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Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you’re hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you’re flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shop and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you
Monisha Feb 2020
When I was just a little girl,
And as little girls were taught then,
I played with dolls and a teaset,
Made mudcakes for food,
Wore skirts, made my hair into ponytails as I was let.
I saw the boys with the abandon which comes with free wear and play,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was older, a teen
and as teen girls were taught then,
Walk, talk, rock softly
Don’t draw too much attention
Or attempt to explore too much.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom to play, sit, be as they want  ,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was sixteen, oh sweet sixteen,
And as sixteen year old girls were taught then,
Don’t wear clothes that show your frame,
That’s indecent and you will be in another home and will incur alot of blame.
Don’t wander, argue, or express an opinion,
You’re a girl, being humble, quiet and gentle becomes you.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom of movement and speech,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was older, and passionately sought a particular career,
I was admonished as many other girls in my time,
It’s not a career for women, late nights, more men to be around,
When you get married, that’s not going to work and troubles will abound.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with the  freedom of pursuing their dreams,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was married, and setting a home, working  and raising a family,
I left my work as many other girls in my time,
For my husband to follow his work path,
Unquestioningly, unflinchingly, resolutely.
I saw the men then with the abandon which comes with freedom of being in control of their lives,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

But this is just the surface of my questioning being a girl,
When boys and men around tried their stunts on girls and women,
I questioned my existence.
When many girls and women I know,
Were told to stay mum on men close who took advantage of them
I questioned my existence.
When In the workspace,
Women got paid less than men because their salary were subtly looked at as secondary salaries,
Or needed to speak louder to be heard,
I questioned my existence.
When the onus of keeping a relationship working  was the woman’s responsibility largely,
I questioned my existence.
When a woman got hit by her spouse,
Its she who may have provoked him.
When a man strayed,
Its she who was not a good enough wife that he had to look elsewhere.
I questioned my existence.

The atrocities many men are capable of,
The filth many men spread,
****, hate, aggression, manipulation and more
Abuse, gaslighting inside closed doors,
Wearing a mask of sophistication outside
Animalistic and entitled beings to the core.

My apologies to men who are not,
And I know some,
But they are but a handful,
Too insignificant in the larger way the world works.

But then I see me,
A harbinger of change,
In my home and around.
Raising my son differently,
Advocating for change purposively,
Actioning resolutely what’s right,
Woman for women with all my might.
I see so many more women now who retain their selves and are beacons of hope,
They don’t sit around and just mope.

And I am glad I am a girl,
And I question no more,
I question no more.
Last Night;
I dreamt of children smoking cigarettes;
I dreamt of kids committing ******, arson, and human trafficking.

Last Night,
I dreamt of a hyperbolic ******* of Innocence
that our culture so unflinchingly asserts
from so ruthlessly young an Age.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
stem cell words
from the cellular wall of the
poem birth canal
narrows, twists,
even double helix's,
doc-prof diagnosis
with perfect, absolute uncertainty,
denotes the presence of
stem cell words

"all your writes,
gestating make-believe,
word smythe
premium cocktail concoctions,
gospel soul post-viewed
rocked and roiled
still and always,
unflinchingly personal

singing and simulcast
the unique
internal combustion,
that removes the pollution,
of your
unflinchingly personal..."


mother necessity
delivery of a
Caesarian cut-them-out

says me
cut, excise them,
take them,
them newborn-baby stones
give them
a good home,
my DNA upon them,
my only Jacob blessing,
that they get
goodly tented taken

let them spawn
more and others,
will love them
better just for knowing
even never seeing them again,
still and always,
whatever they
write on,
still and always,
I'm in them,
they will be,
unflinchingly personal,
even if signed by
another's name....
Australia takes her pen in hand
To write a line to you,
To let you fellows understand
How proud we are of you.

From shearing shed and cattle run,
From Broome to Hobson's Bay,
Each native-born Australian son
Stands straighter up today.

The man who used to "**** his drum",
On far-out Queensland runs
Is fighting side by side with some
Tasmanian farmer's sons.

The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar
To grimly stand the test,
Along that storm-swept Turkish shore,
With miners from the west.

The old state jealousies of yore
Are dead as Pharaoh's sow,
We're not State children any more —
We're all Australians now!

Our six-starred flag that used to fly
Half-shyly to the breeze,
Unknown where older nations ply
Their trade on foreign seas,

Flies out to meet the morning blue
With Vict'ry at the prow;
For that's the flag the Sydney flew,
The wide seas know it now!

The mettle that a race can show
Is proved with shot and steel,
And now we know what nations know
And feel what nations feel.

The honoured graves beneath the crest
Of Gaba Tepe hill
May hold our bravest and our best,
But we have brave men still.

With all our petty quarrels done,
Dissensions overthrown,
We have, through what you boys have done,
A history of our own.

Our old world diff'rences are dead,
Like weeds beneath the plough,
For English, Scotch, and Irish-bred,
They're all Australians now!

So now we'll toast the Third Brigade
That led Australia's van,
For never shall their glory fade
In minds Australian.

Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly,
Till right and justice reign.
Fight on, fight on, till Victory
Shall send you home again.

And with Australia's flag shall fly
A spray of wattle-bough
To symbolise our unity —
We're all Australians now.
Corvus Oct 2016
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When all artistic, damaged or insomniatic souls
Feel like they're completely alone
Even though we're all awake and feeling the same thing.
12am is still too loud, still too car engines and shouting,
And 6am is too light, too exposing and awake, aware.
It's blackness but for the starlight puncturing holes in the sky,
That's when the magic arises and enchants us.
The way the moon looks at us and begs us to untrouble our weary hearts,
So we do it, and we do it willingly.
She is the most unfaithful lover, and it is beautiful.
How she cherishes each whispered secret so deeply
That it leaves a crater on her being.
How she takes on our pain unflinchingly,
And only needs 28 days to feel whole again.
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When the most trapped souls can feel such freedom.
Not entirely convinced that insomniatic is a word, but it should be.
Mike Jewett Feb 2015
I love you the way the sun rises every day, without fail. I love you like the night loves the moonlight, covering the darkness with her glow. I love you the way the universe expands into infinity. I love you for each star in existence and that ever will exist. I love you like seeing a streaking comet that comes around earth once every 80,000 years. I love you the way the soil huddles and heaves in winter. I love you for every grain of sand, and I love you the way sand becomes glass, solid and liquid, when put to heat. I love you for the lovebirds in your eyes. I love you as silkworms spin fine reflective threads. I love you past galaxies and superclusters when seen at the speed of light. I love you at the speed of love. I love you with the wild abandon of migrating butterflies being taken by summer’s wind. I love you for each tear that’s ever washed your face. I love you for every smile anyone has had the fortune of witnessing. I love you like a sunset’s last rays of the day, turning everything pink and fiery. I love you as a boulevard winds between houses with closed blinds and closed minds but the road ahead is open. I love you as words meet paper and poetry is created. I love you for every ant that ever worked to make a home in dirt mazes. I love you like the snowflake, vast in number and each unique. I love you the way bullets explode from chambers stopping at nothing but nothing. I love you like jellyfish sting, unforgettably. I love you the way a lioness defends her cubs unflinchingly. I love you the way fog slinks in, engulfing and blinding and in love with the moonlight. I love you like time heading forward and backward and all that is is now. I love you for every ‘I love you’ ever spoken, written, and thought. I love you like sage growing in a sidewalk crack. I love you as hieroglyphs carved within Egypt's tombs, for the way glyphs of people all face towards goddesses and gods. Je t’aime, je t’aime, mon petit rouge.
Salvador Kent Aug 2021
Screaming
They do not hear this
Because they're too busy
Doing worthless ****
And pretending that they exist

For a moment you think
You ******* Elon Musk this is a simulation
And this is my realisation
Call me Nick Bostrom and my thought
Is Blood sweat and simulated tears
Because

I observe a figure walking down a street
And in my disorientation I stare at them
Unflinchingly and they stare back and laugh
Like they know me so I'm like what the ****
Who was that guy I'm so confused I swear

**** **** kick a brick that forms part of a wall
Ye Olde England see an Olde man screaming
Abandon hope! Sinner Jim Whitney
Call me Charles Mingus you are the Sinner Lady
And I play my saxophone for you

Sign this page and hand yourself to God
And through this holy book this ancient relic
I save you for you are a sinner
You Jim Whitney repent to rejoice in heaven
There you'll find Dante and Milton
Writing free verse poetry with Christ himself
Resurrected and now

Save the Children with Unicef
Or buy the Big Issue
Would you like a Burrito or a coffee
Or take this money which I loan thee
**** that I feel like you owe me
And I'll spit on your grave and tax your family
Call me Milton Friedman welcome to the economy

Or would you rather let it all go and find the Dharma
There's a Pure Land temple only a train journey away
Come I'll take you there find Abhidhamma
I know you're lost in this postmodern age

Sickness disorientation your mind so blurry
This disorientation the unfocused intensity
Feeling like you don't exist and everything is
So horribly sick and

Walking down a street in all your disorientation
And you're half dead half asleep half existent
Wanting a ******* coffee but you have no money
So you settle for an energy drink that tastes like ****

But you need the caffeine so you can't complain
And your miserable face and ridiculous gait
Is the elephant in the room you ******* good for nothing
******* and why are you even here
Pseudo intellectual half wit

Stop reading Camus you miserable ****
Start watching Love island like any normal
******* miserable person that lives
On this sceptered isle to paraphrase
Shakespeare and revel in your heritage

Aren't you proud to be British
No what is worse what is worse
To be British or to be human
Why am I associated with that flag
That flies on the tower of the house of God
That I observe as I squint my eyes

The Sun is hot but I am cold
I'm very cold so I wear a coat
And a passerby says what the ****
And the wall is my glue yes the wall is my glue

**** look they opened the coffee shop
I want a coffee this energy drink
Tastes like ****
So throw it away
Like life and

Laugh at the pathetic little joke
From a pseudo intellectual
Pseudo poetic poet that cannot write
About this ache they feel…

All this disorientation…
None of it interpretable.
And this poem is never-ending
Unless it just ends.
rage.
Scene I


Rodolfo Graizani is seen sat in his new office in Addis Ababa .
A messenger salutes and hands him over a telegraph  letter saying " it is from Benito Mussolini."
Graizani reads the message loud

Dude,
We have done
Things good!
Hurrah at long last,
Using banned
Poisonous gas,
Ancient Ethiopia
We have subdued.

For our damaged moral,
We nurse after
The battle of Adwa,
The aforementioned news
Will be a nourishing food.
Slavish obedience
To fascism
In Ethiopia
We shall advance
Be firm
In our iron grip stance.

Hurrah, Ethiopia
Will be Italian
Infuse that
We can
With the dictates
Of  the gun.

(Graiziani stands up and walks in the room with a jubilant mood while the messenger watches him wide-eyed.)

Yes our subjects,
Ethiopians, serfdom
We shall teach
Hence summoning
Addis’ residents
Tomorrow
I have to make
A grand speech.
And also
I will
Coax priests
Slavish obedience to us
To subtly preach.

When our subjects lose
Their identity
We shall
Enjoy liberty
To siphon their wealth
Or property,
Also as a tactic,
Among citizens,
We should promote disparity.


Messenger what can you say?
Tomorrow will be my day!

(Messenger putting both hands on his head)

Good God
But I’m afraid
You may not do that
Unless every nation-loving
Ethiopian
You behead.

Be it luring them with a gold
Or threatening them with a sword
Unflinchingly, religious leaders
Will prefer to be a sod.
They will call down
On you a curse
If you try
To desecrate
Their abode,(Pope Petros)
You see
Preachers and the laity
Have a genuine faith
In God.
Also to
Fight back
They are bold.

(Graiziani pointing his finger towards the messenger)

Get out
Me don’t try
To flout!

Rather, let me practice presentation
To grab the audience’s attention.

Tomorrow putting on my uniform,
Bedecked with medals,
This message
I will drive home
Also the video footage
I will send to
Musoloni in Rome!

 Scene II
(Grizani dances into a podium. A messenger asks congregants to stand up for a tumultuous applause)

On nationalistic bombast
We have set a ban
Like it or not
Ethiopia is Italian
By the virtue of the gun.

(Among the congregants stands up a hoary-headed man)

We are citizens
Born free
Yield shall not we
To your crazy decree
Haven’t you read
How Emperor Twedros II
Lodged a bullet
Into his head?
Not to surrender!
Why don’t you look
After he fought hard
Why his life into his hand
He took.

How do you try
To subjugate
A nation,
With freedom that surfed
The tide of time to date?

(Angry Graziani answers)

How do you fail to realize
In the meantime Italy
Will help you
To civilize?

(Two two young adults(Moges Asgedom/Abrham Deboche) threw bombs )

Swish blast
Swish blast

Graiziani realized
How the breath
That could be his last,
Drew close fast.

To Graiziani
After it became stark
He narrowly escaped
A bomb attack
And his speech of
Subjugation
In Ethiopia is
An empty talk,
Still on the floor
He ordered attack.

 Scen III
(In front of the Yekatit 12 Martyr’s monument a small kid asks his father how Ethiopians regained their independence after the massacre ordered by  Griziani, who  soon after surviving the bomb attack, gave instruction for a cold blood retaliation.

The father dressing the hair of his child and looking him said patriots that  ambushed at the valleys and mountains of Ethiopia vowed to fight out invaders. They succeeded in doing so after a five year occupation of Ethiopia)

Waging a Guerilla fight
Shortly we shall gain our right
"Aiming from a tree high
We have patriots
That hit fighters’ jets on a dark sky!"(Patriot Belaye Zeleke)

“ As hitting a nail on the head
We have fighters
That pierces through
A tight tread.”           (Patroit HaileMariam Mamo)

“In the nook and cranny
And every gorge
We will wage
Many heroic fight
Enemies from
Our soil to dislodge”(Geresu Dukie/Jagama Kelo/Abbebe W/Aregai/Omer Semeter/Balcha Abanefeso...)

“We have heroes smart
With an artillery missile
That pierces artillery apart!” (Patroit Bekle Weya)///
Base d ON A TRUE STORY (1929 Ethiopian calendar + 8 GC)
James K Jul 2010
The traffic grid operates smoothly and seriously
Forwards and back, in rows and columns
Directions painted in asphalt, and hung from poles
The road's instructions are obeyed unflinchingly
All these drivers are too serious to do otherwise
As they rush off to their serious lives

The doctors are serious
The lawyers are serious
The cleaners are serious
The gardeners are serious

It seems everyone is serious but me
In the park, reading Kerouac against a tree.
Mikaila Dec 2012
I'm not smooth.
I cannot ****** you with a look,
For uncertainty steals the set of my lips that would invite yours.
I cannot lead you with my voice,
For huskiness eludes me, as does breath.
I cannot sell you with my body,
For it knows not the boldness I would need.
But with words I can stare you down,
I can make you shiver, unflinchingly,
I can honey the air with longing.
With words I am a new thing,
I am lithe as they are, I am sultry as they are, I am powerful
As they are.
Words are my home. Please come in.
let me tell you something about regret

let me tell you something about being saturated with your thoughts, about being completely above your thresh hold of absorption and trying to desperately figure out how you can get out of it

it's a delicate game between i hope he gets it and he never does, a fine line between texting him at 1am trying to apologize for what you've been doing wrong and realizing he's just a boy and he can't handle that

we cling unflinchingly to the memories of our past until eventually we are tunnel visioned by them, unable to move forward because they are the quicksand in our mind forcing us to stay

and let me tell you about trying to do texts at midnight drunk on the absence of sleep telling them that they surely understand, trying to get closure to the fact that no you are not the only one who feels like this, he feels it too, but it will always be about someone else  

and i could give you countless essays on replaying images of their tears, on wishing that you were never in a ******* hotel corridor spilling your heart out to stain your dress with red memories, red red dark red memories that will always stay there

or the time, perhaps, when you were not freezing because he was there next to you to heat you, because the sound that escaped his speakers were melodies that comforted the both of you through the tidal waves of something larger than you and something able to engulf you with a single blow

but let me tell you how it all ends, how you think you can never go back to the feeling of mistakes when you aren't making any, when you're stuck alone in this big world without talking to anyone because it only causes trouble doesn't it? but it always swings back around and there isn't a cure for it

i could write a million and one essays explaining how i have felt the past two years of my life, how from the moment my thighs were frailer than my wrists to the moment i couldn't fit back into my favourite pair of pants, from the time i first saw all of their brown eyes to the time i last saw them, from the awkward moments in the hall that are filled with void and anger and tension to the moments when i would beg to see them again for just a little bit more, but i have realized that i can never make you get it

the only way to get it is to experience it, and for those of you who understand what i'm talking about, try to get some sleep tonight, try to keep the memories out of your dreams
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2015
for the sey-hey man

word bird droppings
scattershot sent
disguised neath flora,
a name by any other,
sally sent forth,
never looked back upon

untenable pursuit
GMO words planted in an
untended garden,
man-made wild sent seeds

purée of amputated lesions,
a divorcées convention,
bon mote note comparison,
freely shared, plagiarized,
by-product of a man's waste,
bidding adieu,
but never
au revoir

*let them spawn
more and others,
will love them
better just for knowing
even never
seeing them again,
still and always,
whatever wherever
they ride~write on,
still and always,
I'm in them,
unflinchingly personal,
even if signed by
another's name...
I write here under many names, freeing me of the burden of counting my words
Joanna Alexandre Feb 2016
The wind blows a cool breeze speaking a language that I can only hope to understand
The sun shines through the barriers of leaves cascading down to hold me tightly, comfortably
The foliage steady underneath my unsteady feet promises to give me balance
The water buries the sand pulling it back into line always returning it safely home

A soft creature appears from behind the green wall crouching curiously in fear, denial
Unable to speak like the wind it simply blinks, both yellow eyes; once, twice, three times
The long fur covering it's body blows with the western breeze head tilted towards the east
It rises on two feet; remains stationary, despite the wind pushing it back

An array of colours catches light from the creature; yellow eyes, purple fur, black teeth
The deflection of colours creates a rainbow around the creature; a force field
It casts no shadow despite the downward sun trying its hardest to expose the creature
The array of colours surrounds the creature fading away with the sun behind the leaves.

The foliage struggles against its foot moving forward in a staggering motion as if they were glued
Fallen leaves crumble underneath its feet and flowers rot to a bruised purple
Like quicksand the ground tries to swallow the creature, hold it still despite its strength
Quicksand is not quick enough, the creature shuffles through the dying foliage

The water retreats, taking the sand with it, gathering as large an army as possible
The creature continues forward, the water continues back as far as it can before returning to shore
They meet in an unwelcome collision the water trying to push the creature back, unsuccessful
The creature emerges from the water droplets of water being repelled from its fur

The wind changes direction pointing at me whispering words of caution whispering, yelling
The sunlight illuminates me, sweat drips down my face like tears as if to say: hide
The ground shakes and trembles beneath my feet urging me to move, keep moving
The water reaches for me with open arms to hide in amongst the sand, to return safely

The creature spots me; staring unflinchingly, it stares back into my eyes with yellow ones
It's fur directing it towards me urges it onward dragging it alongside the cool breeze
It's feet start toward me slowly as the trembling ground regains its posture so does it
I stand in awe of this beautiful creature, so frightful so delicate aiming for me

"Humph" the sound of it colliding with me is carried away with the wind, long gone
The sun gleams off its black teeth blinding me before I feel it rip into my neck tearing flesh
The green, brown, purple ground lay stained with my blood dripping from its mouth
The incoming tide holds my hand one last time as the creature drags me back behind the green wall
Charlotte Aug 2013
sixteen forever
craving nothing but
skin to skin
mind to mind
heart to heart
staring in your eyes
and seeing forever
seeing nothing but
the sun
craving everything you've never had before
and maybe will never have again
sixteen forever
tearing down your walls
burning all your bridges
and refusing to become what they want
nothing standing in your way
craving love and nothing more
no fear of the future
just fear of the night ending
because when you're sixteen forever
you feel infinity
and your heart smiles
through the tears
because nothing can stand in your way
nothing can hurt you for more than a moment
because you're brave and you're young
and you're free
close your eyes and remember
when you were sixteen forever
your heart is open
your eyes are wide
your light is blinding
and unstoppable
forever is real
forever is now
forever is in your reach
and you take it
unflinchingly
i want to be
sixteen forever.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
i can't remember the last time i was satisfied with
only drinking one cider and 35cl of whiskey,
i honestly can't... then again i plucked two of my
favourite aphrodisiacs that night...
i beat up the whittle 'ichard before
(aphrodisiac no. 1 - exercise, exertion) cycled
to the brothel... then bought myself a bottle
of cider (aphrodisiac no. 2 - no other alcohol
works that sort of magic, no wine, no whiskey,
certainly not beer: cider...
and for that matter a very specific cider...
merry down cider, with a fox playing a violin
on the etiquette... the label... served in a 75cl
portion... 7.5%... medium dry...
so no...  not Thatcher's... or a Hertfordshire Weston's...
it has to be the Merry Down... probably
because of the portion) and did the victory
lap around the park and the brothel around
Goodmayes station...
obviously i bought 35cl of whiskey before walking
in... inside after we ******... hmm...
******* sets me off so quick... i don't know:
seeing a woman on her knees... from behind...
a bit like watching women in churches on
their knees before certain deeds are done...
i think i'm going to go back to a catholic church
one Sunday and draw out fetishes in my head...
kneeling before a cross... maybe Jesus the ******
would have loved to be nailed to some X cross
and then get ****** off by some Magdalene?
maybe he was into sadomasochism...
    who knows... but ******* sets me off on
an easy path of ******...
at least in the ******* it feels more
like exercise as i'm using the upper part of my body
to arch over a woman... from time to time
lowering myself to kiss her when she shows her tongue
licking her lips: i guess that implies: kiss me...
so i do... or lowering my body to brush noses
with her... press my forehead against hers
or just bite her chin...

is it just me or did the band Priest use certain accents
of Lana Del Rey's Summertime Sadness
in their song Phantom Pain? have a listen...
i think they did... never mind...
aphrodisiac no. 3: music... just listening to some
music you'd like to listen to when *******
fills the mind prior to the act with the act:
Trevor Something: into your heart...

work has transformed me, working with people,
dealing with drunk football fans...
i walked into the brothel: three beauties sitting there...
i never thought i had a thing for plump girls
or girls wearing glasses...
but this third one... the blonde... that lied
about being from Romania when in fact i know
from Michaela that she's Poland looked like:
a frightened doe... her eyes almost teary... her lips
moving as if trying to tell me something...
obviously i picked Michaela: she's going back
to Romania for a month to visit her family...
she worked so hard that she managed to have
a 12 room house with 3 bathrooms...
she's thinking about retiring in a year's time...
setting up a restaurant... i told her i make ****
good mint and chocolate chip ice-cream and i love
looking... who knows... i heard that Romania
is beautiful... and she's from Bucharest...
so... easy access to Ottoman heritage... and Dracula...
who knows... life is sometimes a house
of windows that are opportunities...
the same blonde that:

Khadija... Khadira... Khedra blocked me on WhatsApp
just before she ****** off back to Turkey
for a holiday... yeah... Khedra sent me
a photograph of herself with this girl...
now look at her... a frightened doe...
why did she block me? i don't care...
she was there last night... i asked for her...
but she was bringing back £60 for an extra half
an hour with a man she was already busy with...
we said hello: i kissed her cheek as a greeting...
me and my hardly jealous heart...
but Michaela can do i don't think even Khedra
could... after all... with Michaela it was
first time quick... second time longer...
third time quick... 4th time much longer...
first time? i blame it on the fact that she forgot
to pull back the *******... what sort of uncircumcised man
wants to **** without a circumcision imitation?
i know women prefer the aesthetic of a circumcised
man... but at the same time:
in the old ways... a man would be circumcised...
but the woman would have to pay some compensation...
just look at Islam and Judaism...
not the current American raw deal of circumcised
men... that's not how it works...
circumcise a man and his sometimes need to
pleasure himself makes no sense with no *******...

hardly a joke... it's called the acronym FGM (female
genital mutilation, but it's not called MGM male
genital mutilation?! oh right... all those eunuchs
in harems who were walking ******... because: hardly...
Solomon couldn't **** all his harem...
it would probably take him a whole year
to make the rounds and **** all his concubines)...
so unless he didn't have eunuchs to please his concubines
he had the concubines turn to lesbian acts...
even great kings of old didn't mind other men
******* their women... as long as they didn't impregnate
them...
i'm a modern man... i really don't care who she has
been ******* prior...

me? with Khedra... i know why she blocked me...
but it's only on WhatsApp... i still have her number...
i just have to use the conventional routes...
but she must have received advice from fellow prostitutes...
you're sending him pictures of yourself?
you said you'd gladly have a night with him
in a hotel room for free?! are you a ******* or his
girlfriend?!
mind you: Michaela asked me for extra money
for unprotected ***... Khedra simply gave it up without
any extra cost... to be honest... i don't mind either...
****** off: obviously...
****** on? honey... do you have two spare latex suits
we can wear? oh sure... and a tub of butter
we can both jump into and smear each other
and pretend we're snails... ha... ah ha... terrible joke...

but ever since starting work again: i feel more and more
alive... my confidence has shot through
the roof... two prostitutes sitting opposite me
don't really intimidate me...
one tries to be a smart-***... the other is gearing up
because she knows i'll choose her and the third
looks scared...
hmm... i know that Michaela would ask me to pay
extra to perform oral *** on her...
Khedra? she gave it up for free...
i love seeing a woman who shows her hot-shivers
or ******... not ******* are so ******* oratory
as might be portrayed... hot-shivers of ******...
and, to be honest? ****** vaginas are very...
not tasteless... i've had one once... they sort of stink...
there are not enough lubrication juices...
and i mean from multiple men...
it really doesn't bother me...

thank god none of them ever asked for me to perform
****... pop pornographic culture with all that
**** fixation is ill to me... i can understand
if two Russian soldiers on the front feel like
gagging each other's anuses... but with women?

that was Khedra... freebies... i would otherwise have
to pay for with Michaela...
but Khedra is a slim nymphomaniac...
Michaela is a business minded woman...
and being plump: that's an added asset...
Khedra has her eyes open throughout *******
while Michaela has her eyes closed...
hello: a welcome return to the Unbearable Lightness
of Being by Milan Kundera...
i have to see: everything... i gorge with my eyes...
i'm eating: but i'm not eating...

but i know why i only drank one Merry Down cider
and 35cl of whiskey last night, wrote 'Biggie"
and went to bed...
huh! i have a nickname? that's so endearing...
that's so much better than a girl calling you by your name...
English doesn't really have a diminutive
aspect of language: esp. nouns...
in ****** speech you can create diminutive "concepts"
of words: to make them more endearing...
Matthew, i.e. Mateusz can become Mateuszek...
duck, i.e. kaczka can become kaczuszka
dog, i.e. pies can become piesek
woman, i.e. kobieta can become kobietka...
what's the equivalent in English?
it's "diminutive": but it's not an endearing-diminutive...
it's belittling-diminutive, that's the distinction
between the two languages i own...
little women... you can't actually morph the word
woman to imply woman a "tiny", or, "small"
in an endearing way... only in a belittling way...
thank god i know two languages...
fluently: bilingually...
perhaps a third would be useful if i wished
to travel and start a business... most certainly a knowledge
of Spanish would open a world of opportunities...
obviously i'd settle for German... large enough
territory... but? as a personal psychology basis?
being monolingual would be claustrophobia for me...
or equivalent: therefore...

oh man... it would have been such a mistake if
i just settled for my high-school sweetheart, Promis...
when dating her i went to a friend's birthday
party and was presented with a chance to cheat...
she was much younger than me and eager:
i declined her even though she was already all
over me... it wouldn't have worked...
my father: i'm not my father... mentioned only
two women in his life...
one girl who tried to trick him into becoming
a surrogate father... i.e. not raising his own genes...
and... my mother... but i'm not my father:
i think my parents are freaks... seriously...
it's like monogamy and the swan song was all
about them...
my estranged uncle was a serial polygamist...
he tried a monogamy once: FAIL...
she ended up being a journalistic-wannabe
with an abortion as a notch on her belt...
i learned from my maternal grandfather too...
he was married at the age of 18? 19? but cheated
on my grandmother... he mentioned 3 women
in his life... me? i didn't lose count on purpose...
i lost count on the basis of: and how many different
selves of myself have i found along the way?
i can can't at least 5...

but unlike Khedra with her hot-shivers when i was
performing... eating-oysters on her ****...
there was Michaela who said last night:
look! you're making me dance! and she looked
the happiest girl... she was dancing... lying back...
it wasn't a dance: dance... it wasn't a samba...
she was dancing by wriggling happy on her back
after all that missionary ***...
plus?! i now have a nickname: i'm: Biggie...
and... fair enough: i have more beard envy than
***** envy... even though i've been approached
by guys at work with a similar envy... beards...
apparently i have a perfect beard...

i'm Biggie... now... a few years back i was
KAKASHKA for Ilona: little ****...
it could have worked with Ilona: if i wasn't a ******
and she wasn't a Russian...
Russian pride against Polacks was already
stated by Dostoyevsky demeaning us...
even though i'd be the first to celebrate Russian
isolationistic culture upkeep...

i don't think i could love one woman...
that would be selfish... after all... all the most beautiful
women are either prostitutes or...
actresses in the pornographic industry...
strange how beauty works: it works perfect in nature:
nature wants to showcase itself for the greatest
number of people...
that's a bit like beautiful women...
that's why beautiful women in Islam are an
antithesis of nature's parody...
i heard one Pakistani once tried to teach me
the "mystery" of Islam...
if you owned a jewellery shop... and you had this one
massive sapphire in your shop...
would you want to keep it in the front window
so that anyone could look at it...
huh? he continued: no... you'd keep it hidden
in the back...
                       rrrright... huh?!
he actually didn't mention: so people would ask about?
how could anyone know that you have
a massive ******* sapphire in the back
of your jewellery shop?
point being... why have a jewellery shop
if you're going to be so selfish about what's beautiful?!
you're a ******* jewel merchant or some stingy
****?!
then again: the allure surrounding women is the same
in the west as it is in Islam...
make-up and the NIQAB...
in the west make-up does what a NIQAB does in Islam...
it's the same-****: just a different cover...
i look at a woman in a NIQAB: i'm curious...
i watch a woman heavily overdone with make-up...
i can sometimes say:
there's less paint on a masterpiece than there is
chemical junk on her face to hide her imperfections
that: i might find appealing...
sure... with a NIQAB i can only see the eyes...
but with western standards: i see eyes... exfoliating
in feline fakery... and the rest of her is doubly faked-up...

thank god i'm man... i just need to wash myself
on a regular basis... trim my beard... shave my *****
region and my arm-pits... no chance of me shaving
the hair on my pirate chest and my stomach...
apparently Michaela likes flowing her fingers through
my body hair and teasing my *******...
tonight: i need more whiskey...
not because i'm miserable: i'm happy...
that's why i continue to drink and not get drunk:
i'll feel drunkness when i stop writing and relax...
until then my memory is working overload...
and this is only memory from yesterday...

maybe that's why i don't dream so much...
i don't dream because i'm not seeking escapism
some people seek via imagination...
since their memory faculty has either been eroded
by pedagogy... or? as Bukowski once noted:
some people never go mad: what horrible lives
they must least... a recurrent spontaneity of
"amnesia": or simply looking down on people?
not treating them fairly, lovingly?

life's not difficult: other people make life difficult,
their games of hierarchies...
life's not difficult... other people make life difficult...
and? i could never understand men
who associate cats with lonely modern women...
celebrating dogs...
oh **** me! cats are the best: esp. Maine *****...
then again... maybe i have a spezial cat...
why dogs and men why women and cats
why blue and men why pink and woman?!
who said?
   and who didn't say: cats of Ancient Egypt?
the Pharaohs probably owned cats...
what about Muhammad's favourite cat? Muezza?
who the **** said that cats are efaminating creatures?!
these Bonsai tigers are just as much fun
as dogs... if not more! why? you can have time off
from petting them: when they be themselves
and... no leashes! no muzzle! fickle sleeping and feeding
patterns...
but i agree... there's one negative of cats
that i remember was a great positive having petted
Bella... my Alsatian... well... two...

cat's can't pull a sleigh... with you on it as a toddler...
you can't ride a cat as toddler...
but you can a dog... like a Shetland pony...
you can't be a toddler and put your hand inside
the beast's gob and pull out an imaginary tongue...
and... this is my biggest envy of dog owners...
Sundays at my grandparent's house...
chicken broth... basically an entire poached chicken
in a soup of... choice of vegetable to create
a chicken and vegetable stock?
carrots... root parsley, fresh parsley... celeriac...
baby celery... leek... garlic... burned onions...
the usual seasoning... vermicelli pasta...
but that's the biggest difference between cats and dogs...
i don't know why cats stopped drinking milk...
classically they drank milk...
as a child i remember glowing with glee that i owned
an animal that would eat the leftovers of the food i just
finished... dog are special in that way...
some of the soup wasn't finished...
Bella the Alsatian was whimpering after the leftovers...
she got a bowl... a bountiful bowl...
she loved her chicken broth...
   with the vermicelli... with the vegetables...
and added to the mix? the chicken bones...
my grandfather always bemoaned the fact that me
and my father ate our chicken to the point of biting
off the cartilage off the bones... i went further...
i bit off the heads to get to the juicy-dry marrow...

a different season for a different animal:
i loved dogs for the simple pleasure that they would
eat what you couldn't finish for dinner...
but i love cats for the fact that they behave like
ferns... sorry... houseplants...
you can ignore them from time to time...
they only come up to you when they feel like approaching
you...
the rest of the time you can just ignore them...
but when they love you: it's unlike a dog
waiting for you to equip yourself with a leash...
when they love you: or rather: you're ******* more interesting
than any human prior... they rarely scout for more room...
you've already enlarged their perspective on existence...

perhaps i could be your neurotypical man by
any standards: in the Old Testament style
of breaking away from my father and mother
and chose a wife: i tried it with Promis...
i hated the experience... i have to abandon my mother
and father... in order... to marry you... woman...
and... abandon my mother and father...
in order... to give a **** more about: YOUR... mother
and father?! seriously?! that's a raw ******* deal...
i haven't been raised by my mother from the age
of 6 through to 8...
and by my father from the age of 4 through to 8...
collapse of the Soviet Union:
if it wasn't the brain drain (that came later)
it was a labour shortage in the early 90s...
i don't think i'm clingy... sure... if my parents raised
me throughout those LEGO-years...
i'd be out of the house already: or? no... the cost
of living... what? at least i have intellectual comparisons
with me...
times are changing... i was lucky to be out of
the cosmopolitan game of dating ever since i went
mad aged 21... my whole 20s are a fog...
i woke up mid-30s sort of happy to be simply
alive... i'm happy for that "conundrum"...
i missed so much that was required of me to miss...
i can go to the brothel with a clean conscience
of being able to satisfy prostitutes...

at least we know something personal about Muhammad
that's more than however many wives he had...
a man of his times of his region...
i can't be a judge of that...
but at least he had his favourite cat: and we know
his name: Mu'izza...
like i had a favourite cat of mine:
Darshan... who my Sikh neighbour killed
by poising him because: she offered to take care of...
but couldn't be bothered to clean up his ****
or give him food... easier to **** the poor creature:
make him suffer kidney failure...
i was visiting my grandparents
while my mother and father were holidaying
in the Maldives... two days before they were
supposed to come back... i woke up with a stinking
fear... i phoned them up, i need to go back home!
i'm worried about Darshan...
a silver beast of a Maine ****...
dead... "kidney failure"... i was so stricken
with morbid emotions... after he was cremated
i found a Croquet buggy...
took all the pieces off... strapped a belt
to the handle... walked into a World War I
memorial graveyard...
had a hammer and a chisel with me...
started carving off a piece of grave...
put it on the buggy... dragged it home...
picked up the ashes... started digging a shallow
grave in the garden... buried the poor sod...
then placed the hacked off gravestone above him...
i'm still not speaking to my neighbours...
they're scammers anyway...
that's how Sikhs and other Asians get to flaut
their money on rich weddings and Rolls Royce
limousines... sure sure... i hear you...
they own corner shops and get rich by selling 1p
gummy bear gelatin sweets by the million!
like, ****!
oddly enough... i'm sometimes perched on my windowsill
throughout the night till 4am...
4 break-ins... "break-ins"... and some during mid-day...
******* insurance scammers! SCAMMERS!
i saw jack-****!
no one broke in into their home...
that's how Asians get rich: that's how anyone rich
gets rich... they're not playing by the rules...
thank god i'm willing to make sacrifices...
i don't want to get rich: i don't want scammers
or gold-diggers in my life: i want to build up a natural
filter when it comes to resources!

if there won't be enough women in my life:
i can always test my "fertility" with cognitive ambivalence...
i can always think about more things than most
people are not willing to think about...

after all: Muhammad had a favorite cat... Mu'izza...
since Darshan passed away at the hands of a sadistic
*****... i now have Quarus...
i'm not going to be easily relieved of him:
easily divorced from him...
he has more nicknames than the times i actually utter
his name...
what was the name of the donkey that
brought Jesus to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday?!
no one knows because he had no name...
i'd call him Quizy... Quizy... no... don... key...
REGALO TECLA... or? DON TECLA...
but Jesus didn't give a name to the donkey...
psychopathic, if you ask me:
animals you ride, or pet, to be: nameless...

just maybe: there might be some sympathy for me:
it almost feels like i was there...
when Mel Gibson released that movie of
his: the Passion of the Christ... i cried when i first
heard Aramaic being spoken on screen...
i think i cried throughout the entire movie...
i was so moved that... some other guy in the audience
started crying with me...
maybe it was the music all along...
i'm a sucker for a decent music...

but i just couldn't stomach the raw deal of wedding
a woman: a man is to abandon his own mother
and father... esp. one who wasn't raised by his
mother from the age of 6 through to 8
or by his father through the ages of 4 to 8...
who spent his early developmental years
in a house filled with 20 other immigrant
labour-drain men... for about a two years...
the fact that my father was abandoned by his own
parents: through divorce... i was raieed
by a ***** of a grandmother and an alcoholic
grandfather: i loved them...
but she was such a ***** to the point
oh him pushing her through a glass door
and breaking her hand...
i blocked all of that out... maybe by way of blocking
out several personal memories i have been
given access to access certain historical details...
i question them: unflinchingly...
why didn't Jesus' donkey have a name?
while Muhammad had a favourite cat with a name
like Mu'izzi: i know it's Mu'izza... i prefer Mu'izzi...

my Quarus? a clever cat... i bemoan the fact that
he won't eat my scraps... from dinner...
that's the only great aspect of what Bella the Alsatian
and Axl (the Dobberman) used to be capable of...
they'd eat what man leftover...
i'd call cats vegetarians if i could...

i know that the definite article in Hebrew is HA...
i.e. ha-satan: the-Stanley... the Stanislav...
i forgot to remember what the indefinite article
is in Hebrew... oh... right... there isn't one...
to define someone: definitely is to suppose:
laughing at it in English...

the whiskey flows slow and cold...
my heart it growing slower and colder...
i like it, that way...
Biggie... oh **** me... then again: Michaela does stand
about 5ft2 beside of me... while i'm towering
6ft2 above her... no wonder she picked a nickname:
Biggie for me...
the smaller she is: the plumper she is...
the more endearing she becomes...
you just want to cuddle her...
the more tender her forehead feels and tastes like...
she mentioned: i haven't washed my hair...
i tell her while sniffing it:
it doesn't matter... i washed myself prior to seeing
you... you think i'm going to wash myself
after seeing you? i want your scent to fill my bedroom
with your ****** perfume...
i want to dream of orchids! i want to dream
of lavender! i want to dream...
of a desert and your being the oasis in it!

i love women... but some women are too proud...
too stuck up...
they miss out on a lot of fun *** can be...
can't we just have fun without taking to
the serious business of paying gas bills?!
are we simply things before the altar of the eternals?
can't we spontaneously break the rules
for the eternals to be envious of us?
have we, seriously become so shallow:
so boring, that the gods abandoned us due to the fact
that we became imitating immortal:
their own boringness, manifest, that we stopped
being mortals?!

if i a were an immortal deity, and had to overlook
the modern man? i'd die too!
i'd die from boredom!
i'd die from predictability...
i'd die from looking at mortal men and thinking:
we're the luck?! where's the gamble?!
where's the unpredictability?!
where on earth is the stupidity on earth,
that might make these men take enough chances
to later allow them status of sage?!
everything is being to closely manifested in keeping
a "slave" stock of workers...
no one wants to dare... and if they do want to dare:
it's all for the wrong reasons:
no for reasons akin to: i! i am Spartacus!

people say awful things about slavery...
i wonder... what slave was ever homeless?
what slave was ever left without food, without shelter?!
well **** me: if you're not a self-developed
business man... chances are: sure... you're not a slave...
just someone who earn a wage...
but someone who earns a wage is not someone
who's someone's responsibility
to demand the person bestowing said responsibility
to keep the slave: alive, fed, sheltered...
by simply earning a wage does not imply
my status is better than that of a slave...
is it? IS, IT?!
i just earn a wage... i have to provide food and shelter
for myself... as a slave: and not a wage-earner:
i had to have food and shelter provided for me:
for my services...
i didn't care about money because i was already
given what money would otherwise provide:
or rather, in the ancient realm: wouldn't...
since shelter was inherited by the manor
and food too... from owning farmyards...

i don't think slavery was bad... wage-employment
is far worse... esp. those zero-hour contracts...
no one can tell me that's beneficial to anyone...
zero-hour contracts is worse than slavery...
at least as a slave you had intrinsic value...
obviously disposable...
but as a wager... SLAVE CONTRA WAGER...
you have no instrinsic value:
you only have extrinsic value:
you're doubly disposable...

           like the concern for INFLATION:
the end-product is inflated...
but the manufacturing mechanism isn't...
then there's the deflation aspect of
football clubs increasing the payouts of their
football players... but not decreasing
the price of their tickets to attend a match
or their merchandise: t-shirts etc.!
fair enough: pay the players more...
but at least have the decency to cut down the ticket
prices to see a football match...
or the price of the merchandise...
but no... these clubs either keep it at the same price
or inflate the ticket prices...
but if the players are earning more?
why should the people pay more?!
surely they should be paying less!

SLAVERY wasn't a bad thing... not in my eyes...
i think slavery was a good thing...
you had protection... a SLAVE had more protection
against the peril of a "free" society than a WAGER
will ever have...

what are the chances of me retiring at my grandfather
did? getting a proper state pension,
passing it down my wife after my life,
allowing her last 10 years of life to be lived
in a luxury that only old age might hinder?
ZILCH!
of the people that applied for job i'm currently at....
i seem to be the only "slave": i.e. employee...
the rest are self-employees...
i do my job well because i don't have to:
invoice my presence... i get invoices by someone
else...i trust my "handlers"...
i look at dogs, i look at cats...

who was Proximo to Maximus in the fillm
Gladiator? a mere slave-owner?
really? Maximus was merely a WAGER?
Proximo didn't care about Maximus was more than
a WAGER and more a, commodity?
i'd love to feel like a commodity again...
i'd hate to be treated as a WAGER: as an EARNER...
i think slaves, "slaves" had more monetary rights
than people of our current age...
owning slaves came with responsibilities...
a bit like owning pets these days...
you had to be rich enough...
for one...
you had to clothe them... you had to feed them...
you had to put a roof above their heads...
to be considered a nobleman:
you had to treat them fairly...
these days? none of these rules need to apply...

the system of slavery worked on a decentralised
"bias"...
not on this, current, centralised bias of
the universal WAGE concept....
you're worse than a SLAVE... you're a WAGER...
communism tried to figure this out...
it never came close...
well, it did, for a short period of time...
the sort of period of time where:
drinking whiskey tasted like drinking regurgitated
garlic *****!

it's not working now...
not everyone can be some moon-blessed
entrepreneur... some people are truly allowed
the joy of being allocated the status of PAWN...
rather than BISHOP...
there are people that are like that...

if it was working NOW: it would be working WOW...
people exist for others to be looked up to!
you can't scribble some Darwinistic mantra
and expect people to stick to it!
it's either Darwinism or Christianity...
you can't have both!
there's one alternative... but you're not going
to like Islam...
i don't like Islam... i don't like circumcision...
that's why i'm expecting a 2nd schism
in this grand religion... spear-headed
by the Turks with a bunch of uncircumcised men...

i want whiskey to drip from my beard
while i drink it... and rub it into my chin...
and recall the number of tattoos i ought to have
from rekindling my mind to the past....

no one knows the name of the donkey that took
Jesus to Jerusalem as the fifth: "horseman" of
the Apocalypse toward that fateful Palm Sunday...
but... Muhammad's favourite cat's name is known...
the birth of the Korean script is known via
King Sejong... no one can rob me of this historical presence:
nothing is mythological too...
just easily forgotten...

me? i'm just clearing the path... for something...
more... expedient... more... clarifying...
let's share cats.
Miceal Kearney Sep 2010
I’ve got an axe to grind, so am sharpening it
on the wheel of my wit — hey;
blunt-force-trauma’s enough to a **** a man.

Who, by right, should’ve been an abortion.
I’d unflinchingly watch dogs
rip him to pieces.

In-fact I’d whistle
and call more dogs. But I
wouldn’t be the only one doing this.

If we were in space
I’d smash his visor
then ****** when he pops.

If this were to happen
it would, just mean that
I got there first.

If he were dangling off a cliff
to the bottom I would race
inflate a mattress to safely catch.

But I’d fill it with rocks and knives  
just to be sure.
To be sure, to be sure!
YoungSymba May 2015
Here I'm at this point(the present) standing placidly and astoundingly glancing at the zenith with wishes of reaching that peak and pinnacle of success. One step at a time, till you learn how to fly and I've heard a few say "patience is a virtue" and I believe so too,I believe patience is a harvest that's fruitful and can only bring forth happiness. Greatness takes time to acquire and for you to discover it within you requires qualities such as determination,patience and ambition. Those play a vital role for you to embrace that greatness.




As I reciprocate to my thoughts and reminisce about the years gone by,a phenomena occurs..I get a vivid glimpse of the future. Marvelled at my willingness to catapult beyond confinements. I give thanks to my inner peace that sources of this confidence so I could unflinchingly go toe-to-toe with any obstruction that gets on my path.


I live my life aware that with each breath I take I'm blessed therefore I'm appreciative of each day I get to live. I strategically calculate the steps I have to take to land me on the podium. In patience,occurs unnatural omens which signify the skies never receiving your hope. So even if I fail along the way I could never be inclined to give it all up.


P A T I E N C E = G R E A T N E S S
Patience equalises to the discovery of greatness. I wrote this when I had hope. Thinking back to those years gone by I know I'll make it to the top. I'll never use my circumstances as a scapegoat for my misfortunes. I don't know if this is a poem but I just wrote something someone out there can relate to.
blushing prince Jun 2017
My father’s name is Adam.  As in apple, the core stuck to a throat halfway, jutting seed.
This is the middle name that the business world has no whereabouts of. It was bestowed upon
him, this name, I imagine like all things; deliberately searching the scaffolds of the bible with apprehensive sweat trickling through brown sugar colored foreheads. However there’s nothing
biblical about this man. He has six children, the most unlucky of all numbers.
Thus, I have 5 half-siblings. Each with identically strange sunken eyes and tired skin.
The same kind of shared headache. Like being submerged for too long. Like too many mistakes and too little oxygen.
I am unlucky number 6. An omen-child. Not the settling of dust but of the silent movement before
it was ever frazzled by frantic feet. The calm you don’t want to realize exists.
3 daughters and 3 sons because he was compulsively articulate and clean; a nasty habit of OCD that was coddled by the women that washed their hands twice and bit their nails until they bled.
You see, I never speak of them because they do not speak of me.
Memory is tricky. Sometimes you remember the smell of fried pork in hands that have known hard
labor and other times you recall perfectly the pirated DVD’s sold for a dollar down the street of your neighbor’s apartment. The distorted graphics on the front, the headline in Spanish and despite how many people are there buying these illegally distributed films you wonder why you feel ashamed and embarrassed when you tell your friends, if you tell your friends but you don’t.
I know of their existence, of where they are located and could be found easily, their names and what they do but if one was to ask me, I would not know their personalities, how they react to bad news or if they are fulfilled, whether they know that our psychological genetics are cloudy and erratic and that is why Sundays always feel sacrilegious. They are faces in a picture that I never had a need to frame.
Despite having the same father, we do not call the same man, dad.
There is a brother that lives by the beach with a guy twice his senior.
They share martinis and aged bottled wine talking about social movements and Bill Clinton.
You see, he chooses to cohabitate with a man he knows is living his last few years and not a person that tied his shoes until he was 7 years old because he was too busy making time for other kids, stretching himself for everyone else that he had time for no one. There are certain unforgivable things a parent can do, like leaving too early, taking off 5 minutes before when he could have waited 10, turning the lights off when they should have stayed on, always. Yet there is a certain kind of pressure that is put on someone that is no less human than anyone else. Someone that can draw architecture and buy ice cream on days when limbs are too heavy to go to school can’t be all bad. Despite the entire trauma, you still pray and rescue wounded animals and that is something that can only be taught and not learnt.
So as these estranged family members disintegrated and gathered informative pieces about me through loose lips curious to see if I would fail, ravenous to know inevitable tragedy.
I unflinchingly understood the arbitrary imaginative reel of what is to be alone. To grasp all things violent and horrific to witness and endure it with closed fists and well-aware eyes. To go on vacation trips and enjoy the sunburnt noses of tourists waving their flyers in the air like flamingos flapping off the insects from their pink wings. Instead of playing in the sand with a second pair of hands and having inside jokes there was a long inspection of scars and the way adults consulted with other adults by trying out different words like masks hoping to impress and even humiliate the other with their colorful lyrics but after all only jargon.  
My father’s name is Lazarus. As in open tomb, cheating death with the sweet victory of another pulse.
I often dream about his funeral. The day when there is no father to blame, no man to pin my overzealous heart of anxiety. To face a family that is neither welcoming nor reproachful but is always silent. Just dagger glances, fang and hiss.  I wake up in sweat. Sometimes it is because I am there and the casket is open but he’s laughing and no one showed up, there is no wind and my legs feel like a tube of jelly, microwaved honey. I try to say the things I’ve always wanted to tell everybody that has ever had anything to do with me, the apologies I shouldn’t have handed and the truth I should have had memorized anyway. But I just end up spitting seeds, a million of them flowing out of my hands dragging me out like a million wingless flies rejecting the tears that I cried for all the wrong reasons.
Other times it is crowded with people I didn’t know about, wasn’t aware of like searching through a private drawer and finding *** toys or things you wish you hadn’t discovered and the casket is empty, there is an imprint of a body but no one resides inside until the floor drops and there are stairs I’ve seen before, somewhere at some point. When I get to the bottom there’s a whisper
“where can I find you if not in here, on skin that is my own, on a forehead where no one asks if it remembers Chinese food and the pinch of birth.”

I love my father but I would never tell him no not directly.
I love him to death and am relieved to know
I will never be a dad.
Never be a forced hero.
Never proof of something that wasn’t trying to hide in the first place.

This is a letter to strangers, a dissertation, repertoire
to people I have known but have not fully held
to the ones that I am bound by blood but would not
recognize in a crowded room
out of all these ambiguous characters
I am unlucky number 6. An anomaly of chance girl. Not the settling of dust but of the silent movement before it was ever frazzled by frantic feet. The calm you don’t want to realize exists.
Mitchell Aug 2012
Each separation gathers
A pound for pound
Anxiety - a distrust
In both myself the other

Though love is true
The foundation can still
Be rocked, like a flimsy ship
In a rolling storm

We are slaves to bad information
We want to believe the worst
For the worst is something much more
Tangible than the positive

Why be chained to unfortunate luck?
Why linger on past events gone sideways?
I miss the heat we would produce
The naked truths we stared at
Unflinchingly, at times, unknowingly

Rising in this noon day sun
My lover gone and far away
We share our thoughts, our memories
Our insufferable means to our ends
But the horizon holds true
As the red sky begins to turn blue

In this voice my promise is elusive
When one asks for forgiveness
They must realize their soul will be bare
50's in their might had their chance, and well
Here we are, in the dark, asking whose to start

And when I started it was by chance
My hands took to the page
Like a flirt would with a glance
And in my terror I discovered my own lies
My own truths, swearing never
To chase another's life or prize

In solitude the poet must wither
Like the lone redwood in forgotten forest
The myth of the angel hangs over my bed
But instead of worrying of the right definition
Allow each to fight for the life it thinks it deserves
Paul Butters Jan 2018
Those eyes
So sad
So loving, loyal and true.
Who can resist that look
From a dog?

Best family member
Of the animal kind.
So devoted to his Mum and Dad
And even uncle.

No fickleness here:
Unflinchingly faithful.
Loving to run and fetch
For his master or mistress.
Even bring in the ‘paper.

See him jump for joy
As you grab the lead
That he’s brought you.
It’s “That time”…

If you let him,
He’ll lick you all over
Before rolling on his back
For a belly rub.
(And his Missus is just the same)!

But those eyes have it:
Bottomlessly sad
So you just have to give him
Strokes and cuddles.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\1\2018.
Inspired by Stacy's dog Vinnie. Another one for Dog Lovers such as Pat Jackson, Stacy Taylor Prev Crossley, Alecia Bamford, Jane Chaplin, Jo Edwards, Joan Priestley...
Anais Vionet Nov 2021
It’s Saturday morning, and even though it’s Thanksgiving break, Lisa and I are in her bedroom, in NYC, studying.

“Ok,” Lisa stops, looks up and says, “give me a *** symbol.”

“I.. I don’t have one on me.” I say, apologetically.

“NAME one.” she clarifies.

“Are there “*** symbols” anymore?” I say, with air-quotes, “Who’s “Marilyn Monroe” today - Kim Kardashian - oooo - or Kendall Jenner?”

“I read Emily Ratajkowski refer to herself as a *** symbol the other day.” Lisa says.

“Is that the model that said she was groped at a naked photo-shoot?” I ask, as I google her.

“Yeah,” Lesa nods, “but it was a naked music video shoot.”

“Do you think I could model?” I ask, as I pose vampingly. “Be unflinchingly honest.” I request.

“Hhmmmm,” she considers, framing me in a finger rectangle pretend camera. “You’re like Marilyn Monroe,” she says, “in a training bra.” We burst out laughing

“Back to the subject,” Lisa says, “name a guy you think of as a *** symbol.”

“Humphrey Bogart!“ I say.

“Humphrey Bogart?? No!” she rejects him, wrinkling her nose, “too old-timey and dead, besides, he was a MOVIE star - come ON, a real one - SAY!”

Michael Gandolfini!” I offer.

“​​Michael Gandolfini??” she says, sounding stumped as her fingers google him.

*I make a dreamy “mmmm,” yummy sound.

“Oh, my GOD,” she says, and looks up for confirmation. “Humphrey Bogart and Michael Gandolfini - HONESTLY, you have the WEIRDEST taste!”

I was shocked, “No, seriously, don’t you think Michael looks kind of soft, cute and.. LUVable?”

She groans, “You’re going to marry an ugly man someday - aren’t you?” She pronounces, shaking her head.

“AM NOT!” I responded, throwing a pillow at her head (a pillow fight ensues).
deep university conversations.
rest of title...Parkland, Fla.,February 14, 2018

One more senseless mass homicide
   twas the sole arbitrary aim
as a former student nonchalantly
   sauntered empty hallways
   seconds preceding blame
brazenly intent to maximize total killed

   matter of factly telling police
   (his incomprehensible)
   (ill) logic he did explain
when cornered, he willingly,
   unflinchingly, reticently admitted guilt

Nikolas Cruz rocketed
   to instantaneous infamous fame
   pulling a fire alarm
   ("FAKE") emergency,

   then going leisurely ambling
   along his killing spree
total of seventeen slain (comprising 3 faculty
   and 14 students)
   mercilessly gunned down
   as if they were wild game

when handcuffed, an innocuous
   19 year old did readily admit
emptying one firearm after another
   at a fairly rapid clip

then at some predestined
   or spurious moment didst dip
and dive out amidst
   the chaotic madding crowd
   before reality flopped then did flip
as lower teeth he nervously bit upper lip

made feeble getaway
   at a nearby eatery casually flirted
   with cashier and made no move to flit
upon his seizure as cornered prey

   subsequently large tract
   massively cordoned off
   strong arm of the law
slightly halting in speech
   detailed his gambit

deliberately staking
   a stance to maximize hit
and once again afflicted parents lit
up with rancor and rage pit

toughly battling sorrow
   which will not quit
til death doth bring peaceful rest
   sans, those grieving family visit.
When your dance a bounty, yet sing
they fail – I have learned to love,
worrisome mother and adorn you:

such a kiss is planted
a rose on the plump cheek of children.
your girth measures unflinchingly,
the laughter of the world around you
so small, kept in a dark, blinkered box.
your parasol smothers the light
cast unswervingly on stone.
who has long kept you in the caliginous womb,
with all the light that spangles through?
who has snuffed your little arms
and dressed you for everyone to see?
when you are quite flamboyant for
everyone to feast on,
what word passes on as salutation?
when you are festive enough to revel in,
what pagoda tries itself to the life
allowed to gleam proudly?

women, men, children, and all -
frolicsome around the darkled bough
smitten by the frayed sight of believing,
sifting from the way our hands
craft things the dispensable glee
of glasswork: the world is Murano.
and my eyes have seen all flourish
in a darling ebb of curbed felicities – the diaphanous
clangour of steel and shadow.
the slain orchestra of frogs in the crush of rain.
the detriment of the Earth curled like an infant
in the womb of the dark.

     - oh trees and their wondrous life of green,
begin to question the wind and its tourniquet;
shadows drunk on turpentine, the spry wilt of hours:
what is their final duty?
   if our laughter is slain in the perils of night,
how are we to become them?
I can feel the demons. The darkness inside of me.
Its very subtle. It is slow, and patient.
But then, after a lot of stress or damage, it explodes.
The black becomes red,
And the hunger that has been festering,
Unflinchingly screams out for more
For blood and gore.
And lust.
I feel as if on the edge of a very perilous cliff,
And at the very bottom the lord of evils himself awaits,
With. Very soft, very kind smile.
I want to trust those eyes.
I want to grab her ***,
I want to take her where she stands.
And when the try and stop me I want to ****,
I want to be unstoppable,
I want to rule and never be questioned,
I want to be right, and always right.
I want to be known as great and terrible and fearsome and I want to destroy.
I want to destroy, so that this emptyness I reside in,
Is not mine alone.
Erin Joan Apr 2016
but mostly
what makes my mind
veer off track at night
is the fear of you changing
leaving me
dried up mud
crumbling in the cracks
of your sneakers.
i’m so very frightened
of the day
i am no longer enough.


and that’s what f-cking ***** right now.


because I’ve always tried
to push fear back down my throat
like sour bile
in a mini puke.
i’ve always wanted
to desensitize myself
because EMOTION
IS A SYMPTOM
OF WEAKNESS
.
And so i’ve aspired
to be quartz
with cracks that don’t break open.


but i’m just here.

i'm watercolor floral patterns
on chipped porcelain.
and there is nothing i can do
to exist more unflinchingly

a product of human error
just like all the rest
tugged along by oxytocin handcuffs
a slave to serotonin
a slave to that which makes me feel.

and it frustrates me that I can be so pathetically human.
and I am grinding my teeth  
with each word of this
cliché.
idiotic.
diluted.
love poem.
i am trembling with the injustice
i am shaking with the question:
why can’t i be the exception?
why can't i be charcoal?
In the herd of sheep
too caught up
in being loved
to save themselves
from being left.
Jay G Apr 2014
' I woke.



I slept.

I dreamt of nothing.

Stars littered the sky as I rose.

The moon poised it’s deep, sorrow face.

Over the valleys a hungry wolf howled melancholy with the sad moon.

“Why are we so alone, in a world of encumberance?” The wolf asked of the moon.

The moon just wallowed, and did not speak, the moon never did.

The wolf languished near the stream, cautiously perking up at the sounds coming from the dark wood behind.

Hope was far from the wolf’s weighted mind. His life had been filled with loneliness. Raised from birth by the Earth alone, none other called him as their own. He hunted alone, he ate alone, he slept alone, and he was doomed to die alone as all others.

Deep in the dark wood, a pack of ferocity lingered in the shadows, prowling on the lone wolf.
The black horror claimed this land as his own, and he allowed no trespassers. His pack was equally relentless, and they would spill the blood of all who opposed this challenge.


The wolf continued to howl, prickles of black fur sprang up on his neck as the scent of a foe approached.

The pack moved in on him, six snarling snouts, and twelve yellow eyes gleamed at him.
They were hungry.
We’re all hungry.
We’re all starving.

The moon watched unflinchingly, as the water ran red past the bellowing frogs, chirping crickets, the oaks branches that sunk low into the river, casting swaying shadows from the heavy moon.
He watched with his same sad face, how can anything constantly watching us ever have another emotion? The wolf lay, mangled and torn. The others attacked him in a contempt savagery, hunger tearing at their shallow bellies.
Spasms of fleeting feeling went through the wolf, the whites and greys of his once illecebrous and divine fur, now soaked with his own blood. His tongue lolled out of his snout, and his teeth were all shattered.
He hadn’t put up a fight.
The pack shredded him. The black wolf treated all outside wolves as threats. He had no interest of letting a stray wolf get into his pack and challenge his authority. So he killed, before he was challenged. It seemed ideal to him, and his pack was fed joyously. They licked their chops, grinned like a hyena, and barked laughter all at another, while the great black wolf, looked to the moon, and howled heinously in it’s direction.



The dark moon watches from above
So sad at what he must see
The good sun wished with him
To disperse light over the seas

They wept and cried
laughed; and died
The light was put in place
Dark doesn’t surrender to grace
It's unconventional, and what started as a short story seems more of a poem to me, however you may decide.
Chandra S Nov 2019
I

THE REMARK

She scornfully remarked,
"Ha, Ha, men?.....
They are dogs,
all of them"
and then went on
and said,
"Most of my friends are men"

II

THE QUESTIONS

It was a casual conversation
but left behind nagging questions:

One:
Is woman really liberated?
For if that were so,
she would be free to sow
the seeds for a malice-free life:
A life that is
marked by sobriety
and unshakable fraternity –
A distinguished burden which principally she
can carry gracefully
till we all reach Goshen.

Two:
Has man been always liberated?
You may or may not agree,
I just say what I see.

III

THE VICTIM

Among the countless atrocities
on the vast womankind,
a hoarse, feeble voice thus pines:

Look at him;
He has been trained to ****
and be unflinchingly killed.....

He is:
an oblivious slave to his condition,
.....a victim of unmindful persuasions
by apathetic social conventions....
crippled....plagued...
by inherited apparitions
of our grand forefathers.

He has been brutalized too
on his way from a wobbly boyhood
to a hard-bitten manhood.

IV

SYSTEMIC SCARS

One could write a manuscript.
Instead I cite a sparse list
about how
he has been systematically marred
by the oppressive
socio-economic-political farce:

......of the defense ministry,
or salvation through insurgency...

......of the drug cartel,
or the liquor-tobacco lobby...

......of the boss's fancy,
......of female friendly courts,
...even sports!!!
......of the spousal gripe.....
and most of all...
....through the stereotype hype.

V

DIS-EMPOWERMENT OF MAN

Is man really enfranchised?
I am a man and I vouch otherwise.
........

Bully the other boy
else...
just play with a toy
solitary.....a *****.

You are born with a member,
Now, my goodness,
prove to be better
than your female opposite number;
An impossible task,
for no gender
is exclusively first-class.

Prove your chivalry;
find a nice young lady
or carry some forbidden
infamous label.

Hide your malaise,
pretend to be at ease,
do not brood,
or be doomed
as a sentimental fool.

Always be okay alone
wherever you are
whatever you are...
sickly or strong.

Feel guilty.
After all, all social malady
is solely your responsibility.

You are just the "unfair ***"
...an ugly accumulation
of grossly vile testosterone,
no match for the noble progesterone.

My unfortunate friend, do you see…
That radical crowd....so elite?
That is the "fair-***",
not ye.....not ye.

Apart from a backbreaking childbirth,
most other dangerous or physically stressful work
is a man's traditional berth.

Even the macrocosm
has been a scrooge,
depriving him
from the possibility of motherhood;
...the sensational miracle of natural creation.

Is man really free...?

VI

THE SLOG DOG

But yes,
as my good friend said,
there still remains
a thin little thread
of fragmentary credence,
hanging like a dire dog-collar.

It says:
Man is a two-timing slog-dog;
unfaithful to many
but loyal to love,
wagging the tail
for his lovely suffragette dove.

She can heap
his eating bowl
with puppy-love chow
and he will be forever hers.
Inspired by the fault in popular notion that only a woman is disempowered in our social setup. The truth is that both genders suffer though the reasons may be different.

I am just making an attempt to write from a man's perspective, which is often ignored or understood only in a singular way - that all men are by default oppressors of women.

It is not my intention to hurt anyone. Any offence caused is purely unintentional.
Nicholas Rew Mar 2015
Why must passion be frustratingly entangled in melancholy
The words remembered are acidic; a teary brine
Nights of foraging your soul alone hang in the hallways
When the only drunk that's worth a **** is nostalgia
And the only ink in the universe is trapped by old letters

You drown any fire mercilessly, unflinchingly
Because at least the colds consistent
And at least you've learned to cope
Breakdowns are receding with miles of open road
Nights of infinite stars drape a world's worries
Nat Lipstadt May 2020
Shiv Pratap Pal  writes me:

“Every elder must be respected even if he is elder by a single day. This is tradition. Please let me follow the same. A poet never gets tired and poetry never dies.”

<>

Oh! this leaves me gasping for so many reasons needing enumeration.

The world reminds me daily by email and text, television commercial,
I am a privileged one, by age and right, among the most vulnerable,
so stay, baby, stay, inside your apartment and your mind where the
only virus that can come, is the one you’ve planted and tended all your whole life long.

Oft have I writ about being closer to the end, and this, untroubling,
a relief of sorts in what I fear is a new Dark Age that will arrive,
that will make writing poetry, sadly, an unlikely survival skill,
so I rite furious and furiously to give the best, the rest, of me, away.

Few are the societies that do not venerate to some degree, the elderly,
as if living long bestowed wisdom, in addition to an irritable crankiness,
(why the Inuit Indians put their elderly on an ice floe to die)
neither, both, of the “ain’t necessarily so” conditionals as wisdom deevolves and crankiness is a perpetual, a perpetual annoyance.

Do I deserve respect?

This haunts, for by right, we all believe it is
a conditional that must be earned, and not acquired by a general,
genetic lottery. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
I do not, and a man who announces,
“I am deserving of same”
by saying this, clearly is and was not, or ever will be.

A single day!

What an amazement!

This relativity theorem, this luck of the draw, can’t argue with it, because it is tradition, somethingthat I’m well acquainted, because when I suffered on Saturdays, as an Orthodox Jewish  Child, who wanted to worship with the brothers at the Riverside Drive basketball courts, was dragged to a synagogue where he joked, they could of just inserted the video tape of the prior week, prior year, thousands of prior centuries, a previous millennium, who’d notice?


Who deserves respect?

The teacher, the one who gives it instant unflinchingly,
he who accepts a task from a stranger to translate
his words to a language he knows not even the alphabet,
indeed, a tribute to another, and executes it so well, but best! best!
no questions asked.

Who deserves respect?

One who respects tradition,
giving respect unquenchingly,
for the things that we cannot see,
only observe, come only in a size of limitless,
come unasked, freely given, even happily, and this is
why, for all of the reasons herein listed above, I give all respect to
a fellow poet, and pledge to arm embrace before tradition’s always untimely messenger says to me अब और नहीं!  (no more!)


                                       Shiv Pratap Pal
Parkland, Fla. February 14, 2018

One more senseless mass homicide
   twas the sole arbitrary aim
as a former student nonchalantly
   sauntered empty hallways
   seconds preceding blame
brazenly intent to maximize total killed

   matter of factly telling police
   (his incomprehensible)
   (ill) logic he did explain
when cornered, he willingly,
   unflinchingly, reticently admitted guilt

Nikolas Cruz rocketed
   to instantaneous infamous fame
   pulling a fire alarm
   ("FAKE") emergency,

   then going leisurely ambling
   along his killing spree
total of seventeen slain (comprising 3 faculty
   and 14 students)
   mercilessly gunned down
   as if they were wild game

when handcuffed, an innocuous
   19 year old did readily admit
emptying one firearm after another
   at a fairly rapid clip

then at some predestined
   or spurious moment didst dip
and dive out amidst
   the chaotic madding crowd
   before reality flopped then did flip
as lower teeth nervously bit upper lip

made feeble getaway
   at a nearby eatery casually flirted
   with cashier and made no move to flit
upon his seizure as cornered prey

   subsequently large tract
   massively cordoned off
   strong arm of the law
slightly halting in speech
   detailed his gambit

deliberately staking
   a stance to maximize hit
and once again afflicted parents lit
up with rancor and rage pit

toughly battling sorrow
   which will not quit
til death doth
   those grieving family visit.
Grace Haak Sep 2019
Shadows grip our tongues in fear
Stopping us from spilling words they might not wish to hear
They choke us with their invisible hands
Stopping us from unflinchingly taking the stand
They stare into our souls with veiled eyes
A vaporous possession from ghosts in disguise.
A poem written around Halloween...The imagery seemed fitting.
Crackpot Kid Aug 2015
all this space
and none of it mine.
my mind trapped
in the deep crevices
of the world's sadness.
nothing is as it should be,
too much greed and easy distractions
follow us all like shadows.
we're just ghosts,
old faded pictures
of the gods we used to be.
this is what hell looks like,
this is the hell we've created.
over indulgence bruising our already
mangled and somewhat fragile
heart space.the heaviness
unflinchingly honest in it's
drawing in,pulling out our
very souls through our
clothes and cars and cracked smiles.
sealed in this vacuum of silence
and terror,this hopelessness
sits hollow in the heart of
our collective consciousness.
the more we see,the more we know,
the more we know,the more we need
and want and the more we get
the emptier we become.
always,always more.
never satisfied,
enough will only be reached
when the world burns in the fire
of our insatiable gluttony.
Ashley Mar 2014
i think a lot about how
things that happen to people make
them different, change their
ways and point of view.

i think about the boy
whose dad died in the eighth grade
from cancer. i think about
how someone who was a ****
at heart turned to words
and found himself again, found his
father in verses about aged trees
and kicking footballs so high,
they're weightless for a
little while.

i think about my former best
friend whose dad left her mom
when she was little, and it hurt
her so much that she took her fists
to friends and enemies alike. i think
about how she used a sharp tongue
to drag others down with her, to shrink
them and make her feel better about
herself; i don't blame her for that.

i think about the girl who is so
afraid she'll never meet somebody
again who will love her that she stays;
she stays with a boy who does not love her
or care enough to tell her how beautiful
she is every single day.

i think about the boy so hidden
behind weight he desperately lost
and the mountain that his superstar best
friend's voice has created
that when he finally got his spotlight,
he tattooed it across his forehead so
everyone knew that he is greater,
that he should be recognized.

i think about you and how
somewhere along the way, between
one of your best friend's tragic accident
and the year i didn't get to know you,
you gave yourself up
so unflinchingly to god and his
words
and yet you bathe in a pool of temptation
because the people surrounding you have
been all but blood since birth.

i think about myself
and how i picked myself up
and glued myself together after
three years, surrounded by debt
and a lack of the most important
thing to living, consumed by betrayal
and the death of a beloved,
drowning in you and feelings i didn't
know could be so strong,
all while encased in a bulging skin poisoned
with (self) hate and withering
with blackness.

i think about how people become who they
are, how we struggle to survive,
how we find ourselves. i think
about it so much that often i wish i could
understand every reason, every decision,
that it was okay to ask.
life is tricky, but everyone
has a cheat to make it through
each wretched level
of existence.
Jack R Fehlmann Oct 2018
I am accepting an unwanted truth
But the truth, though the better
When compared next to kin
Such so notorious as deception
Or one infamous cousin
Known by and called upon
Across throat and lips and tongue
Whispered and known as Lies
Branch out from one shared limb
Of the tree of life, we are in
Ripening, trying to hold on
Growing too heavy
For such is our position
Too far out, at the very ends
The day that closes in
To fall off, wrapped in uncaring wind
The ground will welcome
Cold and hard to a rotten end
Some carried off to be tasted
And taken in, for the goodness they will give
The rest then witness the ruin
Of the form they have become  
As sweet turns bitter
Decay seeps in, spreads itself within
as this truth has done to me it seems
To ever be the one,
She loves, says she needs,
Puts effort towards keeping
In the life we once believed we wanted
Truth is it was simply, completely
My own, alone
My dream, my own self deception
My acquaintance with her sister Lies
That sold myself my own denial
Made me choose the view to fit
The dream i never get
And now i see things the way they are
Truth can be a difficult one
Abrasive and brutal, Unflinchingly effective
At lessons when forced to be taught
But Truth will never leave
Emptiness such as the pit my Lies wrought
Work in progress.  Lesson I'm learning within. Or trying to by any means.
Kiara Claire Sep 2015
I know that I m in a daze so I accept this unflinchingly
This is almost familiar
Once again, I approach it, unwavering
Without further ado, it begins
It feels quite habitual
I know I will not be overwhelmed nor threatened
I see it again and like how stories end
This has to end
I wish for this moment to be tangible
I would memorise and repeat it all over until it starts to dissipate
Maybe it would repeat for eternity in some place where dreams are kept
Dreams

— The End —