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Nat Apr 2013
I am the
SAME
as you

I work in your community
I live in your world
I contribute
(too much)
to Capitalism
by frequenting your local stores
and buying
WAY
more items than
I need

I vote for your President
your Congress
your Governor,
I participate in politics because
I care
about the way
our world
functions.

And yet I'm not equal
I'm not "the same."

As if any of us even know what being
"the same"
means anymore

When I dated men you
ALL
applauded me, praised me

Even when I dated total
*******
people said,

"Well you're just too good for him.
But you're such a great person for
being able to see past his
'rough' exterior"

I saw past
SO MANY
'rough exteriors'

And I was miserable
And I forced myself to
PRETEND
to be happy.
And loved
And love-ING.

But then
SHE
walked into my life.

SHE
had been there for awhile,
but I shoved the feelings to the side
because they're
NOT RIGHT

NOT
acceptable

NOT
real

NOT
important

Be with a man they say.
And I followed their rules.

Which lead to alcoholism
drugs
depression
suicide after suicide after suicide,
never
accomplished.

Which reinforced the fact that
my life would be full of
Failure.

And then came the kiss
(when my lips met her perfect lips)
that opened my eyes,
and changed my life.

Now, I may be
Unequal
Rejected
Frowned upon

BUT

There is no frown upon
my face.

For my world is
Complete
Authetic
Rewarding
Real

And I wouldn't change that
to cultivate the appearance of
Equal.
Firefly Jan 2016
A forgotten poem by Henry Brooke ( Irish Dramatist/Novelist)

Taken from poetrynook.com http://www.poetrynook.com/poem/universal-beauty-book-3-lines-301%C3%B4%C3%A7%C3%B4400

Or cool recess of odoriferous shade,
And fan the peasant in the panting glade;
Or lace the coverture of painted bower,
While from the enamell'd roof the sweet profusions shower.
Here duplicate, the range divides beneath,
Above united in a mantling wreath;
With continuity protracts delight,
Imbrown'd in umbrage of ambiguous night;
Perspicuous the vista charms our eye,
And opens, Janus like, to either sky;
Or stills attention to the feather'd song,
While echo doubles from the warbling throng.

Here, winding to the sun's magnetic ray,
The solar plants adore the lord of day,
With Persian rites idolatrous incline,
And worship towards his consecrated shrine;
By south from east to west obsequious turn,
And moved with sympathetic ardours burn.
To these adverse, the lunar sects dissent,
With convolution of opposed bent;
From west to east by equal influence tend,
And towards the moon's attractive crescence bend;
There, nightly worship with Sidonian zeal,
And queen of heaven Astarte's idol hail.

" O Nature , whom the song aspires to scan!
" O B EAUTY , trod by proud insulting man,
" This boasted tyrant of thy wondrous ball,
" This mighty, haughty, little lord of all;
" This king o'er reason, but this slave to sense,
" Of wisdom careless, but of whim immense;
" Towards T HEE ! incurious, ignorant, profane,
" But of his own, dear, strange, productions vain!
" Then, with this champion let the field be fought,
" And nature's simplest arts 'gainst human wisdom brought:
" Let elegance and bounty here unite —
" There kings beneficent, and courts polite;
" Here nature's wealth — there chymist's golden dreams;
" Her texture here — and there the statesman's schemes;
" Conspicuous here let Sacred Truth appear —
" The courtier's word, and lordling's honour there;
" Here native sweets in boon profusion flow —
" There smells that scented nothing of a beau;
" Let justice here unequal combat wage —
" Nor poise the judgment of the law-learn'd sage;
" Tho' all-proportion'd with exactest skill,
" Yet gay as woman's wish, and various as her will. "

O say, ye pitied, envied, wretched great,
Who veil pernicion with the mask of state!
Whence are those domes that reach the mocking skies,
And vainly emulous of nature rise?
Behold the swain projected o'er the vale!
See slumbering peace his rural eyelids seal;
Earth's flowery lap supports his vacant head;
Beneath his limbs her broider'd garment's spread;
Aloft her elegant pavilion bends,
And living shade of vegetation lends,
With ever propagated bounty blest,
And hospitably spread for every guest:
No tinsel here adorns a taudry woof,
Nor lying wash besmears a varnish'd roof;
With native mode the vivid colours shine,
And heaven's own loom has wrought the weft divine,
Where art veils art; and beauties beauties close,
While central grace diffused throughout the system flows.
The fibres, matchless by expressive line,
Arachne's cable, or aetherial twine,
Continuous, with direct ascension rise,
And lift the trunk, to prop the neighbouring skies.
Collateral tubes with respiration play,
And winding in aerial mazes stray.
These as the woof, while warping, and athwart
The exterior cortical insertions dart
Transverse, with cone of equidistant rays,
Whose geometric form the F ORMING H AND displays.
Recluse, the interior sap and vapour dwells
In nice transparence of minutest cells;
From whence, thro' pores or transmigrating veins
Sublimed the liquid correspondence drains,
Their pithy mansions quit, the neighbouring chuse,
And subtile thro' the adjacent pouches ooze;
Refined, expansive, or regressive pass,
Transmitted thro' the horizontal mass;
Compress'd the lignous fibres now assail,
And entering thence the essential sap exhale;
Or lively with effusive vigour spring,
And form the circle of the annual ring,
The branch implicit of embowering trees,
And foliage whispering to the vernal breeze;
While Zephyr tuned, with gentle cadence blows,
And lull'd to rest consenting eyelids close.
Ah! how unlike those sad imperial beds,
Which care within the gorgeous prison spreads;
Where tedious nights are sunk in sleepless down,
And pillows vainly soft, to ease the thorny crown!

Nor blush thou rose, tho' bashful thy array,
Transplanted chaste within the raptured lay;
Thro' every bush, and warbled spray we sing,
And with the linnet gratulate the spring;
Sweep o'er the lawn, or revel on the plain,
Or gaze the florid, or the fragrant scene;
I know its haughty, but please read!:) its one of my favorites!
aviisevil Jan 2014
Wish someone had told me ,
That I would've  known
Life is so beautiful
And i wouldn't be left alone

All those scars will fade away
All the pain would be gone
I wish someone had told me
Wish I had known

at times when I thought I was weak
Well those moments made me strong
Wish ,Someone had told that 'freak'
A moment you lived is a moment gone

that self-harm was stupid
Even though it felt so real
Concentrating on just the pain
Never figuring out what we really feel

That the wounds will heal
For a purpose I was born
And it's not the weight of the world I bear
Just my own

And no one was to be blamed
For the emotional wreck I turned out to be
You shouldn't forget the world for a name
And be so blind that others can't see

All those nights spent crying and cutting
It all looks so point-less
What the **** was I  mad about ?
I haven't  even seen the world yet

That I loved too soon
And learned too late
True love is pure
sometimes one has to wait

That losing someone is a part of life
You have to take that in stride
It'll all make sense after a while
To have patience and not act vile

That the haters will hate without a name
To be yourself there's no shame
Hate and love is part of the game
Few words cause no harm , one shouldn't feel stained

You will find what you seek
If you don't , you didn't try hard enough
That life can be cruel at times , unequal and rough

But you 'gotta take things head-on
You have to be that strong
In Admitting your defeat once in a while
There's nothing wrong

That life can be like weather
At times sunshine , sometimes rain
And even if life knocks you down
It shows you the way to rise again

Wish someone had told me ,
That I would've  known
Life is so beautiful
And i wouldn't be left alone
raðljóst Sep 2013
i'm in love with a boy
but i change my pronouns to say that
i love her
because of the ones who cannot do so.
because of the lovers who have to hide.
because of the injustice people have done to people.
we are all equal in birth, but live in an unequal society.
i am simply another girl who loves a boy.
no questions asked.
no awkward glances, no stiff hands to shake.
no glares, no whispers.
because i'm privileged enough
to be on the side of love that someone deemed
acceptable.
and because i don't agree with having to pick and choose who you get to love
based on their possession of particular parts.
you love someone for their energy, their personality.
the way they hold you in the night.
the trust you share, the bonds you make.
you love them because you are you and they are they.
she loves her.
he loves him.
she loves him.
he loves her.
or her. or him.
the pronouns
should not
seem odd
to us.
but our society majorly consists of
gritted teeth and
disapproving eyes.
and because of this,
because i love someone
of the opposite gender,
and because i do not
suffer from any hate,
i will quietly fight
the cookie-cutter
for you
with pronouns
and poems.
I'm bisexual, but people assume I'm straight because I'm with a guy.
So okay, I'll take on that role and give the perspective of a straight person who knows how LGBT people must feel and who wants them to get to experience love like I do. Openly. With acceptance. Scream it to the world and no one says a ******* thing against it.
Because your love is the same as my love.
Because your love means as much to you as it does to any straight couple.
Because your love is as pure as mine. As pure as you want it to be. As golden as your heart can possibly shine, and baby, you'll shine on.

I read an older poem and then wrote this. It's not super-good and it doesn't do what I was thinking justice, but whatever, it's really late and at least I got the words out, somewhat.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/something-incredible/
Because unfortunately right now we're not quite there yet.
Because we should be there now.


We all deserve this.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2024
“a decade old is forever new, for
truth is never old.”
Pradip Chattopadhyay 


this man, ten years of inspiration, ten years of friendship, here,
on HP,
provides nourishment to my lagging body as it nears eight decades
of Earthly occupation, for
his eyes and heart and his mastery
of the songs of the tongue,
have wrenched me straight,
we, attentive to the tears
he makes me weep, for his insights penetrate my insides,

even now as one, unexpectedly, reflects midst
yet another first poem of the day, my eyelids blink away
the wet,
my brain revels at his pithy, how he corrals,
encapsulates the daily smoke and fire of life,
it truest value,
in words that make one wonder,

what admixture of mineral, chemical, history,
adventures, atmosphere, parentage, spices,
love gives him these super powers to gentle
seize the moment, size our souls, causing my
cheeks to wide smile, while mine eyes sheds
monsoon droplets of feelings so deep, that
my repaired heart oxygenates my very soul,
making me high, my mind reels that a day will
come inevitable
that one of us will be unable to sit by side,
swapping tales of granddaughters, and
other earth meaningful events, to walk his
streets or he, mine, finishing each other’s
couplets.

to think that I awoke with no intention of
composing this paean, but his brief pearl
knocks my head side to side,
and with the
tears, come words,
that age, or an entire
decade,
cannot restrain,
retrained to modesty,
for regarding my friend
Pradip,

my boundaries expand and cannot be
contained, even by my delimited vocabulary,
the paucity of my skill, the insufficiency of
the adjectives acquired over a lifetime, but
do my unequal-to-the-task best efforts,
but without choice, but compulsed, compelled,
one more time, to say,
to my new day,
perhaps my last,
I love this poet~man.
this is one of my truths.
<>
Wed Jan 17 8:31am
City of New York

<>

read the poetry of
https://hellopoetry.com/pradip-chattopadhyay/
<>
truth is never old.” Pradip Chattopadhyay  lipstadt
Negra Jan 2016
I dressed up for a wedding that day.
We drove far to get there.
The wedding wasn't for me
But I felt like I was getting married
Because when you are free
I feel free.
They say preparing for a wedding is stressful
But you never had a crack in your smile.
I was born here
So by default I was already apart of the family
Kind of.
More like the sixth removed cousin that everyone forgot.
But I'm still a citizen
I get to eat some good toast at the table sometimes.
Yours was a bit burnt but you still ate it as if it was French toast.
You made me think I had pancakes and vanilla froyo everyday.
But when I truly feasted it was at your reception.
You said I do to America
Along with other brides and grooms.
And in that moment I felt full with love that tasted sweeter than that invisible vanilla froyo I never had.
I think we all were in love that day.
We were equally unequal with everyone in that room.
Maybe the one you married didn't actually love you in that moment
But I heard these arranged marriages are like boiling water
So perhaps it will grow over time.
I'm not sure but how could anyone not love you?
Congratulations on your citizenship mom
He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll’d,
And he who struck the softer lyre of Love,
By Death’s unequal hand alike controul’d,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
We have a single nightstand
It is a good, solid nightstand
It has a lamp that gives just enough light
And the surface holds just enough things

We talk about having another nightstand
You know, so maybe we can expand
He agrees that, yes, maybe it'd be good to have another nightstand
We part thinking having a second nightstand is the plan

It'd be brighter
And there would be space to unpack more things
A single nightstand is good
But not enough for two people, it is unequal in the service it brings

I wait to hear his thoughts for the second nightstand
And I keep waiting, starting to question his intent;
But no, he knows. And besides, he said he wanted the second nightstand
And there was no reason to lie about how he felt

I think of reminding him about the second nightstand
You know, the one that would give us just enough room to expand
But turns out that wasn't actually his plan
And all he wanted was the one night stand.
Dark Jewel Aug 2014
My life is equalized,
By the way it burns.

My mind shifts,
Beside soul.
Thy various works, imperial queen, we see,
    How bright their forms! how deck’d with pomp by thee!
Thy wond’rous acts in beauteous order stand,
And all attest how potent is thine hand.

    From Helicon’s refulgent heights attend,
Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:
To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,
Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.

    Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,
Till some lov’d object strikes her wand’ring eyes,
Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,
And soft captivity involves the mind.

    Imagination! who can sing thy force?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?
Soaring through air to find the bright abode,
Th’ empyreal palace of the thund’ring God,
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
And leave the rolling universe behind:
>From star to star the mental optics rove,
Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
Or with new worlds amaze th’ unbounded soul.

    Though Winter frowns to Fancy’s raptur’d eyes
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;
The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
And bid their waters murmur o’er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
And with her flow’ry riches deck the plain;
Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,
And all the forest may with leaves be crown’d:
Show’rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.

    Such is thy pow’r, nor are thine orders vain,
O thou the leader of the mental train:
In full perfection all thy works are wrought,
And thine the sceptre o’er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,
Of subject-passions sov’reign ruler thou;
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.

    Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th’ expanse on high:
>From Tithon’s bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,
While a pure stream of light o’erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold,
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy’s flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.
Sonja Eliason May 2012
She doesn’t like perfection.
Says it tastes like McDonald’s iced tea-
Sickly sweet and artificial.
That it looks like an over-starched shirt
worn by someone who hopes a professional appearance
will make up for their obvious lack
of preparation.
She doesn’t like going outside on cloudless days.
Apparently it’s like being caged
In a massive bubble.
She hates completely matched outfits,
because there are more important things
to waste time on.
She wears rain boots at the beach,
and flip flops in the rain.
She makes her sandwiches with the ends of the loaf
and makes sure to have an unequal ratio
of peanut butter to jelly.
She walks barefoot to dances,
and only wears makeup
when she’s not going out.
When I asked her why,
Why she didn’t like perfection,
She laughed upwards,
at the perfectly cloudless sky.
“Perfect,”
she said,
“has been done
too many times before.”
Kon Grin Sep 2019
Razored by torrential feelings
Fried between the scorch and sand
Bleeding, willing
To at last prosper in home land

I find a creature speaking seemingly the English
Though im the one who’s teaching her so what’s the deal
A form encompassing the all within the all
A pitch between eternity and null

A sweet delight she’s at
As I am circling her around my head
In thought i have to hide
Even from myself
Im willing not to catch up in the tide

September 19 - 2 years we met
as I was standing by the door
4 eyes and one realization
9, 4 and school

You’re sun, sunflower and a bear
You’re a bracelette id wear
For the rest of my
Life and I
Want you to know
I kinda love you,
So

Wont you please
Please wait
Until the “1 and 2,
Oh oh and 2, too oh and double two”
So I would do
Do anything at all
Not fearing hearing a reproach.≠
bbbennie and the jets
06-09-2019
Bethan Davies Apr 2016
I am a feminist.
Does that mean I'm the
radical relentless woman determined
to ruin the rule of the man?
Or am I the sweet, soft lass
striving to impress my sweetheart,
because we all know that ‘confidence is ****’?

I am a feminist.
Even though my friends have told me
“I’ve never felt unequal to men”
And the raging facebook comments
on the history of how women are inferior
and men cannot be *****.
Because their opinions cannot be right.

I am a feminist.
When I was 15 I thought I was wrong
for liking menswear, and still wearing skirts.
I was told that if you were assaulted
the culprit could never be caught
because their word speaks louder than yours.

I am a feminist.
When the UK statistics say
that nearly a quarter of men do not think consent is important
and thousands are sacked for just being pregnant.
We are bombarded
by the expectations of looking good
because now your eyebrows your greatest trait.
I performed this on my youtube channel if you want to check it out!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t48npaGsqQY
twig, plastic, wire
laboriously gathered
woven into a basket
with leaves as carpet
where sits the queen
for life to be ushered in.

raises fearful cry
if anyone is nearby
must thwart the enemy
with belligerent cacophony
circle over head to say
stay away.

takes not a minute
to uproot it
falls to the human might
in an unequal fight
between the highly placed
and not so blessed.

then like always
fills uneasiness
a dull ache in the chest
for a sin in haste

a shot of gun
that cannot be undone.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2023
met my maker

not for the first time,
two acquaintances periodical,
two boon craftsmen, artisansals,
bs-gab-talking about who is surely
the better poet, glinting, side-splitting,
raucous laughter in our dueling self-mockery


neither takes the other too serious,
but of each other, we take endless,
never satisfied, insufficient, each needier
for the rapper inside and repartee, adoring
our jiving unique camaraderie, all-the-while,
knowing our balance unequal, but not caring


for as equals we meet, to revel and reflect,
revealing things of each other that only we
know, meant not for sharing ever, for these
webbed strands binding, at same time, release,
permitting a tough honesty tally, truth not a concept,
unnecessary, for how could we ever hide our love mutuel


we sitting bestride and beside, in ye old, weather-beat-down
chairs Adirondack, having come hewn from trees centuries old,
now overlooking the Bay, we eyeing a solitary fisherman whom,
we both knowingly aware, metaphor for that day that will come
to collect me away to a new locale, where we will yet still needle
each other, with mercy unforgiving, not for our misdeeds, for never


is forgivenessasked for or given, not taboo, but
holy unnecessary for such is the way the between the
designer and the artifact, the poet and the poem, the craft
and the object, gardener and her fruits, a cellular understanding
that comprehends the interlocking necessity of our natures, that our
shared endings, are a duelity, both finale and gateway to our next poem!





https://hellopoetry.com/poem/462537/how-i-observed-the-day-of-atonement/
10:57 AM THU JUN 29
@you-know-where

the bay has an Algonquin name, and Adirondack  is derived from an Iroquois word meaning “eater of tree bark,” a derisive term bestowed by them upon a neighboring Algonquin tribe.
Steve D'Beard Sep 2014
I woke up to the pious sunlight of broken dreams
drenched in the faded tear drops of yesterday
arcing like a broken rainbow down empty streets
leading to the septic tank of tomorrow.

Resplendently dressed in rhetoric
silk woven by congenial weevils
frantically fed on gypsum and diesel
weaving verbosity with loquacity
table a motion to make independence illegal;
keep the status quo unequal between certain people.

There once was a dream called change
proclaimed to be the prize of revolution by some
restrained and contained as hyperbole by others
the disenfranchised left muddled in facts unexplained
the vocal ambivalence of political unrest is to blame
as Union Jacks march on Glasgow with steel toe-capped boots
and in the George Square riots the Saltire burns in flames
as history repeats itself
and the thistle of Scotland is ripped by her roots
the first act as a welcome back
into the fold of the commonwealth .
A sad day in the history of Glasgow...
Bob Sterry Jul 2014
Scanning from the ground upward over my torso
Reveals an disturbing inventory of dysfunction
brachymetatarsia, in both feet!
Unequal leg length
Reconditioned knees
Atrophied right quadriceps
Hernia Scar
L4 & L5 Vertebrae way too chummy
Are these *******?
Are these jowls?
Gum recession
Moderate gastro intestinal reflux
Three diopter challenge in both eyes
Dermatochelassis, left and right
Scintillating scotoma
Male pattern baldness – rear solar panel developing.
And yet when asked
I reply, Oh, I’m fine! I’m fine.
And you, and you, still love me.
Julian Sep 2020
DISCLAIMER: READ THE WHOLE THING IT IS MUCH MORE GENIUS TOWARDS THE END



Bypass the circumlocutions of elementary rhetoric and the obvious bulges into the ethereal realm of supersolid supercalendar emigrations of the wednongues of vogue emigrating into a new frontier of boundless awakening that blisters the sore solid metaphors of a crumbled bricolage of articulate history becoming a reiterative gabble of entropy that curdles the blood-boiling hatred of those envious of those that capitalize on the true girth rather than the flaccid otiose etymology of differential physics becoming a denatured figment of prideful imagination on a frolic with desuetude in the normalization of the wernaggles of ewnastique that defile the ridicule of even the most astute aspirations of those that despise history rather than reveling in its subtle ironies that swelter in connotation rather than suborn the cadged bridewells of those that are estranged by the Dousk Remix rather than the Voulez-Vouz Danser populism of true urbacity expanded upon a national stage as an anthem not for profligate saturnalia but rather an ode to the odium of the reckless titanism of titanic intellects clashing with the dudgeons of intermittent eye-rolling irreverence double-dealing a stacked deck of pleckigger on an intellectual stagecraft for bandwagon apostasy that leads to solidarity among tentative allegiance. We barnstorm for a grift in the grimace of an alpenglow winter to lead to the salvation of all people united under the banner of neat nexility rather than long-winded elocution reserved only for notched caliber against the nativist diatribe that serves the subservience of the engineer of the white chattel indoctrinated into turnstiles of professed irreverence for demarches of solidarity that is gainsay for gain rather than pittances for pitfall. Rhetoric should be duly curtailed against the overcomplication of hypertrophy and trimmed into the sweet success not of saccharine fads of foofaraw but engineered resistance that galvanizes albatross intellectualism into a revved engine without purpose that mobilizes because of estranged impotence in the revelry of the subtle rather than the cordial tethers of emergent entelechy of the esemplastic orthobiosis that we should all strive for not just as pioneers of the socially engineered harbingers of a remedial society but also for the trendsetters that communicate with the canvass and the celluloid rather than spelunking dormitage of drifted anomaly perceptible to everyone but heralded as prominent by the rigged ambeer of a toxicity of a plumage of city over state and country over planet. We need to provide the verdure of the verdant forest that survives the conflagrations of rage indoctrinated by systematic attempts at stilted ignorance that is engendered more by Leftism than Right-Wing thinkers because in general when observed in organic settings we notice that the Right-Wing escapes the sloganeered jaundice of limited bounds for otherwise boundless thought and provides more seminal pathways that reconcile normative virtues with entrenched inveterate harbingers of economic success. The faulty deadstocks that propel the retinoise of the anomaly among Leftism to disregard the girouettism of a world that is so piebald with dishonesty that it elects a patronage that seethes with passion but aimless in its curiosity for deeper embedded candor because the popular might count themselves among the aristocratic Left but the truly Promethean belong to a centrist tribe that borrows the ingenuity of spurned but never spurious interpretations of a sputtered history that remarks with revelry  rather than disdains with #CancelCulture irreverence that seeks to deracinate all context for insipid utopianism that is a shared prerogative of the delusional Left against their complaints of Sebastomania among right-wing zealots that are equally invalidated by the frogmarch of a dilettante history curbed in storms of a pure tempest rather than a banal reiteration of novelty phrased with participant intonation rather than blathers of whispered arbitrage ennobled by hypocrisy immune to criticism among those that crusade for economic justice without understanding formal flombricks of the true gnomic riddles of alchemy fundamental to global panoramic pleonasms becoming the aleatory vagary of admonished warning that spars against spartanism. Instead of pilfering from the exorbitant defalcation of immunized partisan bromides against the ratcheted warranty upon defective obsolescence we must coalesce around the imperious ****** of divinity bequeathing the living water of a fully-lived life that qualifies its felicity not by junctures but by an overall harmony that conforms to the finicky demands of an overly polarized complexion of dimpled conformity founded on girouettism that earns more traction than the deasil sundial emergence of brimstone rejection for alabaster limelight we must urge others to ditch the conformist utilitarian usucaption of the usufruct of manipulative sports for domineering talents suborned into inclement straits because of unwitting albatross that replicates into a fission of uniformity encapsulated in the half-assed witticisms of attempted belletrist succeeding only in alienating the noxious fumes of alveolate diminutive reduction rather than expansive detritus that scrapes the wreckage of a turmoil to build masterworks out of broken sculptures themselves indemnified from a categorical judgment by the panoramic oversight of proctored civilized ambition. We need to exhort self-education that hinges upon not a listless acquiescence to a second-exit impulsive barnacle to the urchins of brimstone because of an insipid blather of flapdoons of brittle banality because the hackencrude is an outmoded entity to the vast resources of the sizable capital of the growing power of the intelligentsia over the weakened grasp and wrangle of terminus meeting consuetude weakly enough with pleasantry to appease but ultimately a complete witwanton persiflage of sizzled destruction rather than the savory contemplation of the cotqueans of majesty derided but never derailed by terminal revivals because the generativity of the titanic original might not be a popular indoctrination but the liberated thought of the untethered is ultimately more decisive in world affairs than the synergistic hive of bees building an imperious defense against dynasty built only upon provincial hatred of hidebound illiteracy combustible into the brazen bravado of a reckless intrepid effrontery against civilized chains into the ******* of complicit interconnection rather than dissolved dissolutions that solve global problems more fundamentally rather than driving through avenues of wide pressures gilded with expansive growth but ultimately bereaved by the ultimate succor of the youthful exuberance of captive audiences rather than the wily connivance of genius unbounded. God is obviously a benevolent provider of all bounties and despite the conspiracies that predicate heterodoxy the uniform mannequin of a mascot Democracy ultimately becomes a fickle bandwagon allegiance to relationship rather than a true witness to authentic ******* to a subservient relationship to a creative God synergized with energies that should exceed all galloped windlass into demarche and expose rather than rundles of ridicule interminable because of the permanence of kitsch memorial rather than living sculpture that breathes a swiveled light that beckons preened self-accountable responsibility to a dutiful matriotic duty of optimism rather than a contrarian futility of those that despise the unequal suave crackjaw dementia of the temulentia of derangement among crowds that provide fewer bounties and more deprivations calculated to indenture need rather than motivate want. We must motivate want by fueling ambition rather than quelling dissent in defensive posture because that strategy of antinomian discord is a dead-end street against an inveterate enmity that can never be fully deposed but only opposed with nominal futility raging with violence rather than seething with the motivation to reform because reform is an efficacy mobilized. Novelty of wednongue propriety grown through the heirs of drastic impertinence gilded from the siphon of lavadero hypogeiody blasphemous in bletonism that guards a piebald scrivelo because the sought dementia of an overwrought alacrity is a purpose without a terminus but an ambition soaring through scraped ice cream stratosphere that marvels at the minutiae of the civilized anthill that becomes a beehive of industry when the rationale of moral reform becomes insuperable rather than suborned into effete recursive cycles of pittances of pitfalls obsessively pondered but never solved because the fustilugianation of a forever tampered travesty is the esemplastic rejection of a categorical aim that leans of windlasses of elegance that surpass the levy of hatred and achieve sizable filagersion to squirm above the squawk upon populace rather than the consternation of an urbane but cloistered metropolitan arrogance contravened by the historical emergence of happenstance locales fostering the most well-guarded treasures of bohemian pedigree rather than dimpled resolve faffling on ergasia in bromidrosis rather than cavorting with a skeptical indoctrination by default evaded by those that equate an improbable scenario with a definitive solution to acatalepsy quandary because by reckoning with indeterminacy we grow in historical lineaments and solve global detritus by recycling the rattled brevity of promontory preens of plumage into a recursive ostentation defalcating heavily from sturdy macroeconomic proofs of the trendsetter rather than the trend and therefore grapple with profound personalized disdain rather than cordial harmony. Essentially by the logical positivism of proof we remind ourselves that obviously a chattering blather swims in tentative irony as long as it is a penultimate relativity because the lack of capstone ensures that the relevant treads beneath the mountain of rapprochement in benign endeavors to survive and thrive in definitive conclusion rather than intermediary conclusions of amnesia in jaundice. By the gnomic apothegms that guard the fortress of the demassified we have quantulated that the preposition of continuance is in fact a guarantee of the fickle supremacy of the recent and even more preponderantly the supremacy of expectancy of latent junctures that never manifest becoming a dictatorial rule of driven alacrity of wastrels that should fast from conclusive opinion and rather favor the primordial fabric of the inveterate truths rounded by the conversion of alchemy solidified by calculated canon converging with esoteric apartheid against the simultagnosia of the simpleton drivel of primordial myths bowdlerized from history neither lewd nor depraved but moribund because of the conclusive ****** of a peremptory intermediary certainty predicating a more precise foresight. The lackluster luster of numinous foghorn subliminal graft is a nativist confusion of legionnaire mettle swaddled by the cosseted grasp of interminable boundaries that demarcate linear time even when supersolid filigrees of elemental confusion erratically swerve into oblivion that becomes a forestalled happenstance so hapless that the connivance of alveolate synergies necessarily precludes event from becoming indelible because the tentative judgment wallops the tributary incontinence of the warble of axiolative jaundice materialized by crystalline fabrication neutered by soundbyte sclerotic calculus inveterate in summations of conclusion only because of peremptory weights upon geometric certainties rather than logarithmic dampers of attenuation that spar against spartan priggish epithets upon the flamboyant grit of grisly specter of speculative sepulchral venal vanity. The timberlask cineaste irony of the partisan usucaption of sapwood is a pirated timber of startled alarm becoming a useful or useless cacophony of barnstorm for the deadstock of past cadasters of rigmarole in the docimasy of pretense in impartial circumstance in specialized oratory bounded by a hemmed bailiwick of verdure denatured by the flombricks of subtle persuasion that ignores minority fringes of opinion that occupy that majority that cowcatchers brush aside rather with cruel contemptuous unkempt slippery agenda for drivel that spawns ingeminated redoubled explosions in participle bias rather than conglomerate arraignment of arrayed brooked swamps turgid not with the pettier travesty but the charade of a brokered ceremonial calculation against the wrikpond spurious by degeneration into corruptible complicity that thrives in obscurantism but never obscurity when the omnified owns a capitalized swiftboat of never a temulentia but always an optimism in the curvature of lineaments into the self-educated shepherd of the ultimate autarky rather than insubordination in the scrappy schlep of demographic ripples of swift enrichment at great personal flops in the floppy disk of a Democratic enrichment rather than a parched rectiserial hidebound tome. A quirky time stanched by tomes of patricide against family ingratiated by parrots to anthem but lacking the lettered verve of ignoble but parsed parsecs of finite light captivated into prismatic conscience we launch the demerited ploys of foible into the heralded controversy rather than the unheralded mercenary hands behind dogmatic ripostes livid because of the suave prestidigitation of the sublime mastery of the syncopated irony of mismatch attuned to radical rhythm we become bloated slaves to a rich lineage decried widely in attempts of covert coup raxes of a largesse of continual primipara perversions of courted cotqueans of uxorious justice that by defalcating from tributary orthobiosis in specious conjecture esteemed by rattled martexts aspiring for fraternal solidarity with the ****** esteem masquerading as the auctioned flivver that the merchandise of fluminous optimism cannot be an effusive blanch of blarney bolstered by bumptious bromides of brunt blackmail but rather the artform of subterfuge needs the insidious and invidious traction of creepy Thriller subtlety to garner the vapid traction of immobilized discontent foster to malcontent rarely abridged by even the most polite courtesy of diplomacy because of inherently insatiable demand that it skulks in undetected quarters flexing in the shadowy penumbra of transparent crackjaw enigma becoming an obvious blister or a gabble of raw jaundice sweltering into thermolysis by the eventual convergence rather than the improbable divergence of fissile time beckoning its own flashy revolution while denaturing the very presence of delusion as a herald more of the authenticity of animadversion rather than the sclerotic carapace of ragged asphyxiation in the aplomb whisper entombed forever by milquetoast inefficacy in hypersensitivity rather than a flourished malfeasance of a predatory grip upon seizure among catatonic graves of incontinence braving tribulation for crucibles of the most prosodemic surgeries of the furtive froward recalcitrance of deliberation in ignominy that enables that transmogrified skyscraper of Titanic lies to become a sunken vessel of harbored prestige lost on penultimate dice rather than winning pokerish villiany. Essentially the jeer of Morel Under a Disco is a winning brandished authority to chug the capers of inscrutable difference in blandishment imposture to cavort with an elegant plot twist that enthralls abiding decay to revert into a primordial confidence of livelihood to deter the frogmarch of time into the despairing quagmires of a livid balkanization of a simultagnosia of ageotropic monoideism fomented on fervor that leads to the paralysis of privacy and the expedited furor of moribund depraved proclivity so that the offset of morale and rationale can outfit civilization to brave the tempests of cordial divisions cemented by courtesy in order to safeguard against the yeggs of paranoia seeking ultimately the craven caper of disillusioned subconsciously felt retraction of indelible deeds into evaporated constructs that vanish too quickly to spawn the vigor of a cadged and utilitarian expanse of reiterative generativity that sustains the spanned sapience of primordial alacrity to ensure that brevity in outlook becomes longevity in subsistence because without a logical positivism grounded in unshakable tenets of God the demoralization of the vast majority is ensured and entombed in aimless squalor that leads to sheepish temerity compounded by wistful latency in regretful regression rather than a spandex bluster of a bravado of obesity to weather the persnickety wednongues of perdurable badges of instinctual shame slandered into prima facie denatured transmogrified cultures seeking cosmogony out of ordinary bricolage because the eventful triage of the nimble eludes parochial sight while the vastly capable outfox and outpace with such frenetic verve that they fasten against accident and transcend against heterochrony in ridicule that the unseasonable but seminal sauce flavors better the partially indentured optimism of a curated matriotism better than it serves the obviously interminable cycle of listless demiurges of malcontent that fuel conflagration rather than reformation to their own remorseful peril. Thereby, it is obviously concluded that to micromanage a society you must exert the capacity of a selective magnetism obviously predicated on demassified capacities for oaths of gratitude to endear and endure in the humane heart for the majority that sway few but encounter many that they find proper scruple grounded on axiomatic God to sustain not a lifeless priggish inclination but a bounded felicity that is not a carapace of an indigenous and insidious decadence to the extent pursuits of happiness swelter among the marginalized majority bereaved in powerless squalor slave to temptation not to derelict fascination but to provide aim to aimlessness and predicate their worldviews not on Racial Identity Theory which postulates too many counterintuitive pessimisms that are essentially neutered fustilug predicates of a world that requires such drastic seismic reforms in societal dynamics that the earthquake capable of such a realignment would exceed a 10.5 on the Richter scale which is 32x more powerful than the biggest earthquake in recorded history that would be so catastrophic in its implicit implication of the pretense that the consummation of the theory achieves the traction necessary to jostle every crowd into alignment that the collateral damage would endanger the very integrity and vitality of the Republic itself while exerting a tremendous existential dread of radical permutation that enables many travesties that abnegate the prerogatives of a privileged society in search of a facetiously engineered impossible utopia that could only be achieved by a dictatorial authoritarianism working in concert with benumbed sloganeering to engineer pessimism and malcontent rather than nurture the fair-natured optimism of a society that flourishes because it assumes naturally that the universe conspires in the favor of prosperity. If any hint of casuistry is evident in these postulates I wouldn’t be surprised but for rhetorical sanctity it is necessary for a nation bereaved of national icons not to despise the captive imagination of tyrannical transparency but grow from the liberating and partially liberal parable of a life maximized in limber for romantic enthralled growth that heralds with due consideration the paragons of time with reverence rather than soundbyte enslavement of parochial interminable twinges of a newborn and widely shared collective guilt of a decisively antinomian and pessimistic view on the evolution of human societies beyond catchy kitsch verve nexilities of bravado mutilating thirsts for inclusive mandates that are Boa Constrictors prowling with serpentine vitriol to vastly over-represent extreme fringes to dissuade nuclear families in an overt ploy of depopulation because the truer pathway to liberation is one that feeds the hot hand in the casino and bets that the winners will always win by deregulating their ability to bet large sums because of a transcendent supersolid mastery of time that the march and demarche of a boundless prosperity gouged by the fair demands of egalitarianism enables the card counter to achieve such a decisive advantage that his indentured socially coerced eleemosynary inclination to feed the flock endures throughout all epochs because of the necessary and incumbent scruples of God-fearing men to distribute their winnings won by cheating time to conquer time itself.
Yasha Harkness Nov 2015
Is this what we are
Kings of Despair, each one
Cowering in the dark like a beaten puppy
Feeding on the ragged scraps of each others' hate
Hearts heavier than gravity's weight can make
Us lonely planets, in empty galaxies,
Revolving around our own atrocities
Damage equal care unequal
This peculiar punishment given to us humans of the planet earth.
Watching ourselves self-destruct,
And asking the vast universes for sympathy
Why, it will not bleed away our apathy
Perhaps its instinctual
Species memory: the blood of the Other sprayed over our own flesh
Rejoicing in the promise of an untainted heaven
Regardless of our own sins.
#prayforhumanity In wake of the recent terror attacks all over the world. (Not just in Paris)
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy’s days,
  Young offspring of Fancy, ’tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
  The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

This *****, responsive to rapture no more,
  Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
  Are wafted far distant on Apathy’s wing.

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
  Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
  My visions are flown, to return,—alas, never!

When drain’d is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
  How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
  What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
  Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown?
  Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
  Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
  When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
  And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
  For Heroes’ exploits how unequal my fires!

Untouch’d, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast—
  ’Tis hush’d; and my feeble endeavours are o’er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
  When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
  Since early affection and love is o’ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
  Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne’er meet;
  If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet—
  The present—which seals our eternal Adieu.
SG Holter May 2014
There's room for your every
Blade between my ribs.
I have a thousand other
Cheeks to turn when

You need to fling
Frustration from the channels
Of your heart's palms.
I can take all your punches.

I am a statue to your weathers.
I am the sound of handfulls of
Dirt and pebbles against an empty
Casket. I can take out my every

Nerve, my heart, my pain centre
And place it in a pocket; take it
All back out when you need to
Dillute your tears with mine

Over some matter that weighs
Heavy on the hearts of little
Girls playing with big boys; falling
From swings designed for

Denser bones and hands rough
From climbing. I am the teddy
Bear missing an eye and a limb,
Exposing stuffing through seams

Torn from being dragged over
Stairs and through sandboxes,
Always a thump behind little legs
That carry love for it, unequal to

Any.
mjad Jan 2019
My head is against the hard plastic, my hair softening the uncomfortable edge
I catch a sliver of the snowstorm when I look out, blocked by his silhouette
My hands place themselves on his waist, preparing for the worst
Lips on lips feeling the unequal pressure and my heart feels it's cursed
My chest feels strange as he transfers his kisses and finds my hands
I feel him pressing against me and I sink myself into the stained fabric as far away as I can
My body tenses and my mind tells it to stop but it doesn't understand
His movements are choppy as he tries to explore the new terrain
Does he know this terrain is 17 years young
Because the ground can tell the excavator is at least 21
Teeth collide with my lips and I cringe at the lack of skills for a man
My eyes drift to the snow outside the warm well used minivan
Wishing how badly I could be a snowflake on the other side of the glass
I pull my sweater up
And let him take off my bra clasp by clasp
But I don't want him
I don't want this to last
Lily Gabrielle Sep 2013
Sail back down the moon
left by the door of dust caked feet
you claim to be your own.
Paint back the days spent flipping scales,
replace the compass drenched in blood
in the center of my living room.
The king and pawn don't look so different
if you squint you eyes.
Tell me again, slower this time
how we coexist as moths and light.
Peculiar you'd say, how unequal it seems.
Seventeen years and not a sense
of the universe within each drop
on flesh as thin as the umbrella above your head.
Everyone's a soldier
marching on the shoulder
of every other soldier.
Carry me back on the back that didn't break
when night swallowed its stomach.
I may be a moth by your side
but the light didn't leave
when it had the chance.
Let Folly smile, to view the names
  Of thee and me, in Friendship twin’d;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
  To love, than rank with vice combin’d.

And though unequal is thy fate,
  Since title deck’d my higher birth;
Yet envy not this gaudy state,
  Thine is the pride of modest worth.

Our souls at least congenial meet,
  Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our ******* is not less sweet,
  Since worth of rank supplies the place.
History isn't made,
Isn't told, isn't its registers.
History is screamed,
Shout without words,
As long the feeling is right.

For every action
There's an unequal voice
Roaring positively haltered,
Farming, dividing, conquering,
Cave by cave,
House by house,
City by city,
Until no desire is spared.

All that's left to do
Is screaming badly,
Be hard and be heard,
Out of tune
For other tunes to be discovered.

Shout, shout,
That's the only way
Reality emerge,
Only by scream, by sound,
That's how to honor
All the silence hidden
In fervent claims.

Shout who you are,
Shout the smell around,
Shout as the flowers could answer,
Shout louder than howls,
Shout hunger and richness,
Shout danger, shout peace.

Only unheard screams
Can be shut by the grave.
At the barren heart of midnight,
When the shadow shuts and opens
As the loud flames pulse and flutter,
I can hear a cistern leaking.

Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm,
Rough, unequal, half-melodious,
Like the measures aped from nature
In the infancy of music;

Like the buzzing of an insect,
Still, irrational, persistent . . .
I must listen, listen, listen
In a passion of attention;

Till it taps upon my heartstrings,
And my very life goes dripping,
Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping,
In the drip-drop of the cistern.
J Aigboje Ohiro Jul 2016
They say you can always tell a man from his shoes,
They say time makes a man,
They also said time is like an ocean in which man sails,
But if all men were to be on the ocean of time sailing together,
Would there be enough wind for all?
And if not would this be the reason for the inequality?
Would I be correct to say that God created all men to be unequal?
I know what you thinking already,
Here comes another atheist,
In fact I can’t be listening this,  
But I understand you, as we all have an unequal minds,
Yes that’s true, and you are correct,
But only if you leave now and stop listening to this,
Then you would only have half of the message,
And a huge story to tell about an atheist you have met,
But this won’t end you story if I still have your ears.

They say

You can always tell a man from the shoes he wears
But that’s not true as not all men wear shoes, as some love to wear slippers

They say

Time makes a man
But they didn’t speak of women, would I be correct to say they were sexiest?

They say

Time is like an ocean
If so what will you call rainfall?

All of this were coined by men who loved to be philosophical or loved to be called philosophers

So their name won't just be on their tombstones but in the minds of the living

The truth is God is not unjust so all men were created equal
And if I were a philosopher this would be my word to the next generation.
We are all created for a purpose
Find it, Live it, Fulfil it, while you still human…..

After all I am being Philosophical…..
Philosophy, opinions, words
balanced, unequal, all the same to me,
Each of them forms
Of reciprocity.

I give, you take,
I deal, you shake.

Stolen my heart,
Taken my brain,
I believe I've gone completely insane.

Kiss me on the cheek,
When I go for the lips.
The both of us,
Aren't invested in this.
Anais Vionet Nov 2024
(A throw-back piece, a breakup poem from high school)

What a lonely, peculiar, eccentric figure I must be. A girl, in a garden, crying at an iPad, in the dark.

Earlier, at school...

It was a clear spelling out, like steel cuts thru fruit.

As he spoke, he looked down and away, his gorgeous face blank and indifferent, as if I were wasting his time or he was talking to a child needing an obvious truth taught quickly.

When he finally looked back at me, I saw no pity in his impersonal, hazel eyes.

I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I needed time to contemplate the universe's new laws.

Can a girl just suddenly die of heartache?? because I was sure my heart had stopped, locked and frozen.

Finally, I gasped in this impossible new air—the force of it made me hold the cold-iron stair railing—the game is rough.

He's so—male—all chase and careless passion—intelligent teaser, a skilled steersman of excited climates... Oh, you simply have no idea.

And now he was, gone—still there physically—but gone to me—as if he'd transformed into a hologram or had begun to orbit some other sun, he just...

"You made me feel special." I said.

I had lost my balance on this faithless and unequal world, where heaven so cruelly punishes desires.

"You made me feel I mattered, such a favor." I said, absentmindedly, as I turned, and went back up the three steps into school.

I don't think I looked back at him as the door closed. After all, he wasn't there anymore.

I think he called my name, like a question...
.
.
Song for this:
Still Is Still Moving to Me (with Willie Nelson) by ***** & The Maytals
Helpless by The Cleaners From Venus


The world we see today
The world we human have made
Polluted, corrupt, unequal,
Filled with
Classism, communal & casteist...
With 70% of flora-fauna extinct
Since advent of agriculture
Industrialization & new age

A world where
People are insensitive
Where they even cheat
Their brother, sister & family
And acquire wealth illegally

This world we live in today
Did not fall from the sky
Did not happen in a day
It happened because
People were indifferent to LOVE
People were indifferent to
Those who LOVED them
Bystanders just stood and watched
Jesus crucified, Mansoor lynched

All LOVERz of history
like...
Layla Majnun
Romeo Juliet
Shirin Farhad
Sohni Mahiwal
Heer Ranjhana
Stand as a reminder
That they and their LOVE
Stood to save
Humanity and the world

The BELOVEDz & LOVERz
Died in longing pain
Because the world
Treated them as sick & mad
Considered them as criminals
And ousted them from
Their lives and society

All throughout history
The LOVERz-BELOVEDz
Died because
There were those who
Even though knew about "LOVE"
Sat back and watched LOVERz
Die a slow painful death

This life, work, wealth,
Money, power, fame
Are tools of the
Modern age we live in
A Machiavellian design
To mark and **** out LOVERz,
Deprive them a right to LOVE
And to finally annihilate them

This is new world's
Biggest betrayal of
To those who came with
The message of LOVE

Every day world demonizes
The one who LOVEz
By calling them names
And keeping them out of
Their lives and society

Three things:
a. The majoritarianism herd mentality
b. The subservient pseudo intelligence
c. And a lack of conscience

Any one alone can not
Destroy LOVE as we know it
But...
A combination of all three
Could prove deadly on
Those who LOVE - like us...

LOVERz are not betrayers of life
But they are the whistle blowers
And the watchdogs of conscience

LOVERz show the mirror of
True self to the world
So that one can save humanity

Where are those who believe in LOVE?
They are here, they live in us..!
In the BELOVEDz - LOVERz,
In YOUz & me, In me & YOUz




Robi Banerjee Jan 2014
I lost my cellphone then
on a sultry June night.
I was quite claustrophobic
in a pair of midnight jeans
that I wore only so you
would not think me bohemian.
I did not mean to forget it there,
but I was only making sure that
your lips were okay in that heat.

You saw me in a pair of cool khakis
on every midnight in that fevered summer
and you didn't care much, you said,
you wanted me comfortable, you said
because I ground words for long hours of the day
and for longer hours at night to keep you.

That struggle was like singing songs to an Angel
to make her forget the choirs of Heaven,
it does not matter how beautiful are
the slender cracks in the human spirit
which are slivers of the infinite grace of a love
that is common as air in that Kingdom.
To such a creature, surely,
even the whole world would not be enough.

A man with nothing is unequal to the contest, and
a new cellphone enters my life,
to replace the one I lost months ago,
but I have no one left to speak to.
The world smiles as if to say, here's a toffee,
it really is too bad that you've been starving,
and here is a consolation prize you cannot eat.
Here is something that cannot sustain.

What I came to understand was that we are
a line drawn between only two points,
a string taut from a stationary niche
to a pencil desperate to escape the leash-
the string snaps and all that is left
is the thirst of entropy too long bereft,
a scratched scar leading off the page,
but circles in peace, and others in rage,
in obsession, and in indifference,
gibberish as a poet's language
to represent what once made sense.
As seen on Apostatements (apostating.wordpress.com)
Daan Mar 2014
I've never received a drunken text.
I keep on hopping, this one to the next,
I see them every day, searching each
other, kissing, loving, they reach

out and hold arms and hands, I can
not contain my stare, a jealous man
does the wrong things. Someone please,
decently put my many needs at ease,

at least my inner vain can feast on less
fortunate girls, unequal to my being,
too good, but they will never be seeing
that, if I don't hurt them, bound to make a mess.

It has to end, it can't go one for ever,
I'll be waiting for that day, whenever.
I guess she would be my first actual serious 'crush'
I know I am not the only one who thinks like that
I predict she'll be happy, that's what matters to me.
nivek Jul 2015
a joint venture
equal
otherwise its slave
and slaves master
Timmy Shanti Sep 2012
۱
Where do we come from? Where are we going to? طَرِيقً
What sense is there in our life? We never have a clue. الحَيَـاةً مَعْـنًى
How many blameless souls under the wheel azure نُفُـوسٌ أَطْهَارٌ
Are being burn’d to ash and dust – where is the smoke, I ask? دُخَانٌ
۲
Thou shall not plant the trees of grief... شَخَرَة حُرْن
Though for enlightenment search the sun: إِنجِلاَءٌ
Shall care thou of lovely and love wine! رِعَايَةٌ
For time we live’s unequal to divine. وَقْتٌ
۳
I came into this world – has it become more splendid? مُوسِر
I’m gone – will it be hurt so badly? خَسَارَة
I wish somebody told me why سِرّْ
I came from dust and dust become will I. هَـبَاء
۴
I drink not wine for cheer, I drink not wine for vice, عِلَّةًُ
Nor drink I to deny all that is bright and holy. سَبِب
I just want to forget myself if only for a while – نُكْرَانُ اَْلدَّاتِ
That’s why I drink all time – the price I pay is solid! خَزَاءٌ
٥
Neglect the Law, the Prayer and the Lent, رَفضٌ
Though feed the poor with what you have, instead: رَحْمَة
Be good... Then your reward will be – I vouch for it – عَهْدٌ
Now mortal bliss, then – immortality. حَظّْ وَ خُلُود
Evna-Luna Oct 2016
Wet lands smell like tomorrow
And dry lands reminisce the good old days of rainfall
Fate has a thing for tragedies
And lust is a fierce soldier
Castles are like seen mysteries
And towers, royalties nemesis

Love and hate are two unequal friends,
The later has an uncanny envious flair for the former,
But the former, soars above the later far and farther than heights can go

The memories that trees hold
Are priceless and endless
That even the seas can hold no boundaries
The oceans flow unending
But keeps a tale of the after call
And when rain comes calling,
Every element of earth respects this after call

Evna-Luna©


*After some of my good poet friends left here, I'm finally back to do what I do best..... Writing poetry"
Good day world....
Josh May 2013
Does nothing matter?
Is matter nothing but dancing shattered galaxies pushing and shoving each other?

And on Earth, is it worth thinking?
That I'm just a piece of eternal dirt thinking that I'm just a piece of dirt thinking?

We're all just stars, tasting humanity for an instant.
In all its fallacies, we're systems of suns that love ****** without resistance.

With the assistance of Christian values and armed pistols.
Harmful as ignorance is blissful, we're still missing the deal.

We're still ******* away the real position to feel. We're still wishing down the same ol' wishing wells
and hoping to Christ they're real.

Worse than guns, it's the waste of freedom -- It's unequal -- to **** the hungry from a distance is still evil.

I fly atomically and everything else is informal.
What's normal? Where's God when things get so awful?

He's epidermal - like an antigermal lotion. A magic potion to nurture the thought that we're important.

We're all just stars, answering a call to be Human.
Let the cold bars that hold the others down remain open till my life is dormant.

And our heads are still cluttered and cloth covered.
Filled with an age-old confusion straight from ol' Mohammed's cupboard.

They fool us with cooked messages from book passages that preach love.
Scare us into being apparatuses of a God above.

That's why society is shattered. It's what's wrong with the world.
The perennial infancy of thought that's forced unto our boys and girls.

Such unclarity, that's baked into our childrens' recipe. It's insanity to think that we don't just turn back into energy.

I'm not religiously inspired to forgive,
nor have the insidious desire to live to inspire religious permittance.

I prefer a future purpose undiscovered.
A death dimension still covered from religions' crazy buffer.

— The End —