You can’t move, and are isolated in an area with walls covered in silhouettes and splattered in color. This, is a representation of your imagination.
You know that there is something outside of your imagination, but you have not the slightest idea what it’s like or what to expect. The things outside of this isolated world are what you spend your time thinking about. You wonder about these such things for quite a while, trying to simulate what the world would be like- at least what you think It’d be like.
You often doubt whether your simulations are accurate or not, and if there even is a world outside of these walls, but that doesn’t stop you from thinking. You enjoy being alone, yet at find it extremely unsettling. You like the silence of being solitary, yet you wish something, just something was there to comfort you, meaning you are afraid of your own conscience. You’ve been afraid of your own self ever since you realized that there’s no way out of your mind. Wait, is there? Are you more than an empty spirit? Can you leave this room? No, you think to yourself, but as time goes by, you think of it as possible, that there’s something other than this room.
The silhouettes on your wall change regularly, according to your thoughts, and what goes on in your mind. You’ve been thinking of escaping this cube lately, therefore the silhouettes on the wall look more populated than usual, and seem to be tearing at the walls. They look like they’re trying to set themselves free, and are covering the walls more and more as you think about them. That’s it! You think for one moment that you can use the silhouettes to break down the walls, and you’ll be able to leave this room. But how? They are just silhouettes. They can’t do anything, can they? In that moment you think to yourself that if you try hard enough, you can do it, just a little bit of effort, and you’ll be free.
You know that the silhouettes don’t have any weight, and wonder how you’ll tear down the walls, but you remember the colors. Yes, that’s it. You can use your imagination more and more and produce colors! But, how to you get your mind flowing? Just keep thinking? Think really hard? Think of escaping? Or maybe, if you didn’t think at all, the walls would be splattered in white. Yes, you could think as hard as you could, splatter the walls in color, then stop the thoughts, and cover the walls in white. Keep this up, and the weight of the colors will eventually pull down the walls.
All of the sudden, the cube starts to dissolve. You feel yourself falling, and can move. It’s a nice feeling, a bit frightening, but nice. You see lights, everywhere, different colors. Blue, black, violet, dark colors, with white stars. “Quite beautiful,” you say aloud. You’re falling from the room, and watch it grow smaller as you keep falling. Suddenly, you stop falling, you just float. You look around to see a galaxy extending in all directions, never-ending colors and stars.
Quite fascinating to look at, space. Although it’s cold, very cold. You feel as if you’d die; freeze to death, but can you die? You sit in shocking realization. You’d never thought about death before, and now you were seriously considering that you might die. Why hadn’t you ever thought about death? You’d always been protected by the cube, it gave you warmth, and let you live. It didn’t offer much, you couldn’t do anything, couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, nothing, but it had been protecting you from this world the whole time. You’d taken everything for granted, and had just thrown your life away.
“I’m not meant to be here. What have I done. I’m going to die. No no no no no.” You start to get agitated, and furious. What is this? Some kind of trick? Why were you meant to be in a cube your entire life? Who created this? Why? Your mind overflows with questions, about the universe, about your existence. Still freezing, you wonder whether or not you are the only one here. All of this, the never-ending sky, the colors, the lights, the stars, they had to be meant for something! Of course, that something wasn’t you.
Your vision starts to blur, and you’re beginning to feel lightheaded. Maybe you really can die. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so curious. Maybe you should have just stayed where you were. No, it wasn’t maybe, it was definite. You can die. You shouldn’t have been curious. You should’ve stayed in the cube, where you would’ve been protected forever.
What happens when you die? You sit with a feeling of uneasiness, mortified. Do you reincarnate? Or… Do you never get to live again, ever. You start to tense up, almost stop moving altogether. Think about it, Death. Terrifying, the way you live your life as a spec, just to have it taken away in the end. Death, really the only thing to be scared of in life. Death, does it come with pain? Or, maybe you just, float way, peacefully. Does your life flash before you…? You had lived so long, but you feel as if it’d just started. No matter what happens when you die, you were not ready for it at all. You were terrified, to the point where you could probably die of fright.
You desperately try to get back to the room, even though it’s in pieces. You struggle and eventually make your way back to the section of space where your room had been. You grab on to a piece from one of the walls, screaming, sobbing. You hug the piece, and shrivel up, feeling the colorful wall on your fingertips. Crying hysterically, you plead for another chance to live, for the cube’s protection and care, but you can’t. It was over.
Your emotions start to dull, and the cold isn’t affecting you as much. Your anger and sadness turns in to acceptance and understanding, and you’re no longer blaming your creator for giving you an uneventful life, but blaming yourself because it was your fault. You are the one who broke through the walls. You were the one who left the room. You are the reason that you’re dying. No one is at fault but you. You did this all by your self, and no one helped or encouraged you.
Your vision changes from a blur, to almost nothing but smudged colors and white speckles. Your tears dry up, and as this happens, the image of space is burned into your mind. It was beautiful. The colors. The galaxy. The stars. They were faint, but beautiful. You just needed to remember this sight, it’s important to you. This one moment that you aren’t isolated. This moment you can move. This moment you can see things other than paint and silhouettes. As you stare into the blurry scenery, you start to go numb, lose consciousness, fade away. You yourself is gone, but your light will remain there forever, as a star.
loveless Jan 2016
The shades of the red
Painted in the sky
Let me know
The end of today is nigh

Soon the dark
Night would befall
Uneasiness restlessness
Gets filled in my soul

But the truth comes
Before my eyes
The mighty time
Always flies

It always goes on
Never stopping is its art
The fear quiets
In my soul and heart

From my mouth
Comes a sigh
From today
I take a goodbye

In the morrow
See you soon
Be on time
Like this night's moon

A new tomorrow
Would begin
Just same as today
Because it's today's twin
The dusk of today is followed by the dawn of tomorrow
Clare May 2020
This unusual lockdown
Took us aside
To draw closer to Him
Praying with perseverance
Evaluating our priorities
Finding an uneasiness in our comfort zones

Eve of lockdown
Back to normal
There is a real danger
Returning to traditions
Forgetting our resolutions
Wanting to stay in our comfort zones

After the lockdown
Can't we see?
The after effects of Covid-19
Working no more
Crying for help
Remaining to busy in our comfort zones?

No more lockdown
Are we ready?
To move with the Lord?
Seeking the lost
Reaching the poor
Needing to urgently leave our comfort zones

Lockdown is history
Have we forgotten?
The situation demands our commitment
Forsaking our indifference
Requiring our time
Abandoning the security of our comfort zones
alessandra May 2014
last night i had a nightmare

your car backed up to and through my front door
dumping broken computers and monitors and machines in my yard
dumping out your trash at my mother's doorstep
like you did to me
(you tell them i left, but we both know your cold eyes pushed me)

last night i had a nightmare

i walked into my darkened room and a man fraught with danger and uneasiness left his breakfast dishes on my bedspread.
my mother did not hear my screams of concern, as to why, why a man of such disgust had chosen my bedroom to have his breakfast eggs.
the ketchup and stray pepper he left on my pillow was a violation like hands between clenched thighs

when i woke up this morning,
i wanted to cry.

my (enter degree here) doctor slipped me slight pills of green and brown, guaranteed to rid me of these visions, these haunts that grip me like dramas played out in technicolor across my eyelids.

now i take two under the tongue, caught between a lover's fingertips.

i wake up having lost and died only moments before.
may 2014.
Amanda Kay Burke Oct 2018
I am feeling lower than ever before
In my head I hold leaden weights
Think I need professional help
Emotions ignored become hard to navigate

Push down pain a little longer
Numb wounds for awhile
Gulp lumps of uneasiness
Conceal misery with a phony smile

Heart broken and bleeding
Hidden from all who look
I have mastered the art of composure
Face an unreadable book

Quiet night is tense and dim
Begging me to sneak off and play
Think I might cave in this one time
I'm scared I won't be able to get away

Under covers I hide in bed
Hoping I will not be found
By weakness and uncertainty
I lay motionless without sound

Trying to sort my issues
Organization isn't really my thing
Prefer to shove difficult subjects in a box
Lock out of sight so I can avoid the sting

Discovered something dull inside me
I found a tool sharper for out
Condemned the skin once considered home
It is easier to not think about

I'm told intensity only worsens with time
A smile hideously glued
Energetic as dying muscles will allow
Wild heart now meek and subdued

Memories will not depart
Echoes of voices loved then lost
Brighter still, rotating faces
Seasons changing sunlight to frost

My head has become a dark dungeon
Trapped there with my dirtiest sins
Watching mistakes as they rattle rusted bars
Capturing worst thoughts caged within
Sometimes my head is a quiet empty house painted white and others it is a crowded prison, dimly lit, dingy, filthy and loud.
Matt Segin Dec 2011
A blank sheet of paper is the means for great creation. It is a canvas for everyone to use.
So many ways to unlock sensation. I am an artist, searching for my muse.
It seems as if my times of creation appear, only when I can no longer find my way.
At times like these I look for direction. Where else shall I look today?
I look at my life and see, a person who's life goes in the right direction.
Though I have hit some bumps along the way, please excuse that misconception.
Right now I let my art do the talking. It represents the truest form of me.
There is no lie in what is created. This is my truth as I know it to be.
To read these lines is to know me true. It's the only way I know I can create.
To create something good is interpretation. All that, I leave to fate.
I do not create with greed in mind. Fame and fortune are not the things I need.
I do what I must to exhale my mind. This is the only merit I concede.
Why do I transform this piece of paper? Am I worthy of this task at hand?
I said before my intent is heart spoken. I just want to create, understand?
This is my canvas. For now, a pen and paper are all the tools I need.
With a pen in hand I release my emotion. What a long, strange trip indeed...
I started this at a point in life, when my direction seemed vague and unclear.
However things have started their turn for the better. It's not all as I feared.
Still, the fear is in me. It makes me stop and think for the right thing to do.
Making the decisions today, so that I can better my future with you.
What you did you had to do. I can still find no fault in the choice you made.
What's amazing is that through those times apart, my feelings for you never did fade.
Now that we have circled to each other again. A time for new beginnings is found.
Where we go from here has yet to be written. Our future has no bound.
The present has changed much. Things are certainly not the way they used to be.
Though we've found each other again, it's what I wanted, there's still an uneasiness within me.
These feelings I have should be there. Though uneasiness is not what I want to feel.
However this time I take heed to these feelings inside. After all, they are for real.
We've taken a step back from where we were. We've come back down from the fairy tale.
What we had was not "too good to be true", but maybe, just a little too much wind for our sail.
We've come a long way you and I. We're where reality of life has come to be.
To walk the path from here can have its misfortunes. "So what!" I say..."Want to take a walk with me?"
To predict the future is no one's talent. Only we can walk our path into tomorrow.
The possibilities can be limitless. Let's you and I turn away from any more sorrow.
Not every path will be the right one to take. Only by mistaking can we learn our way.
Though it's true some mistakes are hard to overcome. Let's just take it day by day.
Day to day is where we are right now. The sound of eggshells is at our heels.
Problem now is communication. We should both know how the other feels.
I told you the truth of my feelings once, and I thought that you had felt the same.
You reciprocated what I wanted to hear at the time, but now we're stuck in this solemn game.
I'm tired of holding back. I want to speak and feel as freely as I should.
What I get from you now is, "I still don't know..." and that's no longer any good.
My feelings are not to be toyed with. This is the same respect that I give to you.
Now it seems I'm only an option. Kept on the side for something to do.
This is not the time to do things half way. Now is the time to show all you keep locked inside.
Now is the time to commit to the unknown. This is what I ask, do not hide.
I ask this because it's important. I ask that you stop holding it in.
What you get in return you might be surprised, because what I offer, comes from within.
I know it seems I put you at fault. Please believe that this is not my intent.
Right now I find myself unrequited. For you my soul is bent.
In the beginning our roles were reversed. It was you who pressured me for more.
Now that we've regressed, we've still together, but now it is I knocking at your door.
You are scared for your future, and you have every right to be.
But now look what your fear has done. Just look in the mirror and see.
What you see is not who you are. It's just the facade that fear has put in front of you.
You may not know it yet, but this fear inhibits what you're trying to do.
I say this because I've been there. I recognize the hesitation and doubt.
Wanting to make right decisions is commendable, but to always be right, "no one" will figure out.
I know this because I've tried. I was once a man of sorrow in recluse.
Then I realized that tomorrow is another day. I had to flexible, there's always another option to use.
Options are always around us. Sometimes fear and doubt obscure the other paths that are there.
We must strive to look at every angle. Take your time, and decide with care.
I say take your time, but do not waste it in revealing a decision that's already been had.
Haven't you decided already? Because if you have and didn't tell me, that's an action gone bad.
That is not a threat. I speak only of my feelings at hand.
My feelings for you walk a thin line, and I feel I need to take a stand.
I'd take my stand at the place beside you. That is the place I most want to be.
You may not believe me when I say that, but these words come from the heart you see.
My words are all I have. You have left me no other choice.
With these words I hope to express what I feel. Through these pages, I now have a voice.
Our roles really have been reversed. What is it you try to do with the spirits and your friends?
Now it seems you're with them more than I. It's a little hare to comprehend.
You asked me to step back from that life. You said it threatened the life you wanted for you and your son.
I may have been slow in transition, but the changes I've made have been more than one.
What is it you're trying to find? Do you not see the things you already own?
When will you realize your actions are hypocritical? These are the actions I can not condone.
Maybe you're trying to meet someone. Maybe with your friends it's possible to drown your sorrows away.
I'm still trying to ascertain your intentions. Can you not see my problem today?
No matter what I do, or have done, so far nothing has been good enough for you.
At this point it really doesn't matter. I have my plan, and I will see it through.
What started out as something for you, turned into a better plan for me.
I just can't shake this feeling that sooner or later, there will be no more "we".
This is the point I'm at. I can feel you slowly slipping away.
My love for you keeps me blind to that fact. Though I do expect you to leave me someday.
If this is what I think, then why do I still seek a place by your side?
It's impossible to know all my reasons, but I just know I'd regret it if I never tried.
I don't believe this to be a lost cause. But the wall you've put up is an obstacle hard to scale.
The closer I get to you, the more it seems you want me to fail.
In that statement I hope to be wrong. I can not imagine that you would feel that way.
If I didn't consider it though I'd be making a mistake. And I am not ready to make that one today.
Is it fair to put me in this place? I'd much rather prepare for you to stay, rather than wait for you to leave.
However, my heart tells me I need to give this my all. I am still not ready to grieve.
Know this right now. I am committed to a life that will succeed in honor and good will.
It may not look like it yet, but with these words, an impression I hope to instill.
You can believe me if you want to. Or choose not to, and leave me to my life I'm trying to live.
I just wish that we can rid ourselves of complication. To each other I want us to forgive.
Forgiveness is possible no matter what happens. Though I'm sure it won't be as easy as it seems.
For you and I to not be together, that would be the opposite of my dreams.
I speak to you as a man of experience. I've been through this before.
I learned my lessons the hard way. That last time, my heart was trampled to the floor.
I refuse to let that happen again. This time I am aware of the situation in front of me.
That is why I step with trepidation. I know how dangerous this life can be.
I don't understand why you would leave me. Especially if it were for someone you didn't know.
You already know that I love you, and the life to you and your son that I would bestow.
Is it really that bad? Are you that afraid of a commitment again?
I never said that I wasn't afraid too, but we both are different than the people we knew back then.
I don't know what will happen. But I know that I will not be cause of grief and pain.
So many other things you have to worry for. I will not change the tracks of your train.
Love me or leave me? Is this the point to which we have arrived?
My heart sinks with anticipation. I think you answer is already derived.
Such a pessimistic view I have. Shouldn't I be looking at the glass "half full"?
Well I'd rather be surprised that you would stay. That day I would ever be thankful.
Need you not to worry for me. I am a man that has learned to survive.
Through the thick and thin of my life ahead, I have my ways to keep hope alive.
The hope I speak of is my own. It has nothing to do with you.
As I said before I have my plan, and I will see it through.
My plan as you know has been set into motion. Things have already started to fall in place.
It would just be nice to know that I could wake this next morning, alongside your smiling face.
My plan has room for you. And now I must ask that you decide.
Leave me now, or come and take your place by my side.
I am at your door knocking. Won't you please let me in?
Should you open the door and let me through, I'd take you to the places you've never been.
These places I speak of are metaphoric, not literal, per say.
In these places we could be together. To the future we'd make our way.
I leave you with these words. I've written them all with love in mind.
Should you decide to take my hand, a greater love I think you'll never find.
Please take my words to heart. That is the place from which I've summoned them to be.
I think we can put this mess behind us. And move toward destiny.
Destiny is just a word right now. Only our actions will prove this to be true.
Is my destiny to be at a place by your side? Well that depends on you.
My case has been stated. To you I've expressed the most that I can feel.
And though I still want you in my life, I need you to be for real.
Our situation is real enough. Decisions now will affect who we will come to be.
Is what we had or have worth saving? Or now has it become but a memory?
I'm tired woman. Tired of being the nice guy finishing last.
Watch what happens with my actions. A new mold has just been cast.
My change will not be perfect. I can already see obstacles ahead.
Left and right may not be my only options. How about I go this way instead?
I love who I am. I look forward to what I can become.
The mistakes in my past guide me. I'm not proud of all that I have done.
Still my path is solid. My future has hope, even in a life without you.
If we are no more I'd be in grief, but that still won't change what it is that I have to do.
Look at all this rambling. I've tried to end this story lines ago.
Every time I think there's conclusion. There's always one more thing I want you to know.
Thank you for your patience. This was my side of the story that I wanted to tell.
Decide now you must. In these feelings I no longer want to dwell.
What is this now? Is it I, now giving terms to you?
What do you think your answer will be? Because I really have not a clue.
Yes or no I ask. A simple answer is all I need.
Be honest and think for yourself, as I no longer will beg and plead.
You know how I feel. You know what life I want for me.
Consider the options large and small. You must decide eventually.
One way or the other. In this decision, there is no "half way".
I can no longer accept, "Let's see what happens." Just give me a "yea" or "nay".
I can joke about this you see. Either way I know that I will be alright.
My demeanor demands I look for the bright side. A little trick that helps me to sleep at night.
There's no humor in what we've suffered, but a bright side none the less.
Tomorrow is yet another day, but not just any day like the rest.
I take with me the experience, and the knowledge from the life I've lived.
Tomorrow I step with hope in mind, that the past can be "forgived".
I'd like to move on, but even now after four days I await your call.
Should I wait a little longer? It is you after all.
We interrupt this poem for some news that is late breaking.
The woman has called. It's almost history in the making.
Guess what ladies and gents? It is just as I suspected.
She has gone and regressed again. She still feels misdirected.
So here we go again. The part where she needs space and time to think.
It may have worked once before, but not this time. To explain why I don't have the ink.
Maybe that's wrong of me to say. But I have my own life to live too.
This was another option I kept hidden, but now I see what I must do.
You want space and time? You can have all that you feel you need.
I'm not angry that you feel you need it. From this wound I can no longer bleed.
That doesn't mean I feel nothing. You know the man you're pushing aside.
This time I'm going to let you. Don't say that I never tried.
I guess this is it woman. Maybe someday fate will cross our paths again.
Two different people we'll be next time. Let's see what happens then.
It's getting late now. It is time to lay this story to rest.
Things may not have worked out, but I'm sure it's for the best.
Good night and good bye. I hope one day forgiveness can be traded.
All our memories I won't cast aside. Not everything was jaded.
The time for an ending has come. My side of this story has now been told.
Thank you for everything. I now step to where my future unfolds.
I step to this unknown wondering, "Will we ever meet again?"
Who will we be? Who is to know? We won't find out until then.
Until the next time woman. Maybe fortune smiles next time for the story of you and I.
That would be a story worth telling later, but until then, Good Bye.

Matt Segin
You can feel...





























attraction (******)

attraction (intellectual)

attraction (spiritual)

attraction (general)

attraction (negative)

attraction  (taboo)

attraction (moral)















































































































inner peace


















left out










































































































You'll think of others, I still do.
Sally A Bayan Apr 2016
The evening news goes on
anchorman's hurrying words and frenetic voice trail on
could there be another storm brewing?
is his hysterical voice a sign, a warning?
a spray of the evening shower lightly wets face and arm...
it is not enough, though,
to wash away the uneasiness of the moment,
the evening news goes on...

It doesn't want to end, this long evening,
for one confused soul..mind is wandering
through the night, it is aimlessly exploring
it doesn't want to end, this long evening...

A record plays...she quietly listens
crystal drops from her eyes glisten
she hums along, with Eydie Gorme's
"As a Love To You From Me"
blending, with the cool wind that whirs softly
while looking at a distant moon so creamy
recalling past yearnings that have grown intense
alone in her house, she can not pretend
a record plays...she quietly listens

Repeatedly, she inhales...and exhales
for, breath smells of coffee gone stale...
this sleepless soul, with a mind still straying
will roam further, til sun comes out tomorrow morning,
when her whole being, finally would be surrendering...
but until then, she still would be trying
repeatedly, she inhales...and exhales

The evening news goes on
it doesn't want to end... this long evening
to some tunes, she quietly listens
repeatedly, she inhales...and exhales
the evening news goes on...

(an old, unposted poem)


Copyright September 21, 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***the first sentence of each of the four stanzas, put together,
became the fifth,,or last stanza...***
F Alexis Jul 2013
Hello, anguish.

Long time, no torture.

How have your travels been?

Tell me, did the fires burn
Too hot for you?
I thought, for once,
I had banished you
To whichever pit
Of Hell
You managed to arise from,
So that you may
Find me so easily,
As the goal of a hunt
Caught in your crosshairs.

I should have known better.

Well, while you're here,
Please have a seat.
Sit anywhere you like.

Anywhere but THERE!

You must be a well-seasoned guest
To know exactly which door to knock on,
And exactly where you want to rest.
So of course you pick my heart,
And lay your feet upon my soul.

I do so hope you're comfortable.

Insistent *******.

How have I been?

Why, how kind of you to ask.

What's your motive?

I've been fine, really.
A little sporadic uneasiness
Here and there,
But mostly on the fast track
To regaining my peace of mind.

Well, I was actually
In the middle of it
When you arrived.

I sound like I'm talking to a therapist.

Yes, I need 10 milligrams of Stop Talking To Inanimate Feelings.

Oh, don't be sorry.

As if you ever are.

I don't mind the company at all.
I do spend so much time
Alone these days.

I was well on my way
To finding my resting place,
My place of solitude
And productive thought,
A fragile teacup
Of a space
In the landfill
Of the world.

Some days are better
Than others.

What's that?

A gift, you say?

A souveneir, perhaps?

To hell if I'm keeping whatever it is.

What might you have for me this time.

Some sort of anxiety, I'm sure. But what about this time around?

My schooling? My finances? My family? My relationship, matters of the heart?



Well... it wasn't
what I was expecting,
But still, it's nothing less
Than what I would expect from you.

Uncertainty about what,

There's no label this time.


What do you mean,
It's a gift for identifying?

And WHERE are you going?



You cannot simply leave this here,
Resting upon my weary shoulders,
Which bear so much already,
And leave me to figure it out.
You mustn't simply waltz off
Into the unknown blackness
Of the recesses of the human mind,
As if you haven't a care in the world.

You are a terrible guest,
Showing up uninvited,
At a most inconvenient time,
Bearing gifts of unneeded,
Unnamed weight,
Leaving me to figure it out.

Fine. Leave.

You wretched, vile creature.

See if I let you in again.
Begone, and let every door
Hit you on your way out.
May every jagged rock
In your path
Catch your foot in your
Sadistic, carefree walk
About the earth.
May every web
That spiders weave
Entangle you
Beyond rescue.

Yes, goodbye.

Now, what of this....

It has no name,
Yet I am supposed
To know what it is.


Feels like...

Yes, there's questioning here.

Many questions.

But of what?

I have questions about
Many things,
As my curious nature
Must have it so.

Also feels like...

Unwanted emotion.

How that little beast
Does manage to bring
The worst gifts to me,
At the worst times,
Is beyond me.

He needs a hobby.

Let's see... emotions
Of the heartfelt kind.
Of the deep recesses
Of that bipolar *****
Which no ne trusts
And everyone breaks.

Emotions and questions.

Oh dear God.


No, I must dispose of it
Right away.

This is the sort of thing
I fear most.
HOW did he manage,
To get fear in there,
As well?!

No, it must be thrown away.

"Do not yell your curses at me!"

"Who are you to say that I
Haven't an idea at all
What I want, and when,
And where, and why?!
What judge are you,
And with what authority
Do you claim I am divided,
My side unpicked,
And that a canyon
Lives within me?"

"Petty fool, you are not welcome here!"
I know what I am doing!
And I shall make the rules,
For it is I who must obey them!"

There are no rules.
None to be made,
And none to be followed.

Even more tragic,
Is that I know not
What I am doing,
And I doubt I ever will.

For it is these,
Of all horrid gifts,
Delivered without
At the precious price
Of losing sureness of mind
And peace of the soul,
That may not be returned.

The gift that keeps on giving,
Until I decide it shan't...

A decision I cannot bear to make,
While in company
Of battered spirit,
Fearful heart,
And overconfident,
Incessantly calculating mind. 

For now that he is gone,
I must entertain them, too.  

*How did I ever get so lucky?
little bear Dec 2013
my room is dark,
with nothing but a small flickering light in the corner.
i was always afraid of the dark.

my blankets are wrapped round my body,
huddled in a cocoon.
and the thought of being next to you,
in this dark labyrinth of a room,
makes my heart feel heavy
and my soul sigh.

i cannot wait
for the evenings to be spent,
lying in bed with you.
your frame embracing mine,
a pictured moment
often stuffed in the back of my mind.

uneasiness of the dark alone,
will never do.
i have only gotten braver,
on the nights i faced it with you.
Megan Dolan Feb 2014
“Perfect,” Karmen replied to herself as if she never laid eyes on such a cowardly man.

But what else was she to feel while the Ethanol streamed down towards her liver as the dusk struck the perfect night. The bench sat perfectly empty with beat up metal and delicate yet fearful drops of God created sorrow. Perfect hazel eyes frantically reached across nameless disasters. Searching to find herself, a young girl. What makes a young girl? Stripped innocence gazes at the stars dead along the disappeared past childhood.

"Bees don't cling to their hives anymore, why? Why aren't the bees scared of losing their survival? Should I not care about dying? I don't. I never will. The strength of infatuation was too strong for me, too strong for me to break away from. He killed me perfectly. Why am I shivering? I feel his perfect arms. I feel his touch, but he is gone. Long gone. The bowling ball missed the pins, it turned the wrong direction and now he's gone. His assuring hands ripped away from my reminisce as the hurricane of my tears wallows from the fear of never being able to be held again," she slurs to herself thinking maybe someone will listen to what she has to say. But no one does, no one’s there.

Sip. Sipping. She poured the empty flask down her throat holding back the burning sensations of love. Love doesn't exist. It's the thought of love that rushes in between her sight. Her blurred sight, that is never quite truthful. Every anger was perfectly misplaced and hazel eyes knew waking up had become overrated. Broken eggshells consistently crack and the ice was now too thin to walk upon. Lust. What was the feeling of peace?

“Perfect,” Karmen repeats the flowing expression over and over hoping it means something more.

Drawn between the next bottle and last bottle shattered, Karmen rests somewhat patiently for her uneasiness to pass. February was coming to its clutches and composure was in the wind.

“My mother, I am not her. I can’t be. I won’t be. Pathetic, perfect pathetic pity. I pity the part of myself that carries her such demeaning qualities. The apple dropped from the aged tree and leaped, but it fell back, fell back with enmity and defeat,” contemplating reasoning to her calamities, Karmen won’t take the blame for herself.

It has now been two years since her mother had passed. Two years since she drank herself to death. A perfect death for an alcoholic. A perfect moment for Karmen to be selfish and make the death about herself. Her mother always needed a miserable man to perfect her endless time. Karmen has recently felt the same need for perfection. It fades. Fades perfectly out of conscious.  

“One more is forever one more, and two more is too many. When is enough, enough? Does being satisfied actually even exist?” the questions drained like a pipeless sink and Karmen was left to sympathize her own decisions.

The suffocating night seemed ceaseless. Where was the closure? Where was the desire to move on? Where was the perfectly naive girl that expected more in happiness? Everything was transformed in that instance. Her witty smile and her hazel eyes, they turned to dust. Dust that held her sense of relevance.  It was all perfectly unsound and no one was there to recognize such defeat. Karmen took her final sip as her veins filled up with cheap fulfilling ***** and she was gone. Long gone. Gone with the bowling ball that steered the wrong direction. She wasn’t going to let the miserable men control her existence, she wasn’t going to be her mother. But oh how the tables have turned and it seems as if the irony killed Karmen herself. With her final perfect sip, she blinked her hazel eyes one last time.

“Cold, cold is the source of all pain and loyalty. It reaches its peak and then it dies along with the soul,” Karmen’s voice whispered as it faded out with her blurred eyesight.

She was her mother. Karmen was the perfect image of her mother. Karmen lived the perfect death of an alcoholic and held the perfect selfishness of one too many sips. She lived the resentment she carried and tore at the seams. Birds only chirp as loud as their highest pitch, and Karmen had simply dealt the only deck of cards she knew how to. The perfect ace that finalized the straight flush of her own savaged childhood.
K Balachandran Apr 2012
Love was the fragrance of every flower
in this city, of celebrated  gardens,
not long before,
Why i sit here, nursing my uneasiness
in this bus with out a destination board,
I don't really know,
                               all I hope is this:
my belief that it would take me to
it's last stop- love- would not fail,
Once there ,I know,
my redemption would be easier.

I don't see any one bound
                                     to that destination,
not even one whose face i recognize,
night has no language, like a dumb man
i have to be contented with signs,
in this overly lit long, red bus, too sleek
for everyone here to feel happy about,
i feel the shock of change, from every side,
The city is busy shedding its old skins
and its soul, the villager and his words
that spoke of rain, crops of corn and harsh summer,
almost in a poetic vein, is alien now,
they aren't invited here anymore,
sulking, loitering around a bit, they have left, before sun down.

We are racing towards deadlines,
roads everywhere are blocked, broken, changed beyond
recognition, one's own street, needs introduction
work is in progress even at midnight,
new flyovers, elevated roads, sky scrappers
you easily lose count, and crawl through a maze,
all  for a make over, to a global city of electronics,
from  a sleepy town, embracing villages
to somewhere, the world feels flat, in an illusory grandeur.

Trees  died horrible deaths,
a loveless and forlone look takes over, even on young faces
the sparrows, disappear, no one knows where
they have gone, bees and butterflies,
what would be their fate, studies are on.

A lady in the front seat
gets jittery, she is not sure where she goes,
the driver doesn't pay attention,
there is none to reassure,
we are on the move, fast too.

I was looking for Mahatma Gandhi  Road, but the signs
are all gone, hope, those would be back pretty soon,
but would love come back?
Danielle Shorr Nov 2013
She walks backwards faking a laugh, a slight smile framing her face, i can tell she is not fully comfortable. The way she is clutching on to her drink and the wandering eyes clue me in to her feelings of easiness. His level of drunk is complete opposite of her, she is sober, he is towering over and his hands just barely touching her, but i can see it in his eyes. His intentions are that of someone who is not fully innocent, and i know for a fact that what he wants is more than just to form a new friendship, he wants something else. He leans in a little bit more and she lets out a nervous laugh as she backs into a wall. Thats when my voice calls out for him to back off. I tell him that shes clearly not interested, that his advances are not wanted, his slurred words are not compliments and what hes doing has a name its called ****** harrassment. He moves back and puts his hands up as if to say im not guilty of anything. After he ends up on the other side of the room She looks to me, lets out a relieved sigh, a smile on her face, she mouths thank you. I nod because this isnt the first time ive seen a situation like this but is the first time ive truly recognized it, this is the first time ive ever spoke up. And i feel good about it, relieved.
Later in the night he approaches me. Still drunk and reeking of hard liquor he looks at me and says you totally killed my game. Now i have two options. I could either apologize and pretend like his actions were completely okay or do the opposite and say how i really feel. Before even making a concsious decision i look up and say it's not a game, if theres only one player. I turn around and walk away. Now i know people would say that if she really didnt want it that she would have gotten up and walked away herself but see i know this isnt true. Girls, including myself, have been taught something else when were in situations like this. Society teaches us to be polite and nice as if disrespect deserves anything but the opposite, girls were taught to smile and shrug it off as if unwanted ****** advances are something we can just shrug off. As if **** is a game and were just supposed to play along. Girls, why do we act polite? Why when were uncomfortable and ill at ease do we plaster on a smile and pretend like this is how things are supposes to be, this is not how its supposed to be. We have the right to stand up and say no. We have the right to stand up and say go away i dont want you. We have the right to look you in the eye and tell you to *******, we are not voiceless creatures, we are strong Fearless women who need to look out for eachother because I learned along time ago that if we dont, noone else will. So stand up when you see her being cornered by a stranger, speak out when you see him drape his arms around her, if she seems nervous, make her feel secure, because if you look out for someone when they cant find the words to get away then someday they might just do the same for you. **** being polite and sweet and nice, it is your ******* right to say how you feel, dont ever be afraid to voice your uncomfort, you are not alone. And I was alone the night that the same situation happened to me and at the time society had forced me to believe that all i could do was just smile and stand there powerless and weak. I wish that someone had seen the uncertainty in my eyes and body language, i wish that someone had stood up and told him to back off, i wish that i had had the voice to speak up. And even though i didnt then, im speaking up now. Im speaking up for all the girls like me, girls who consantly are in these situations, the polite victims who couldnt find it in them to tell him to leave them alone, for the girls who are shamed for saying no, for the girls who get called *****, it is not your fault you werent asking for it. For the girl whos smiling despite extreme uneasiness, i want you to know im looking out for you. And as for every girl out there, you should be too.
Mitchell Duran Mar 2011
To talk from a mouth that one does not recognize
No sound to be made from mammoths that lay dead
Trading tokens
Wishing to God they'd made it
Just to see another day
The glory of the light is bright
Blinds many
Confuses millions
The flick of fish fins
Tiny is a world when the catastrophes escaped on waves of brilliant globalism makes ones that have never wept weep tears of experience and surprise and disdain and remorse and sadness and life and happiness and regret and money and love
A number that fits in the eyes of a spreadsheet
Is printed out, given away, thought about and thrown out
These are the hours of blistering heat that will burn the skin of a thousand innocents
While the many that have passed the threshold of human thought
Wish they had never lived this long
A feeling
That is a feeling that only comes once
That is thought and mused about
For the rest of one's life
Turning the makeshift bread that mother made
Hands clasped with never a word said
A debauchery of the common normalcy and currency of mankind
A farewell note to the wishing well of mystery
****** it to the dam, all throughout the land that produced these hands
A situation of uneasiness, invisible in form
Where wrong is translucent and seems incandescent
Beautiful in its magnitude but rotten to the core
Beating like the black heart of the devil that just chose not to fit in
A lonely kid
On a lone cloudy road
With no mother
Or no father to know
Sister said that the bed of the divine would soon be wed
But she fled
For something inside, something hard, a thing tasteless and way away
Made her feet twitch,
Her skin itch,
And her eyes swearing to head to a watery bay
Not a thing known
Nor a thing sworn
A ****** of  a metaphor and all the things they swore that'd bring you peace in school
Now makes you sit and in wonder of the feeling of the fool
And the pool
The magnificent embroided embarrassment swirling high
A home away from home
The listless endless womb
Whispering a name that is not known but known
Your bother in a brother
Your mother from a mother
All in a smother of delicate sprinkled lover's
A delicacy of infinity that burns bright, sits tight, talks in tongue, and is only seen in the one's with dangerous and lustful fun
judy smith Mar 2016
Detective stories have been making a splash on European screens for the past decade. Some attract top-notch directors, actors and script writers. They are far superior to anything that appears over here -- whether on TV or from Hollywood. Part of the impetus has come from the remarkable Italian series Montelbano, the name of a Sicilian commissario in Ragusa (Vigata)who was first featured in the skillfully crafted novellas of Andrea Camilleri.

Italians remain in the forefront of the genre as Montelbano was followed by similar high class productions set in Bologna, Ferrara, Turino, Milano, Palermo and Roma. A few are placed in evocative historical context. The French follow close behind with a rich variety of series ranging from a revived Maigret circa 2004(Bruno Cremer) and Frank Riva (Alain Delon) to the gritty Blood On The Docks (Le Havre) and the refined dramatizations of other Simenon tales. Others have jumped in: Austria, Germany (several) and all the Scandinavians. The former, Anatomy of Evil, offers us a dark yet riveting set of mysteries featuring a taciturn middle-aged police psychiatrist. Germany'sgem, Homicide Unit -- Istanbul, has a cast of talented Turkish Germans who speak German in a vividly portrayed contemporary Istanbul. Shows from the last mentioned region tend to be dreary and the characters uni-dimensional, so will receive short shrift in these comments.

Most striking to an American viewer are the strange mores and customs of the local protagonists compared to their counterparts over here. So are the physical traits as well as the social contexts. Here are a few immediately noteworthy examples. Tattoos and ****** hardware are strangely absent -- even among the bad guys. Green or orange hair is equally out of sight. The former, I guess, are disfiguring. The latter types are too crude for the sophisticated plots. European salons also seem unable to produce that commonplace style of artificial blond hair parted by a conspicuous streak of dark brown roots so favored by news anchors, talk show howlers and other female luminaries. Jeans, of course, are universal -- and usually filled in comely fashion. It's what people do in them (or out of them) that stands out.

First, almost no workout routines -- or animated talk about them. Nautilus? Nordic Track? Yoga pants? From roughly 50 programs, I can recall only one, in fact -- a rather humorous scene in an Istanbul health club that doubles as a drug depot. There is a bit of jogging, just a bit -- none in Italy. The Italians do do some swimming (Montalbano) and are pictured hauling cases of wine up steep cellar stairs with uncanny frequency. Kale appears nowhere on the menu; and vegan or gluten are words unspoken. Speaking of food, almost all of these characters actually sit down to eat lunch, albeit the main protagonist tends to lose an appetite when on the heels of a particularly elusive villain. Oblique references to cholesterol levels occur on but two occasions. Those omnipresent little containers of yoghurt are considered unworthy of camera time.

A few other features of contemporary American life are missing from the dialogue. I cannot recall the word "consultant' being uttered once. In the face of this amazing reality, one can only wonder how ****-kid 21 year old graduates from elite European universities manage to get that first critical foothold on the ladder of financial excess. Something else is lacking in the organizational culture of police departments, high-powered real estate operations, environmental NGOs or law firms: formal evaluations. In those retro environments, it all turns on long-standing personal ties, budgetary appropriations and actual accomplishment -- not graded memo writing skills. Moreover, the abrupt firing of professionals is a surprising rarity. No wonder Europe is lagging so far behind in the league table of billionaires produced annually and on-the-job suicides

Then, there is that staple of all American conversation -- real estate prices. They crop up very rarely -- and then only when retirement is the subject. Admittedly, that is a pretty boring subject for a tense crime drama -- however compelling it is for academics, investors, lawyers and doctors over here. Still, it fits a pattern.

None of the main characters devotes time to soliciting offers from other institutions -- be they universities, elite police units in a different city, insurance companies, banks, or architectural firms. They are peculiarly rooted where they are. In the U.S., professionals are constantly on the look-out for some prospective employer who will make them an attractive offer. That offer is then taken to their current institution along with the demand that it be matched or they'll be packing their bags. Most of the time, it makes little difference if that "offer" is from College Station, Texas or La Jolla, California. That doesn't occur in the programs that I've viewed. No one is driven to abandon colleagues, friends, a comfortable home and favorite restaurants for the hope of upward mobility. What a touching, if archaic way of viewing life.

The pedigree of actors help make all this credible. For example, the classiest female leads are a "Turk" (Idil Uner) who in real life studied voice in Berlin for 17 years and a transplanted Russo-Italian (Natasha Stephanenko) whose father was a nuclear physicist at a secret facility in the Urals. Each has a parallel non-acting career in the arts. It shows.

After viewing the first dozen or so mysteries of diverse nationality, an American viewer begins to feel an unease creeping up on him. Something is amiss; something awry; something missing. Where are those little bottles of natural water that are ubiquitous in the U.S? The ones with the ****** tip. Meetings of all sorts are held without their comforting presence. Receptionists -- glamorous or unglamorous alike -- make do without them. Heat tormented Sicilians seem immune to the temptation. Cyclists don't stick them in handlebar holders. Even stray teenagers and university students are lacking their company. Uneasiness gives way to a sensation of dread. For European civilization looks to be on the brink of extinction due to mass dehydration.

That's a pity. Any society where cityscapes are not cluttered with SUVs deserves to survive as a reserve of sanity on that score at least. It also allows for car chases through the crooked, cobbled streets of old towns unobstructed by herds of Yukons and Outbacks on the prowl for a double parking space. Bonus: Montelbano's unwashed Fiat has been missing a right front hubcap for 4 years (just like my car). To meet Hollywood standards for car chases he'd have to borrow Ingrid's red Maserati.

Social ******* reveals a number of even more bizarre phenomena. In conversation, above all. Volume is several decibels below what it is on American TV shows and in our society. It is not necessary to grab the remote to drop sound levels down into the 20s in order to avoid irreparable hearing damage. Nor is one afflicted by those piercing, high-pitched voices that can cut through 3 inches of solid steel. All manner of intelligible conversations are held in restaurants, cafes and other public places. Most incomprehensible are the moments of silence. Some last for up to a minute while the mind contemplates an intellectual puzzle or complex emotions. Such extreme behavior does crop up occasionally in shows or films over here -- but invariably followed by a diagnosis of concealed autism which provides the dramatic theme for the rest of the episode.

Tragedy is more common, and takes more subtle forms in these European dramatizations. Certainly, America has long since departed from the standard formula of happy endings. Over there, tragic endings are not only varied -- they include forms of tragedy that do not end in death or violence. The Sicilian series stands out in this respect.

As to violence, there is a fair amount as only could be expected in detective series. Not everyone can be killed decorously by slow arsenic poisoning. So there is some blood and gore. But there is no visual lingering on either the acts themselves or their grisly aftermaths. People bleed -- but without geysers of blood or minutes fixed on its portentous dripping. Violence is part of life -- not to be denied, not to be magnified as an object of occult fascination. The same with ****** abuse and *******.

Finally, it surprises an American to see how little the Europeans portrayed in these stories care about us. We tend to assume that the entire world is obsessed by the United States. True, our pop culture is everywhere. Relatives from 'over there' do make an occasional appearance -- especially in Italian shows. However, unlike their leaders who give the impression that they can't take an unscheduled leak without first checking with the White House or National Security Council in Washington, these characters manage quite nicely to handle their lives in their own way on their own terms.

Anyone who lives on the Continent or spends a lot of time there off the tourist circuit knows all this. The image presented by TV dramas may have the effect of exaggerating the differences with the U.S. That is not their intention, though. Moreover, isn't the purpose of art to force us to see things that otherwise may not be obvious?Read more at: |
Ally Jul 2015
Feelings of panic, fear, and uneasiness
Problems sleeping
•Cold or sweaty hands and/or feet
Shortness of breath
Heart palpitations
An inability to be still and calm
•Dry mouth
•Numbness or tingling in the hands or feet
•Muscle tension
The words in *italics* apply to me
Luke Kerzich Apr 2017
Death surrounds both options
Your only chance is to wait
To stay where you’re at
Or you’ll never come back
To seal your ultimate fate

They cannot see your true self
With that mask of yours
You use it to hide, for your health
But some see through, that is sure

You will not die for you will hide
But yet they try but cannot find
The answers to why there is nothing here for them

A constant need
From multiple directions
What you can see
Does not have affection

You hallucinate
Smoke figures only dissipate
They are not who come for you
But something else is lurking too

The constant doubt and uneasiness
Is driving you with cowardice
The monsters within are waiting
To attack, and leave you quaking

Your purpose is to distract
Before your fears attack
And make it through the night
Without a surfacing fright

A light tries to guide your way
You shall not be led astray
The fears within are still around
What’s more is they surround

They approach from different angles
Screaming, biting, harming devils
You cannot see what’s killing you
Until the killing’s done and you are too

The stress of fear
The stress of panic
The stress of dread
The stress of terror

Stress is out to get you
And it’s coming quickly too
So prepare for stress
With all your best
Or, then you won’t get through
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
“The Mass is ended,
go in peace.”
the aged cleric said.
“Thanks be to God”
said some dozen odd
who then fled.

The Priest dismissed
his server.
and had turned himself to
when he noticed still
one worshiper
kneeling in the seventh row.
She was an older woman,
her head swathed in
a blue scarf.
She was obviously in devotion
before the Sacred Heart.

He thought:
“There is no need to rush”
He shuffled towards the chair.
which is where the Bishop sits
when attending service there.

The aging cleric said a prayer
for the gracious soul’s repose
whose generosity provided
his vestments and his robes.

He next prayed for his friend,
a priest, who’d grown too fond of wine.
He’s consecrating grape juice now
the non alcoholic kind.

He thought:
“it now is getting well past time
I need to lock the doors.”
His urban church had been vandalized
a scant few months before.

He rose up on his arthritic hip
and didn’t cry in pain
He accepted this, his suffering,
in Jesus’ holy name.

As he approached the woman,
Her head bowed as before
He had a vague uneasiness
He experienced fear and awe
She looked up then and he said
and fell, senseless, on the floor.

His housekeeper found his body
on the floor of fitted stone.
The police found no evidence of foul play,
The priest had died alone.
The M.E. said the heart had failed
Though not from shock or rage
The Lord had called his servant home
to grace a grander stage.
A short story rendered in narrative verse

— The End —