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Thescientist Aug 2015
Hear Ye, Hear Ye!

I have never been one to do things usual,
wet down and reusable
straight up delusional,
sometimes confusing all,
******* useable.

So juvenile.


Between you and me,
this girl is overly irreverent,
open book intelligent,
in need of saving reverend,
whose arrogant,
most relevant.
I'm typically benevolent.
It's evident I'm heaven sent,

REPENT!

I'm unsusceptible to rules,
except on days like April Fool's.
I'm orthodox, I kid,
you wish.
Unorthodox, reborn,Jewish

Foolish.


I have never been one to do things usual,
Chained up? Refuseable,
tied down and doable,
funked up and beautiful,
French words excusable,
the next line unsuitable.
Sheeda Mar 2013
A kiss in the blue black dark
Inhibitions lost to drink
But slowly returning
Almost sober, but not quite
Forehead to forehead
Nose to nose
Chin to chin
Mouth to mouth
Resuscitation from this
Dream
Sparks fly between the two
But there are repercussions for that
Hands of another were held so tightly
Lips of another were made slightly wet
With a kiss unorthodox, taboo
Another's ******* pressed to his chest
While trying to make out another's eyes in the dark
A whispered goodnight
An event unregretted
A secret?
Lips that burned for more
But shushed
And feelings unrestrained.
It all comes down to one moment,
a year of love, and happiness,
is ended within a day.
Everything we were,
the future we wanted...
was it right?
Was it wrong?
What can I say?
I guess Im the...
Unorthodox heart breaker,
And I want to die now,
for the pain I've caused you.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.i'm not here for the people, i'm here for the language, having observed it degenerate into modern hieroglyphics of emoji, and the acronym standard of american English... i'm here... for the language... the people? well... they're the people, and will always remain, what they always were... collateral... i can't speak for the organic product of what i am an inorganic byproduct of... why would there ever be a Hegelian dialectic to begin with? rather than a dichotomy? wasn't Kant the one to come up with a priori (thesis) and the a posteriori (antithesis) dynamism? no? then i guess i'm illiterate! must be! otherwise, how so?  i can't exactly command my a priori, given, with some "wonderful" a posteriori substitute of the global individualist! this urban Frankenstein! maybe the English speaker can... but i can't... given they allowed themselves the travesty of grammatical profanity... it's almost a shame, that the asylums closed down... when is cushioned room when you need one? oh... right... denial for the cases equivalent to jimmy salive... you attack grammar?! you attack us all... there's not qualification standards required... not all of us are required to have status as English language teachers... some of us? are just generically frustrated!

would i extinguish
cigarettes into my knuckles?

well... i was trying to
spot bone,..

but the real reason?
ha ha!

i was attempting to
count the number of eyes
on a tarantula.

not a funny joke?
i get it...
   i wasn't aiming for funny...

ever watch the grooving
bopping along,
seduced by the rhythm
bass player in a band?

you'd thin it was the drummer...
turns out?!
the intermediating
   focus....
   bass is all rhythm...
there's no such thing
as a rhythm guitar section,...

hardly any drums in
a classical music composition...
bass...
the subversive underlying
principality
of the fiasco...
the...
                          Pandemonium!

set your eyes on the bassist's groove...
pursed lips...
mm hmm ya ha...
           the *******
blood suckling artery
with not need for metaphor
presence of a band...

bass... bass... bass...;
hence the missing E i guess;
was, and always will be:
the base and bait
for listening to 20th century music...

whiskey lime & pepsi?
***** lemon & pepsi?
can't tell the difference,
both sound equally promising...

it pains me, to agitate a drummer's heart,
imitating a beat
without any drumming equipment...
bopping along, sly, shy,
and sometimes awry, fired up...
        
there were a few things i'd love
to have become,
a prof. cyclist doing the tour de france....
a vet practitioner...
    among others...
   what did i become?
a mediocre poet...
       a spewer of words
rather than their instigator...

had i ever the ability to write
pop **** jargon of
lost and wishing for awaiting loves...
i'd **** one of those
housewife harlequin novels!

alas... not to be, not to be...
     guess i tapped into Russian funk...
that Russian ex-girlfriend?
apparently she likes my writing,
she said: you should get published...
i did... little as **** did that do to
me in securing a stature of possible
fatherhood and a Tolstoy town-house
in the middle of St. Petersburg...

    i wasn't a priori to fiddle that
******* out into a castrated bull
******* an ****** with no *****
but pure muscle tension
of the phallus...

   wait... you never ****** off
as a man, prior to producing *****?
feel sorry for you...
guess the whole abortion debate
is killing you...
          you know...
  that's almost equivalent to theft...
what happens on the throne of thrones
and is dumped into a tissue?
ditto, i.e. remains there...

       thieving *****...
                  huh?!
                    **** it... do the Islamic take
on thieves...
ensure all the western men have
their ******* arms cut off...
to stop the thieving with
western culture jurisprudence
in-acting transgression
of transcending the allowance of
abortion, and...
enforcing...
                whatever the ****
fatherhood means...
when?
     a women proposes to you...
and then decides to throw away her
engagement ring, she, herself, chose...

as if... she never had the notion
of being young and being poor...
**** me! she forgot the beautiful part
of the equation!
  i liked her doughnut over-sized nose...
i loved to teasingly bite it
during *******!

      **** me... that contorted
face, Francis Bacon-esque
in the mirror doing *******?

      mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

look here: FULL MOON ALL OVER
MY FACE...

         there's no revenge ****
in this scenario...
                
  hey! resurrect the Bastille!
and i'll be the second Marquis de Sade
screaming the revolutionaries!
YOU FORGOT THE JUICE!
the juice?!
YEAH! THE MOLOTOV COCKTAILS!

                anarchy...

       what order is there to speak of?
when grammar is secondarily dictated,
outside of the teaching profession?
     these people are teaching me language,
or secondarily indoctrinating
me into the abuse of language -
with political bull's diarrhea?

   can't have one and the other...
   you attack grammar?
        everyone restricted to a grammatical
conventionality, will...
spank you with a naked russian saber...
   i'm not here for playing
unorthodox language games
outside of crossword puzzles
i don't entertain having the capacity
to solve...

               you play your game...
i'll play mine...
i have the integrity of the English
language at stake...
   not this post-colonialist quasi-English
*******!
"It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you,"
but seriously don't you want to?
I'm giving you permission,
I'm giving you the go.
Because all I want to know is who you are,
along with what you fear, what you love, what makes you smile and laugh.
And in the end it's ok if you want to let me go,
I'll treasure every moment we spend together even if you don't.
The first line is one of my favorite quotes from John Green's *The Fault in our Stars*.
Carolyn J Apr 2014
If I am to dig graves for the rest of my life
I wish to do it with my hair long and proud,
Swinging at the small of my back as a testament of
Will in the face of adversity,
Grown by the fruits of my labor.
I want to harvest the nectar
From the pear tree on my horizon
And when I eat my fill,
I will just as easily leave the sweetness behind,
Before it spoils and then,
I will look the hurricane in the eye and laugh,
Because I know it will baptize the earth
And my pear tree will be waiting for the day
This nomad returns to her roots.

If I am to choose between
A false lover and Uncertainty in the North
I want to have the gall to say,
“Brother, come at eight.”
I want to have the self-control
To lower the gun on a man,
Whose mind is a dank closet full of spiders.
By then, I must be ready to venture out,
And risk this Uncertainty in the North.

If I am to take my revenge,
I wish to do so without collateral damage,
And if I do,
I want everyone to learn that revenge
Will stab you with your own rapier
And that I am the kind of person,
Who will make you drink your own wine,
Because, in the end,
We are all sinners.

If I am to write propaganda to support
A nauseating turn of society,
I would rather be exiled.
Iceland, Siberia, The Ministry of Love:
They are all the same,
Because I will come out a different person
For better or for worse.

I wish to have the strength to cut my hair
Because I will not hesitate
To cut ties with anyone,
Who stands in the way of my passion.
I must be unorthodox
If I see my fellow men
Following in each other’s footsteps, with their eyes closed.
I will scream it in the streets,
“The world is not pretty.”

If I am to be unorthodox,
I wish to have faith,
Strong enough not to be undone by mere chance,
Strong enough so I can watch the coin fall:
Heads.
Heads.
Heads.
Accepting that I will one day die.
And if it involves a ship,
I will be its captain.
How many allusions can you name in this poem?
ryn Oct 2014
Found myself at a dental clinic...
He was the best there was.
Unorthodox and eccentric,
But to the specialised craft, he was boss.

Ran through the bits and bobs
Like any normally would.
The poking and prodding and the mandible X-rays.
Everything cold and clinical, so was the mood.

Strange was what happened next...
Specialist and I then stood facing each other.
He leaned close and pressed his palms against my rib cage.
Held them there over a few breaths before it was over.

Then a brief chat, small talk initiated by the man.
Bespectacled and exceedingly chatty, small in stature.
Talks of politics and odd human behaviours...
What started off as friendly turned into a heated banter.

I then realised that along with his decorated credentials,
Was his propensity to be condescending and arrogant.
Him being the best, I thought I could let it all slide,
But soon enough I opted out of being a willing participant.

Couldn't stand his abrasive cockiness!
I snapped out of being cordial and passive thought.
I wanted him to just stop talking!
I went, "Well, are you going to fix my teeth or not?!"

He was stunned momentarily...
I suppose he hadn't seen that coming.
Then his features softened to a blank
I could almost read the unspoken words he was conjuring.

With an exasperated sigh of resignation,
He uttered his next words swollen with regret
"There's no need...for you only have four years left."
It dawned upon me that my timer has been set.

*And then I woke up...
Had this dream several nights ago. I believe that in a lifetime, we'd probably get at least three dreams that would be etched in our minds forever. So far I've had two... The other is in my earlier writes.
See "Mysterious".
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/831521/mysterious/
Jarel Allen Mar 2015
Have you ever dreamt of what's it's like to wake up knowing you left others to live their lives as your soul ventures on it's new journey, after death, but before Christ you will bend hand and knee letting Him know you believe and hope that you will fit through the narrow pathway into the gates of heaven not quite sure of what it will be, but sure enough of it being pure greatness. And in a split of a second all of your lifetime memories replay inside of your mind causing a neurological explosion of nostalgia to release and you remember...remember those you love living in the moment and feeling the pain of sorrow

Can you prove to me that it isn't a struggle to tell a young black boy that he will never experience the physical presence of his mother, because she was taken away from him when he was just a baby. A baby, who will grow and wonder why none of the familiar faces is the one he is in search for. A child, who will never have the benefit of being a mamas boy. A young man, victim of defaulted abandonment issues. Just another precious black son, who will be challenged as another statistic because he was deprived of the greatest love one can ever receive.

A mothers love is one of the greatest love there is, but a black mothers love is even more powerful. Because a black mothers love is built on back aches from working all day long to feed her children dinner ever night. Foundation so strong, Hercules himself would break a sweat. A black mothers love is shaped by the predetermined deck of cards she was dealt as a person of color ever since the beginning. Misused and hardly understood. Her worth, a beautiful black queen so devine, it shall endure until the end of time.

And still I ponder!

How can you tell a mother holding her newborn child that before she sees her last day, her sons body will leave this earth before her own? Giving her the knowledge that will cause hurricanes to reach shore. Changing her life for the worst, because she must raise a boy who may not make it into being a man, but he will always be a mamas boy. And she will do her ****** best to make sure his life was worthwhile and had meaning. Impacting more then just herself, but the world around.

I tell you, there is not a pain greater than a mother laying her son to rest, because  his days are ceased before her own. It's non-traditional, a bit unorthodox but is slowly making its way into a norm as the number of young black lives lost rises. Im just tired of seeing the numbers of my people drop slowly but surely  

So, still I ask when are black lives going to matter? How many more lives have to be stolen from us until we say enough is enough? How many more lives have to be stolen until we teach our young ones to love their skin, and every little thing that makes them them. Teach them, that black is beautiful and always has been. Maybe then we will find peace, And if not we will die trying.
𝐕𝐕 Oct 2020
To fulfill a psychopath’s pleasurable dream while under psychological stress is rather an unorthodox way to keep your mind ******* on tight.
don’t do it — you would unmistakably lose yourself in the end if you treat yourself to these people’s wishes. do not fall to the manipulative appearance of a potential lover, for there is more charm amongst the living right-minded people.
Redshift May 2013
mike, you puzzle me.
you make me
think
that you only want to see me
so you can think about me
later
when you're by yourself
and that's kinda
weird.
you beg
to see me
and then leave
quickly
just so you can
think about me.
mike,
i think you
like the idea
of me
but i am too real
too existent
to actually be around
you have to satisfy your imagination
get something new to dream
and then you
leave
mike,
you
puzzle
me.
judy smith Nov 2015
In June this year, designer Masaba Gupta and film producer Madhu Mantena had the quietest of civil ceremonies. It was only when she took to Twitter the next day to talk about the court registry that most people heard of it. It was a move most unorthodox, for a leading fashion designer, especially one who counts several Bollywood actors among her close friends.

At the time, she also announced “a Caribbean wedding in November”.

The destination wedding isn’t happening. But that’s not to deprive us of a grand, four-day affair, the sort that has the most coveted guest list, and is followed with the keenest interest. It will start on November 19, with the bridal showers, will continue with the mehendi on November 20, the sangeet on November 21 and a gala reception on Sunday, (November 22). Expect the works, and guest lists that boast of Bollywood A-listers (Shahid and Mira Kapoor, and Sonam Kapoor are close friends, just so you know).

In short, it sounds like any other grand Indian celebrity wedding. Except, this is Masaba Gupta we’re talking about. As we catch up with her, we get the sense that she’s approached the whole thing with the same minimalism and quirkiness with which she approaches fashion. “A lot of people are invited,” she tells us, “But I’m not going around and talking about my wedding designer or my lipstick, so on and so forth.”

Unlike most Indian brides, she’s not even fretting over the big day, or days, as it were. “When I was growing up, I always saw brides around me under tremendous stress. The pressure to dress a certain way, wear a certain amount of jewellery and make-up... I saw how uncomfortable it was. So I decided that, if I do get married, I’ll be someone who puts comfort first, and then looks at her options for cut, colour, embroidery or jewellery,” says Gupta.

So, in case you do find yourself invited (otherwise, there’s always Instagram), don’t be surprised to see the most relaxed bride, dressed so comfortably that she’d be the envy of any married Indian woman. The idea, she says, is that a bride should “dress in a way that she can interact with people and have a good time herself.”

She’s also taken charge of the whole thing, and planned a non-fussy, non-extravagant celebration. “For me, three vacations is more value-for-money than a mandap with diamonds on it.”

True to her word, for her sangeet and reception, Gupta is ditching the norm of heavily designed lehengas and saris. “I didn’t go into that heavy, couture, bridal space. And I’m the kind of designer who wears works of other designers,” she says. So, her trousseau will have outfits by several other leading designers. “There are a few people who are great at doing certain things. Anamika [Khanna] is great at reception outfits. I can do a cool, quirky mehendi outfit. For a sangeet, somebody more in the Manish Arora or Shivan and Narresh kind of space,” she says.

The designer who’s always stood apart also seems keen to set an example. By not conforming to rules, Gupta wants to make a point. “I do want it to be about comfort, but I also want to change things up a bit. I want to set an example and say that you don’t need to wear a certain colour, a certain type of maang tika; your hair doesn’t have to look a particular way,” says the young designer.

Ask her if this is the (unconventional) dream wedding come true, and she laughs. “I never had a dream wedding. I’ve never visualised anything except clothes. Certainly not an elaborate wedding setup. See, I just don’t want to starve at my wedding. So, my dream wedding is one where I get to eat a meal while everyone else enjoys themselves as well.”

Masaba’s five-point guide to a chilled-out wedding

1) Get people to help out. If you try and look at every detail, you’re going to have a hard time. You may have a great input, but get people to do it for you.

2)People think you should shop for jewellery and clothes much in advance, but I think it should be done as close to the wedding as possible. You’ll have the latest stuff, and your taste might change over time. It’s best done around the wedding, so you don’t regret what you’ve bought.

3) Shoes are important. Make sure you’re in comfortable heels or flats, so you can survive the night.

4) Always test the make-up artist. Don’t just do a demo and leave it; test it through the day. See how the make-up behaves over a few hours, then you’ll know what it will actually be like, because it takes a couple of hours for make-up to set.

5) Receptions should start becoming more informal. You shouldn’t have to have the couple on stage smiling through the evening. I’ve heard of brides getting locked jaws. It’s absolute torture.

How to be the unconventional groom

• Fusion looks work well. If you’re wearing a Jodhpuri or a bandhgala, team it up with Jodhpuri pants. For men who are slimmer, suits do wonders.

• If you wish to be quirky and know you can carry it off, team dhoti pants and a shirt with a really formal blazer and a brooch.


• I love the cropped, ankle-length formal pants men are wearing now. It’s great for a reception.

• You don’t need to wear laced up shoes. Wear a nice slip-on in patent leather or a printed pair of shoes that stand out. So, you can make the whole look black and white, and have a nice pop shoe and make that the focus.

• Don’t be afraid of colours at your wedding. Get over navy blue, black or maroon. On a darker man, a haldi yellow kurta will look fantastic when teamed with an off-white or cream churidar. Even a soft pink in raw silk — it has a silver-pink shine — looks lovely.

How to be the ‘in vogue’ bride

• We’re seeing a lot of shapewear backs. Instead of the flared lehenga, women are opting for the fishtail cuts. Girls are also wearing shararas with big flares that almost look like a lehenga.

• Brides are going minimal. Go for less embellishment, and lighter lehengas.

• The dupatta is being ditched. Either that, or it’s attached. Much easier to handle.

• The choli is becoming more modest. People are wearing longer lengths, which are more fitted; the ‘60s style kurtas with shararas are also in. There’s more focus on the body and shape.

• I’m hoping the anarkali has died. It’s the worst of the lot. And it’s not very flattering. If you’re very skinny and tall, it works for you. If you’re short, you look like you’re lost in your outfit.

• Ditch the trail. At the end of the night, it’s a rag. It’s been stepped on and is *****.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/mermaid-trumpet-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses
Al-Sayyari Jan 2019
Be unorthodox,
Basque in non-convention,
pursue dangerous adventure,
and maybe, with time,
savor your uniqueness.
b for short Jul 2014
I sat down today and thought of a face—
with kind curves and welcoming eyes,
with a smile that could illuminate a space,
and warm the chilled voids betwixt thighs.

So I snatched up a pen and scribbled like mad,
an articulate letter on said visage so divine—
pages upon pages of marvelous musings—
hunger dripping off of each line.

Then my hands finished working, my fingers at rest,
observing my mess of inked letters and blots.
One simple message derived from it all:

**“You’re in my inappropriate thoughts.”
© Bitsy Sanders, July 2014
CIN Apr 2022
Let me walk along the roads like a wanderer
I’ll glance at the beggars
Side eye the kids walking home
Someone asks if i'm selling
I say not today
The nights are cold
Grass and dirt stain my old clothes
Traffic sounds
Anger and wrath
Where am I going?
Where will I go from here?
I don't know
for some reason lately all i want to do is hurt myself.
Anderson M Sep 2013
More often than not
I allow myself to be persuaded by reason
Though I occasionally give it a wide berth
For the sake of preserving the “sanctity”
Of reason itself
Is logic Human friendly
Is the answer to the above pertinent question ‘No’…?
a random stray....thought that hit my mind *hard*....'no' and 'yes' both necessitate **food for thought*
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Unorthodox avant-garde
Off key to thy sphere
Steep in lofty elevation
Crucial they are,
To anothers needs
When one dies
One tends to bleed,
His organs for a soupish trade
Magnates
Losers of this world
Kings and queens of
Lyra
Vega
M57
Celestial appendage
Pumpkin glow orb
We shalt explore
It's craters
And be sedated by the earth's view
For doth  they knoweth?
Their world shall soon end
As me and her
Will be bent
In ourn arms and legs as latches!!!!
We're just watchers
The ones who see all to cometh
Old time knowledge
For the earthlings who are far from becoming as one...
dev Jul 2014
Here's to the normal days.

The days you didn't get dumped.

The days you didn't cry.

The days you didn't meet the love of your life.

The days you didn't go out on an enormous adventure.

Here's to the days no one writes poems about.
Sonkei Ichimaru Oct 2014
When the dry eastern wind raises the dust,
The northern Scottish breeze sways the grass,
Where the pasture and desert meet, the fulfillment of cultivating is met.
Where the man and the woman meet, the very ground shall be covered with scattered weeds, for she will bring the snow, and he will bring the shovel.
Don't worry if you don't get it... I really don't think anyone can decipher it...
Ugo Nov 2012
The unorthodox are the true prophets
for their ways are those of the future,
so in the now, most kings get their head cut off.

But as death is the greatest prophet,
for it never fails to come true,
their martyrdom proves their ways truer than the footsteps of their fathers,
so in the face of adversities;
never be afraid to be a lonely Jesus on the Cross.
“Most young kings get their head cut off”—Jean-Michel Basquiat
g clair Sep 2013
Ginger ale, coke, lemon and lime
Don’t have a watch, can't tell you the time
Iced Coffee with milk, no sugar for me.
Don’t care for sweeteners, prefer caffeine-free
used to drink Yoohoo, but can't seem to hold it
Once owned a Ford Falcon, but somebody stole it

My father is cool, he trims up the hedges
Mom's kind of smooth, but rough 'round the edges
Once found a seashell, put it to my ear
all I heard was a-guzzlin' beer
guzzling beer, not what I expected
had me a Mexican, but soon he defected

Looked for him everywhere,thought he was nappin'
But he'd hit the pavement, hirotchees were slappin'
Somebody told me he's back in Borrero
fryin' up churros in a fancy sombrero
next time i move, gonna keep it professional
hire a crew, and avoid the confessional

Dined on raw fish with a *****, beguiled
'Till he told me he'd die before having my child
Excuse me, I told him, I think you're mistaken
I'd rather have triplets by **** Clay Aiken
Been burned before,but I'm still kind of shocky
Swallowed my pride and swore off the Saki

Low and behold, a dude who says "Schmat-zah"
unorthodox fella, who can't stomach mat-zo
Head full of curls nice Hebrew diction
believes in his heart aliens are nonfiction.
He ain’t into me, prefers to be single
Made sure my milk and his meat didn't mingle

Stopped into Quick-chek to get me a bite
met up with Manny who put up a fight
mountain of misery, terrible liar
asked for a bike and he gave me a tire
Flattened but patched my heart isn't aching
I think it's a sign the thing was worth breaking

The back roads to Red Bank are bumpy and narrow
******* the bones but good for the marrow
I looked at the clouds, shook out the lining
can't see the forest for all of my pining.
Ironic that shells echo the sea
the old man batters 'em mercilessly

Mets beat the Yankees,what can I say?
Wanted for nothing, nothing got in my way
Got up to stretch, fell through the bleacher
and into the arms of a snake oil preacher.
Tinctures and ointments and warming love salve
can't erase hurt and the memories I have

Heard it before, how time is medicinal
But for healing the heart the price is additional
Beat for beat and measure for measure
grapes of gall and fermenting displeasure
tasted enough to know this can't be real
while mashing my heart in the search engine wheel

In taking that road to that carn-evil ground
for one lonely toad on the hairy-go-round,
something was lost in the folly and fun
as I'm counting the cost for all that I've done
I reach for forgiveness and snatched from the ride
am taken to places where nothing can hide

in the light of the One who is no longer mad
better than anything, more fun than sad
eternally loved, as it was from the start
the past is forgiven, all's well with my heart
as for my heroes, and the ***** I've pained
Nothing is lost and everything gained

Ginger ale, coke, lemon and lime
I've got a watch, won't give you the time
Madison Aug 2018
Our story's beginnings are rather plain
Set in a town built on the mundane.
In this town, there lived a boy
Devoid of ambition, love, or joy.

He sleepwalked through his days
Aimless and alone.
Drowning in a melancholy haze
He longed for something lovely to call his own.

Now, I shan't tell you the young man's name
For fear he'd hang his head in shame
But his story you should know.
For it's not the name that marked this boy
But the places he would go.  

One day, an idea dawned
To take a day trip out of town.
The boy made a map
And a line was drawn
To the path he would walk down.

He followed the map with surprising ease
Over the hills and through the trees.
Though the boy was thrilled
He couldn't wrap his mind
Around the treasure
He would soon find.

The path came to an end
Without the map's warning
Causing the boy's plans to upend
Before it was even midmorning.
But the boy was in awe
Despite the offset.
He knew what he saw
He would not soon forget.
In the middle of the golden field
Stood a tall ivory castle.
His chronic disenchantment healed
The boy vowed to see inside
Whatever the hassle.

So he searched for a door
Until he could search no more.
He attempted to climb
With no regard for time.
He searched for a ****
Or a lock
Or a key.
Only when he was about to give up
Did the answer break free.

Against all reason
The castle began to glow.
When the transformation came to completion
A strange voice let him know.

"Come in," coaxed the disembodied voice
Honeyed and assured.
Feeling as if he had no choice
Inside, the boy was lured.

"My, you are a rude one," the voice began to chide.
"A lady invites you into her home, and without a word, you come inside?
I'm not expecting you to write me a sonnet, but at least have a bit of tact!
If we're being honest, boy, I believe your manners lack."

Sure this was some sort of stunt
The boy calmly shook his head.
"Forgive me, Miss, for being so blunt
But I believe the fault is yours instead.
You expect me to believe I was propositioned
By a castle that spoke?
I am certain one of my peers commissioned
Some sort of pricey joke.
I'm sorry, Castle Lady Dear
But I must be on my way.
I'm afraid I can't stay here
Perhaps we'll finish another day.
It's truly nothing personal
I simply have a hunch
That if I stick around for now
I'll miss my mother's lunch."

The boy turned on his heel
Not saying any more.
He soon let out a pitiful squeal
When he found there was no longer a door.

The Castle Lady countered his squeal
With a sinister cackle.
"Did you really believe you could leave me here
Without it becoming a debacle?
I'm sorry, dear
But for now
To this place, you are shackled."

Heart suddenly stricken with fear
The boy's eyes filled with tears
And he began to cry.
"Please let me go!" he cried out.
"I am far too young to die!"

Much to the boy's chagrin
The Castle Lady only laughed again.
"Goodness me, my dear!
You must be some sort of fool!
I do not plan to **** you here.
How could I ever be so cruel?"

Angered by the castle woman's taunts
The boy's eye began to twitch.
"If you won't **** me, what do you want?
Let me go, you witch!"

Unphased by his outburst
The Castle Lady simply tsked.
"Are you sure the witch is me
When you're the one being so mean?
I know what a statement this might be
But I believe you're the meanest boy I've seen.
But you can relax
For I've had my fun.
I simply have a favor to ask
Before you turn and run."

Against all logic
And stranger-danger talks
The notion of adventure
Overpowered his urge to balk.
"What is it?" he asked the Castle Lady
As curiosity struck.
When the Castle Lady responded
He could not believe his luck.

"Resting in one of my rooms
Is an awe-inspiring prize.
It holds power and beauty few men ever get to witness
With their own two eyes.
In fact, it holds too much power
So much that it's making me sick.
Only the brightest of young men can bear it
And you're the one I've picked."

The boy's heart raced.
For that prize, he yearned.
Still, he said:
"There must be some mistake.
Are you sure this is a prize I've earned?"

Overtaken by laughter
The Castle Lady began to roar.
"I am not that sick, dear boy!
Of course I am sure!
I can not make any mistake
No matter how small.
Didn't your mother teach you
That divine beings know all?
Now, you are an imaginative lad
With the charisma to match.
I'd dare say you are the best equipped child
Out of the local batch."

The boy couldn't help but crack a grin
Flattered by the Castle Lady's assessment.
"I suppose you must be right, then.
Now where do I get my present?"

"It is not a difficult journey at all," the Castle Lady replied.
"Just walk a bit down this here hall
And look to your left side."

Suddenly, the room filled with bright light
To help him find his way around.
In saying the journey was not difficult, the Castle Lady was right
As another glowing doorway
Was soon found.

"Very good, you clever boy!" the Castle Lady cried.
"Just give your fingers a quick snap
And take a step inside."

Proudly, the boy followed her advice.
The snap of his fingers reverberated
Sounding quite nice.
Secretly, the simple action
Gave him a small thrill
For he was the only child in his town
Who had such a skill.

Just as the lady promised
The door opened right away.
Thus, he took that fateful step inside
As she said he may.

Alas, it seemed the boy had been cheated by his wanderlust.
The only thing inside the room
Was a wooden box
Coated in dust.

All sense of wonder gone
The boy was certain it was a trick.
"You horrid con!
What in here is making you sick?"

Unamused, the Castle Lady sighed.
This was not the first time a child had thought she lied.
"You're jumping to conclusions, boy.
I'm not that sly a fox.
If you want to find the treasure
Look inside the box."

Begrudgingly, the boy obliged
Lifting up the top.
In the moment he saw what was inside
The whole world seemed to stop.

The boy's jaw dropped
As the box glowed
As if it contained all of heaven's rumored light.
It was true that he was unlikely
To ever again see such a wonderful sight.

"Well?" the Castle Lady inquired.
"Would you like to keep it?
You have all the qualities required
It's only fair that you reap it."

"Of course I'd like to keep it," said the boy.
"But what should I do?
What power do I have
To take care of this box
Any better than you?"

"The box can do anything," said the Castle Lady.
"Perhaps that's why I can not have it.
Still, you need not engage in special care and keeping
Or develop any new habits.

The box can do whatever you wish
Cure disease and famine
Or make your family rich.
I can not tell you what to do
Just use your own discretion.
Besides, it wouldn't truly be yours to use
If you did so under my direction.
So simply take it home
And do with it what you will
But before you choose to roam
I have one more message for you still."

Holding the box to him
The boy lifted an ear
Regarding her as a friend.
"What is it, Castle Lady?
Please say what needs to be said!"

When she spoke again
The boy could swear her voice contained a smile.
"When you leave me, the castle will come to an end
And this part of me will be dead.
Though I'd love for you to stay a while
So we could become better acquainted
I'm afraid that would be against the rules
And the prophecy would be tainted.
So, clever boy
For now, I'll bid you adieu.
You deserve to be given joy
And I hope that is what the box will do."

No sooner than she spoke
Did the castle vanish
In a puff of smoke.
Once again, the boy stood in the field.
In his hands rested the box
The closed lid keeping its powers concealed.
Somewhere between satisfied and sad.

He gave her a eulogy
However unorthodox.
"Goodbye, Castle Lady Dear, I enjoyed our little talks.
Maybe we'll meet in another world...
Oh, and thank you for the box!"
Having said all he needed to say
The boy knew he should be leaving soon.
He turned to walk the other way.
Walking home, his fingers snapped a tune.

It wasn't long before the whole town
Knew about his treasured box.
The boy made sure all his friend knew.
In school, he stopped all of the clocks.

He provided his class with great delight.
As a school day
Melted away
Into a Friday night.
The grown-ups none the wiser
He pulled off the perfect crime.
Forever the improvisor
He also did away with bedtime.

He gave his family money
As the Castle Lady said he could.
Though his old bullies looked at him funny
His clothes had never looked so good.

He gave himself popularity
A Labrador puppy
A brand new bike.
The ones who teased him
Spoke apologetically
And there wasn't a single girl
By whom he wasn't liked.

It wasn't long, however
Before the fun began to fade.
As much power as he had, he never intended
To share his gift with his whole grade.

"Can you tell me
If my pet goldfish is really watching from above?"
"Can you please help me
Make my parents fall back in love?"
"Can you make it so that
My grandpa isn't sick anymore?"
"Can you invent a robot
To help me do my chores?"
"Can you make sure
That my family keeps our home?"
"Oh-- and while you're at it
Help me write my girlfriend a nice poem?"

Alas, the boy paid no mind
To their wants and needs.
He had left his charitable days behind
In favor of his newfound greed.
Though his box could do anything
It really wasn't his job.
No matter what happiness to others it might bring
Of his power, he'd feel robbed.

He didn't know that at night
His friends went home to cry
Asking their nonexistent treasured boxes
"If he can have something special
Why can't I?"

Life went on like this
Until one day, he was greeted by a bird.
It landed on his shoulder
And hissed,
"You'll never guess what I heard."

The boy was quite frightened
Both by the bird's familiar voice
And what it said.
Still, his eyes brightened
When he shouted
"Castle Lady?
I thought that you were dead!"

"Too bad," the bird crowed.
"For I'm very much alive.
And I figure you should know
I won't allow you to continue to connive."

At her choice of words
The boy sputtered.
"What do you mean, bird?"
He nervously stuttered.

The Bird Lady stared at him
With beady black eyes.
"I mean, I saw what you've done with your gift
And I was unpleasantly surprised.
You didn't disrupt any tradition.
I told you to do what you would.
It was just that I had the premonition
That you'd use your power for good.
You're no better than any of your classmates
You silly sap!
Did it ever occur to you
That you were only picked
Because you can snap?
When my last life came to an end
You thanked me for the box
And ran home to your mother.
My spirit would have been able to rest
If you had used the box to help others.
I am older than most earthly things
And some sights I've seen are hellish.
This in mind
It's beyond me
Why you'd choose to be so selfish.
See, this box was once mine
Changing owners as it does
And when it fell into my hands I wished
To be anything but the girl I was.
From then on, I've been trapped
In the form of many objects
And, whenever I try to go from this world to the next
Fate always interjects.
I'm the keeper of this box
Until it falls into the hands of someone good enough
And I'm here to say, dear boy
I'm afraid you must give it up."

Without warning
The boy broke down
Dropping to his knees.
For the first time since that fateful day
His sense of superiority ceased
And truth began to reign.
Head in his hands, he grieved
For those he had caused pain.

The Bird Lady remained by his side
Trying her hardest to soothe.
"Now, clever boy, you need not cry
But the box does need to move.
Now, I need you to calm down and listen to me
And let me make myself clear.
I need you to go to the sea
And that's the last wish you will make here."

Suddenly, the boy understood.
When it was far too late, he used his powers for good.
So he wished for the ocean, heeding the Bird Lady's advice.
The two of them were at the beach
Before he could think twice.

"Very good," the Bird Lady praised.
"All you have to do now is let go.
Don't worry, my dear boy
When the box finds its forever home
I'll be sure to let you know."

The boy nodded.
With shaking hands, he looked down.
Taking a deep breath, he dropped the box
And all his wrongdoings drowned.

"Thank you very much," the Bird Lady chirped.
"Now, relax, and let your conscience be cleared.
You can go home
And I'll take it from here.
One last thing
I should tell you, my friend.
All this can be fixed
If you just have an ear to lend.
No matter how heartfelt
Apologies only take you so far.
What you should do now
Is fix your regrets with actions
To show them what a lovely boy you are."

With that
The Bird Lady dove
Picking up the box with her magnificent beak.
The boy returned home
With redemption to seek.

All these years later
Our nameless boy is now a man.
He's ordinary, yes
But ordinary is good enough.
He doesn't look down on others
Or even try to act tough.
Though he's no longer a heartthrob
One girl remained by his side.
When she is there
He never has to hide.
When a friend has a problem
He is there to listen.
And, though he holds no glowing box
His eyes still glisten.


Meanwhile, our Lady's soul
Now rests within a spaniel dog.
Though the box still has no permanant owner
She doesn't think it will be long.
Though that might seem unlikely
Divine beings do know all
Though everyone makes mistakes
Both big and small.
She may chastise others
For poor choices and self-control
But in the end, she knows the box only needs one thing:
To be cared for by a beautiful soul.
tian Mar 2015
Can you see my efforts?
I guess you can't
I was there in your darkest hours
But you didn't see me
My presence?
All over that place
I tried to decipher
Yet you don't want me to
I tried to pick you up
Yet you rejected my hand
I try everything to make you smile
Yet you keep on thinking negative things
When will this ever end? When? Answer me
I guess, it's all you,
You've been faking it all along
A mist traveling on it's own.
So I started to write what I feel right now. Sorry for not putting some rhymes, it's unorthodox kind of poetry.

I walked in a path full of knives and thorns just to make it through you, yet you don't want me to enter.
3/26/15
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
that's a trinity of nouns in that one symbol 0,
that rhombus to a square (omicron) -
zero, nought, oh... and then there's fifteen-love
in tennis, and also nil - so that's more than
a trinity... never mind...

i know why Islam is attacking, a scene from
Hellraiser Hell on Earth, the church scene dialogue:
- my child, what's the matter, what on earth's the matter?
- i have to get back to my apartment, back to the window,
  but they just keep coming, they just keep coming!
- who keeps coming?
- the demons! the demons!
- demons? demons aren't real; they're parables, metaphors.
- then(,) what(,) the(,) ****(,) is(,) that?!

shows you how much people over-read the unearthing
of the Nag Hammadi library in Egypt,
simultaneously with the unearthing of the Isaiah script
after he was cut in half... so i guess this is a competition:
getting crucified (with so many eager Philippine Phillips
eager to address the Olympic record of a day on
the crucifix) - oh wait... didn't the saviour travel to Egypt
in fear of Herod? funny we should find the unorthodox
and therefore more prescriptive writings there...
all hell broke loose in psychiatry in the 1960s...
we had R.D. Laing cite the gospel of St. Thomas...
it's like that Hellraiser narrative... people really took it
seriously... a final testimony of mankind...
the Order of the Templar's Idol: the Bahomet -
that's why Islam is attacking... oh forget the king controlling
the pawns... Iranian women are having none of it...
they're mobilising pawns as we speak, day by day...
every single ******* day... they're mobilising men
against the abomination... supported quiet clearly
by a fear of striking emotion with language...
in Oxford, just recently, there was a ban on denoting
social status of Mr. and Ms., i too would have favoured
the idea of demonic possession, and the joke of the
town is transgender... for whatever feminism does,
it's insulted under the horse's galloping hoof and a
statement by the suffragette: Emily Davison -
she's being insulated... you little ******* are playing
the puppets of Iranian women, that's why you can't see them!
under their niqabs they're playing the boss...
who gives a **** whether they drive their cars!
do i have to be the ******* Greek around here?
ever talk to a woman about homosexuality over a glass of wine?
no, i bet you haven't... prostitution ain't that bad, after all...
but talk to a woman high on ******* about transgender...
see where civilisation ends up at... it won't be chess...
it'll be chess with a blind man, changing the rooks...
you can't be that ******* gullible, but you are, so i'll continue...
these are acts perpetuated by men by argument of women...
they're attacking Christendom (forget western culture,
that's pig ******* deep fried gone and dusted with
Trump as with Ronald Reagan)...
they're attacking because when the library of non-orthodox
Christianity emerged, it was like the Soviet Union
collapsing: a wild west... sure we lost a few good women
to the slavery of the brothel... but in return we learned to
make people obedient in being wrong... can't go
against archaeology... sure... shift the pyramids just a little
to the east and you'll get Auschwitz chimneys puffing...
hell, you might even get the wild idea of the hanging gardens
materialised.
so with that demon story... i'm starting to look at it:
well, thank **** for feminism, but, wait, oh, the insult...
the slap in the face... and then the defence mechanism
of politically correct speech... the transgender movement...
to me that's a perfect safety mechanism for Islam to attack...
this is Christianity 2.0... this is neglecting poetry,
this is the necessary ambiguity of language...
given that people are actually practising trans-gender
ergonomics rather than saying: well, if ambiguity has a case...
i'll just wear a t-shirt... but no! but no! castrate the *******
and send him off to Siberia! you know that Islam
is perpetuating war because of this, Islamic women are
laughing at us... one was noted for the childish example
of tongue-out-of-cheek pointing beneath the veil: hell bound.
the Jews of Europe never made use of political
correctness in the realm of speech - but we don't
have Jews in Europe, America is thriving,
we're stuck with Muslims teaching us German guilt...
i'm not French, nor the mythological Swede kept neutral
even though receiving parts of the Marshall Plan
rejuvenation program of the war torn parts...
the part of me with Mongol just says: well,
Golgotha Pyramid of Baghdad - later known as
the Laughing Cranium Dynamo of Baghdad.
but they really did take the metaphors too literally...
just read the Gospel of Thomas...
it's all there, trans-gender and lubrication -
defending trans-gender rights just insults women,
those in favour of defeating the western cause are obvious...
all that care for feminism gets the cold-salmon fillet slap
across the case... get the **** back into the water!
king in chess a mere cameo extension of pawn -
queen in chess a marooned combination of bishop rook and knight -
or the ****** diversity, mantis and black widow,
the abstract, looking down onto a board...
but in the mammalian realm? the reverse...
oh ****** i'll mobiles... fascism against fascism...
i'm looking up... and what i see i see as what Horace said
to me in the 21st version of the Diverting Comedy -

vivere si recte nescis, decede peritis.
Lusisti satis, edisti satis atque bibisti:
tempus abire tibi est, ne potum lagrius aequo
rideat et pulset lasciva decetius aetas.

                 (you alone bring no bettering of life,
allow others to live, who can beyond your incompetence
to likewise aim at the laurel crown of economic competence
of mortality. you have used enough of allowances:
you ate aplenty, drank aplenty, it's time to go,
so that the hasty youth of what's to be drank, ahead,
for the good per se, not ridicule nor ordained itself better)
.

well, i'd put Bukowski with Horace as alike...
maybe that's why i chose Horace, above Virgil, Ovid
or Homer... it's the ******* drinking, the honesty of
drunks... as sober men we're nothing more than lost cabarets...
but i am seriously about the above cited Horace...
no matter what feminism does to women right now,
in the economic realm... equal pay and what not...
women are doubly insulted, a frame of mind from
neglecting reading poetry, where poetry could have
incubated words into an internal reality of speaking
about femininity and masculinity, we're talking
real, the Ten Plagues & Transgender... the ****'s that about?
that famous citation found in Spinoza's Theological-Political
Treatise, chapter 14 (faith and philosophy), aphorism
no. 12... god and the trumpets and Mt. Sinai...
concerning? the voice of god gave the Israelite audience no
philosophical or mathematical certainty about
the diabolical "certainty" of the Catholic omni-plus
geometric and quizzical knowing of dates and time differences
between Moscow and the Galapagos islands...
well, never mind that reference... i'm frightened that we're
actually hearing the moaning and groaning from Golgotha
just now... when poetry dies... and people take religiously
indoctrinated language without keen interest in poetry... hell spawns...
at the moment it seems the re-establishment of Israel
is working miracles against the Valley of the Shadow of Death
that Europe represents to the Jew's memory...
and in that Koranic reference, Jesus is the Messiah...
what, with a few of our men attempting metaphysical
acrobatics in the genital region? why not?! added to boot
France tickling the guillotine with its tongue.
J Nov 2020
Brown. I said brown was my favorite color. Deep, dark, opulent brown, like coffee, like the dirt, tree trunks, hair, the deepest of honey, like dark chocolate. Brown, I said. Brown, you remembered. But you see, as I've told you before, this color was associated with disgusting, horrid things. It was associated with a psychotic, abusive, manipulative, ****** person, associated with the screams and tears and blood left in his wake. I took the word, the letters, and I weaved them with meaning and memories and forever promises and the phrase "forever and always" which was something that used to be very important to me. I promised very few people that, and by few I mean one other aside from him, and that was Kenzie. I told them "I'll love you, forever and always." Kenzie and I made it first, and then we both made it to our partners, the partners that we believed would last. She's married now, with a kid, to that man, and I? Well, here I am now. I don't say it anymore, it means nothing to me now. Albeit brown is lovely, and after the said past promise-breaker left I tried not to think of it as eye color, I struggled to see it more akin to nature, as something natural. "Earthy tones, right?" You said earthy tones, without hesitation, when we were taking those online quizzes about personalities, it was the question was about my favorite color, so I know that you remember. "Browns and greens, right babe?" Greens and browns, the Earthy set colors, not those ****** betraying eyes of a Ryder. He told me my eyes were green. He often told me about the green storm that threatened to flood the very existence of himself. My eyes change color, according to friends. Brown, green, sometimes they get this weird blue color, sometimes they're two different colors, one being green and the other brown, but I'm not sure. But anyhow, I thought that was my pull. I thought that if I had to get specific and create the perfect person for myself, I'd at least know what eyes I wanted them to have. You see, I love things that are underappreciated, everything in the category is something to admire, as long as you leave me out of it. But now, Sydney, now? Now I know, the hottest fires burn blue.

  To this, your eyes are no exception. Brown was the Earth, still is, and it's what lurks in trees, the ground, the beverages and food we ingest, but Frenchie, love, eyes like yours? They burn those trees, the grass, physical objects, and then they demand hearts to ashes. They turn universes upside down, OH LOVE! your eyes drive people mad- they drive ME mad. Eyes like yours BURN, not the freeze everyone swoons about. Your eyes don't drip tears, they let off smoke in warning, and though the flame may seem like a liquid, it's not in any sense. Your blue is not the sky, your eyes are not something to gaze at, half-mindedly wondering and completely misunderstanding. You're not something to zone out for, towards, or to. No, your blue needs to be watched carefully, your blue cannot be left unattended. Your eyes don't hold people captive, they don't make people pause and romanticize them(at least they shouldn't), they trigger the fight or flight. Your eyes are not sad, they are not the ocean. Fire is not something to jump into, nothing about it symbolizes drowning. Oh no, no no no, Frenchie, love, your eyes, YOU, are a force to be reckoned with. Hell's fire, that's what I see rather than some stupid cliche body of water, Satan envies the heat. They're not something to submerge yourself in, they won't clean or wash away the sins I have, they'll burn the physical, mental, and emotional flesh, and then said flesh will wilt off, simply floating away as if they were petals stolen by the wind. Burnt ashy peach petals, that's all to be thought of the skin, hair, thoughts that are charred. Hear me, lovely, eyes like yours make the cigarette burns seem like a mosquito bite, they make blades dancing across skin feel like kisses, they make these thoughts of hate feel like vows of forever in love. Your eyes betray those who don't pay attention, because, yes, at a first glance, they're like the ocean. They're like an ocean, I mean, if you're basic and OH WOW BLUE! BLUE EQUALS SKY! BLUE EQUALS OCEAN! Oh yes, yes! The same way that salt looks like sugar, like coke looks like tea, just like water looks like bleach, the way that I look like a girl, but, ****, I don't know what the hell I am. They have similarities, but we all know there's a significant difference. Your eyes **** a soul, your choice on how rapidly this happens, though, and it lets the soul believe it's in love with the feeling. Being in love with the feeling of decomposing, can you imagine? I know I can. I suppose I don't need to be telling you this, do I? Because you knew. You've always known that part of you didn't come from the ocean, but much much lower. Hades granted you this gift, no turning back now. But I suppose I'm fine with others mistaking blue for water, I'll know the truth, I'll know some part of you in this writing, even though you've admitted I don't know you at all. Maybe I'll find you out, hell, maybe I won't. Regardless, my lips forever will work to light those eyes of yours up, I'll always be your pyromaniac, but what's the difference between fascination and contemplated arson.

  Love, colorblind love, allow me to show you my colors as we find yours, yes? Will that be okay? You're so sure that I'm finding me, but all I've done is realized I'm coming back with pieces missing, even after doing something as simple as sleeping. I lose myself in my words, and then they flake off like trauma, which is to say they don't disappear at all, just bury themselves under the flesh that I yearn to flay. We don't know who we are, and maybe we're both losing ourselves, but we have to drop off some things to pick up more, don't we? Maybe I'm dark shades of brown, lighter even, or maybe I really am green, maybe I'm white. Until either of us really know, I'll show you exactly what you've been missing. You see, we'll lose ourselves to our respected colors, and from there we'll find each other again, and drain ourselves against one another to create something entirely new, just for us, and then we'll weave ourselves in and out of the universe until we're nothing, and yet everything. The greys that plague you, your little stand-ins for my obvious surroundings, will shine like neon, The colors, they'll take you in, pull you down, and you will bask in the glory your past kept hidden, you will be one with the colors you can't yet imagine. And through this, I'll be your glasses and your coordinator, I promise to magnify and guide. I will be your sword and your shield, love, use me as you wish and I'll take the damage. Whatever you need, whoever, whenever, I'll be here, I'll be it, I'll be yours, forever with my hand out for you to grab hold of, to steady or to comfort, and we can be better together, happy together, simply together. We can be safe, against anyone else, against the world if you'd rather, and I? I will show you this. I will hold you into the blues, into the greens, and in-betweens, past the whites and blacks and... and we will be the rainbow, you and I. Unlike anyone can be, I am here now, and I will paint you exactly what love should have been for you, what life should have been. It should have been soft, like silk, not rope. We accept the love we think that we deserve, and even though I'm not anywhere near that blasted rope, I know that's why you're with me, for I'm not exactly silk, either. I'm something of leather, perhaps. I'll make you feel beautiful, powerful, but I won't last there forever, you know. I'll flake off, you'll grow tired of the mask, you'll grow tired of me, but at least I'm not rope. And we both know that you wouldn't want the silk for yourself. But until I'm something in a pile that you can remember rather fondly, allow me to be the reason you're smiling and walking like that, leaving flames for a trail.

   I'll first show you a better white, white outside supremacy of course because white is nowhere near a dominant color to me, but I know that you've seen enough black for now. I will lay next to you in a field of lilies, snowdrops, hyacinths, dahlias, and daffodils with the beautiful floral scent filling our senses. We will be surrounded by all that is pure, soft, safe. Dandelion will fly around us, make a wish if you must, they'll fall everywhere; you can wish for everything in the world and still have excess seeds. On milk-colored cotton blankets, we'll gaze into the night sky, where foggy shapes spread around the chalky Moon, capturing Her beauty rather nicely. In this perfect world, Scorpio and Cancer will be right next to each other. Relax next to me, go ahead and put your guard down, as I weave my hand into yours, the peach and creams of your existence make me feel olive in comparison. I could be olive for you, but olives and milk don't go together, so perhaps I can be a soft caramel, very soft, I'm not too entirely tan, but I like the thought of that. It's further proof of my imperfections and proof of your opposite. Caramel and Cream. Beneath the pearly light, we shine quietly, soft glowing fae, you and I. We're goddess's, y'know. Crowns of the pale flowers on top of your head, now that I think about it they make you slightly coral in comparison, then lace down your arm, around your fingers, covering the parts you wish to hide. Can't you see you're a perfect representation of something to worship? Goddess of Comedy, of ****, of What Love Should Be, of Selflessness, of Cuteness, of Protection, of Not Knowing How To Control Anger, of Music, of Koalas, and I? Suppose I'm some sort of gender-neutral Goddess of Laughter, Magick, Crying, Being Overdramatic, maybe of Poetry, maybe of Avoiding Issues, maybe of Frogs, and maybe of Empathy. Oh yes, and I'll show you this. I'll show you the alabaster watercolors and paint and pencils, I'll show you how a Goddess paints the stars, but I won't ever(EVER) show you those ****** impressionable Crayolas again. They're childish in their waxy ways, Frenchie, and you don't deserve that anymore. White Crayolas are pointless and deceiving anyway, aren't they? You deserve so much more, so much better, so, I shall provide stability and vision.

  And this? I will show you.

  Because words are empty. And you need to see to believe it.

  You see, I am in debt of your presence. I am in scars of your truths. That might not make sense. To explain, I try so very hard to keep my own blank face when you're talking to me because I'm afraid I'll give you the wrong expression. You need understanding, not to be singled out and felt like an outcast the way that I know you feel already. I do this because I know what you've been through, but you say I don't, that I would never get it. Maybe not in exact ways, but I do in some fashion. But I don't know you, so maybe I'm just blathering. Anyways, I try to keep a straight face, hearing of your abuse, your insecurities, your everything that you slowly open to me. Do you know how that makes me feel? I'll tell you. I'm angry that such things could be done to you. You don't see this, I make sure of it, but it takes everything in me not to hunt them down, Sydney, because why. WHY. Why would anyone do such a thing.. to you? To you. You didn't deserve it. ****, no one does, but you especially didn't. Hearing this pains me emotionally, mentally, physically. But I keep a straight face, please don't assume it's because I don't care. Please never assume that it's because I'm bored with the topic. Because I do care, I care so ******* much, I just don't want to make you feel like I'm afraid. I'm not. The thought of losing you, THAT'S what scares me. The mere thought of you loving someone else the way that I love you, that's breaking away my soul with its phantom grip. I refuse to lose you, I can't. I don't think that you quite get this yet, but there's something about you that makes me worry so much that I get sick when you don't reply for mere seconds. It's like I need to constantly hear from you. Like if I don't, I'll be dead, alone, because I know better than most people how quickly a life can be taken. I know that I get mad easily and that sometimes my overdramatic selfishness gets overwhelming, but I really don't want to shove you away or make you annoyed by me. I just want to talk, and show you these flaws, so that you know I mean no harm, that I'm getting better, that I can be good for you. I also understand that such is impossible, you're bound to not want something about me, I know I won't match you in every way that you need. But I do want everything of you, I want your anger and your sadness and your insecurities. I want you in tears for me, because I know I will always be here to clear them up for you, but I always hope to never be the cause of your crying. I will never purposely make you cry, I will never try to make you leave me(unless I think that it's best if you do so). You say that I helped you, that I was the reason you felt that it was good you're not dead. One of them, I know, but still. When you wrote for me, it was something interesting. You see, people don't write for me. They write for themselves, they write about themselves, they write to feel quirky, they rarely write about others, hell I know I do. I don't get written about, and if I do it's lies. He-who-shall-not-be-named wrote a few things for me. In his letters or texts, promising his life to me, vowing that he'd never leave, never hurt me, never cheat on me. He gave me empty words and full-blown everything else if you catch my drift. He showed me that words were nothing, never to trust them. "I love you" is the biggest and most frequent lie that I get told. But something in me believes you when you say it. Because you said it without getting anything back for such a long time. You could have given up, moved on, walked away, but you didn't. You stuck by me, even when you had the world of people you could go with, you wanted me. Me. And so I owe you at least a little bit of trust when you say that you love me, and doing so should make you see that when I say it back I also mean it. I've never written this much for anyone, you make me want to write even if it all sounds ******* cliche and mushy.

  Deep breath.  

  I will kneel for you, Goddess, and be here, waiting. Here, ready. Here, open for you. Pick me apart, I'll show you my inner mechanisms, do with me as you please. I'm going to work for this, just give me time. I don't know you, you don't know me, that's what we agreed with. We hide behind these words, YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ME! because we're afraid that if we DO know something about the other, we'll die for it. We'll be hurt because knowing is knowledge and lack of something new to tell is weakness, is it? That's what you've been taught, that is what I've been taught, but listen. I have nothing to hurt you with. You've always known that you're stronger than me. I can't hurt you, right? I can't.
  
  I will always be full of stories, as will you, just tell me them. Just talk, I'll be quiet for once, you can tell me everything. You offer to listen to mine, say that you want to hear about me, but God let me just distract you so you'll talk about something, anything, else. I'm so stupid, I know you want to talk. I'll be quiet for once, let me work harder for you, I don't want to pretend that it's easier not to know you. We have to know each other. We have to, don't you want to stay with me? I know now that it is I who is the toxic one, let me try to be better for you. You told me that you didn't think that I stopped cheating, that I stopped being toxic because I met you, but I did. Sydney, I did. Or at least I've gotten better. I don't cheat, I've never cheated on you. I won't. But I know that you said that only because you were mad and overthinking. Or maybe you really meant it, I know everything that you said had some truth to it. I'd let you in if I could. Truth is, I'm an open book. For ****'s sake, I'm emptying this **** onto a ******' website, I don't have any ****** secrets. . . okay, I have a few, but only because I don't know how to bring them up. And yes, there's a lot of my past that you don't know, but there's also a lot of yours that I don't know. You have secrets you'll never tell, this is just truth, everyone does, yes? Do you want to know everything? If it will make you feel better, I'll tell you the world, the world of J, everything, you can have all my secrets, I'll be nothing but empty for you, you can have me. Would you like that?

  I'll erase the past lovers who made me fear, made me mad, made me, well, me, just for you. I won't mention him anymore, just don't leave me, okay? I'll stop talking about it, I'll stop getting so mad at you, I'll stop twisting your words, I never meant to. I never meant to. I always seem to make you feel as if you can't open up. You can. You can open to me, always, forever. Please. I can be better. Just for you. Always for you, only for you, please. I'm sorry. I say that so often, but that doesn't mean it has any less meaning, I am sorry. Quite often, I admit. I'm sorry for thousands, millions, trillions of things. I promise I'll get better with that, for you, just tell me how, tell me what to do, I will. I'll do anything. See, my past people weren't good at many things. Some could write a bit, some could sing, or both, or neither. Some could just talk right. But they all were good at one thing: leaving a scar. I remember you compared your past lovers to people with rentals, aka you, that they trashed. I think that if I could compare them to anything, they were feelings that I couldn't quite let go of because I knew that if I did, I wouldn't know what to do. I liked fear, maybe, I liked being hurt. I was used to it, it felt like little kisses, it meant they loved me. Manipulators do that, they make you feel like you need them until, bam, it's been almost a year and ****, you're alive aren't you? I feel things too deeply. One person's favorite thing would become an obsession for me. I don't know if that will change, because here I am telling you that, honey, you can be my addiction. But I wouldn't compare you to you a drug. Not the way Edward called Bella ******, how toxic, you're not ******. You're wine. You're champagne. You're "Veuve Clicquot." I know I don't really have to say this, but drugs are ******. They make you feel ******, that's why I won't ever relate you to them. You don't make me feel ******, not always. Admittedly so, sometimes you upset me, and sometimes you make me want to die, but that really is more along the lines of my fault, because we know me- I'm really overdramatic. And you, you say you're bad, that you're entirely something to stay away from. I think that's funny, really, cause I'm an alcoholic, I've bathed in poison, and Honey? You don't have its burn. I'll say it, you're not perfect, not in a sense that everyone will understand, but you are to me. Even your unobvious toxins are things that I find perfect. See, those things, they're deep down, but you're not toxic, you're not entirely deadly. But of course, you can be, if not handled with care. Though everyone can be as well, so please stop acting as if you're something that needs to be locked away from people. You're a person, a good person. Stop telling me that I'll never understand you. If you want to shove me away, my goodness, keep trying, but I've been told much worse by my own self, love, and I love being degraded. You're safe with me, and I will love you, though I know my affections can be quite unorthodox. You're my drink, not my drug, but somethin' I'm very much so addicted to. You feel good going down, hell you make me feel like a ****** lightweight, but god you show me what it means to be carefree, warm, happy, it's like I can do no wrong. You feel right for me. So, I'll drink and drink, and I'll dance and dance, soft yellow, and you? You will be swaying beside me. Mixing our hopes with our pride, you and I can twirl.

  "Distance makes the heart say you want her, distance makes the heart grow fonder."

  Regardless of the forevers between us, infinity called miles, I want you. Even though you **** me off really often, I want you. I don't like you sometimes, but I want you. I think that you're perfect for me, but I want to choke you. Often. But I mean it lovingly because I want you. See, I'm allowed to choke you, I'm allowed to want to at least, but no one else is. I don't actually dislike you in the slightest, I just think I have a lot to work out with myself. I didn't actually mean it when I said that I hated the things that you loved. I think the word was envy. I envy the things that you love, I envy being able to like things, being able to handle things, because **** I can't handle anything for large amounts of times. And I do envy the things you love because some part of me(I'm sure there's a name for it somewhere) wants to be the only one, the only thing for you.  I get frustrated so easily, I'm ****** I know. I'm so ****** used to being in this little fantasy I have for myself that I don't know what it really means to be in this reality. People don't act the way I want them too, I lose control of everything when I find I can't make people do as I please. In my world, you love me completely, so completely that you don't need anyone but me. But in reality, if anyone left your life, you'd break down.
In reality, you don't need me. You just happen to want me, you love me right now, but you don't need me. I'm not oxygen, or food, or water. And to be honest, even if I was, you'd be able to live without me for a bit. You avoid those things anyhow, don't you? I want you to see that I do love you, that I do want you, that I would never cheat on you or hurt you in that way because I want to be different from what you're used to with your lovers. I want to be something that you remember quite fondly if we don't end well. I want you to be able to say, "yeah. Yeah, they weren't ALL bad. There was this one person... J, I think, yeah. J. They weren't too bad."

  See, you're a blue flame that tastes like that yellow champagne, but I'm Agave Reposado. I mellow as I age. My natural citrus and spice round out as I grow, creating these complex notes of dry chocolate, chilies, vanilla, and cinnamon. Some prefer me with mixes of something else, say Cognac or wine, which might **** with my flavors even more. Parts of me are hardy enough to support cocktails, while the subtler parts are best sipped neat or over ice. Take that information and do what you will with it. I only speak these words so they'll have some sort of meaning to you. I taste like that gold tequila, but I'm nothing more than a candle.

  "I know we'll never grow old together, cause you'll never grow old to me."

  I will want you until you decide you don't need me, and, even then, I'll want you. YOU. You alone. You, Sydney Grace Collins. Because once I love, Darlin, I don't stop until something dies. The things that usually do are patience, longing, energy, faith. Will you get tired of me, no longer wish to see me, be finished with my absolute *******, not trust that we will last any longer? Will you wake up one day, see me and realize, "****. I'm done. I don't want THIS. I don't want this anymore, ever again." I said not until something like that dies, but I don't really think that I'll stop. I don't think that it matters if you love me or not, because I'm going to love you. I mean, it definitely matters if you do or don't, but it doesn't affect the way that I feel. See, when you stop loving me, I'll pretend I never did. But I'll know the truth, and when you read or hear this you will too. If I cared about you, even after you-know-who and everyone before him, it means that you're something very special to me. Even though I really wish I didn't give a ****. It would just be easier that way, I think, easier not to want you or care or worry, I would much rather not ever worry about you again. BUT. We both know it's not really something that I can choose, so until YOU leave and cover up your tracks, because I can be a hella good FBI agent,(or stalker, whatever you wanna call me) you're stuck with me, huh? Which shouldn't be taken as a bad thing, being stuck with me, and if it is I think that maybe I should probably tone it down, but, seriously, when have I ever really toned anything down?

  I can think of at least two times where you've asked me why I love you, what draws me to you, and I think that I've finally ******' figured it out. It's your laughter, love. It's like I said before, you do that cute little wheeze when you laugh before the cute musical notes of the actual giggle erupt, and in the middle of this, you find ways to take breaths. You toss your head back, and then you double over before you proceed to rock back and forth like that. I love seeing you happy. I love seeing you be THAT happy, and I like that most of the time that I see you do that is because I make you, I give you a reason to. I can't really deal with things other than laughing at them or making jokes, it's a serious flaw of mine, but I like that it can help you sometimes because, hell, you can't deal with your **** much either. It's the way that your eyes crinkle when you smile at me, or the hopeful look on your face when you sing, or the eager face you make when you're talking, or the simple resting ***** face, or the way you sleep, breathe, exist. It's the way that you reach for leaves with your burning touch, you reach for things that fall eventually on there, and you save them when you tuck them into your pockets. Little stars, little shooting stars we'll call them. It's the way that you can brush off an entire tree falling on you, but heaven forbid a leaf fall on your loved ones. It's the way that your anger flares when something happens to hit you the wrong way. It's the way that you dance. It's the way that you eat. It's the way that you talk, sound. It's the way that you tuck your issues down into that same pocket as if your crumbling life was a loose strand of hair falling onto your face.

  I like that about you, about how you bottle things up, sweep them away, avoid things. I love it, really, because I've always liked to research, to figure things out, and I know that I'm not too good right now, but I'm going to help you. Oh, yes, I am. I'm going to figure you out. Run away from the words I'm saying, but it's true. And you'll either accept that, or we'll fall apart. Not because I want to, but that's what happens without communication. You've gotten so very good at talking about your issues though, so so so very good, love, and I'm so very proud of you, not to mention grateful. But I know that it barely scratches the surface of that pain, I know because you've told me. So tell me, blue flame, where's the source? Where do I patch up, where do I sow, and what can I do to make sure it doesn't happen, let me help you. I want to patch you up, and then I want to love the scars. There's nothing wrong with you, did you know that? Nothing at all. You're perfect. I love everything about you, even the things that I don't know about you, I love them. All your secrets and thoughts and plans, I love them. I yearn to be a part of them, but I know that takes time. I'll wait, and I respect it but don't ever forget that I am right here, even if I won't understand the pain I know that it's relieving to be able to just ******' talk about it. I'll listen.

  You're so ******* important to me.

  Look at me, baby. No, seriously, look at me. I want you to keep this in mind, love, this face, the look of my room, how I talk when I tell you all this **** that goes on in my head, look at how I'm opening for you, for YOU. Remember this round, unorderly face. See my eyes, love, as I read this to you, this other poem-related thing I'm writing, notice how wide they get? They're passionate, they are, do you see that? Passionate because of you, the thought of YOU, love for YOU. Do you see how your hoodie looks on me, and if it isn't on at the moment, your chain. Look at me. I will make you want to stay, look how tiny I can be for you. You can put me into your pocket too if you'd like. I can make you want to stay, right? I can make you miss me, I know it. When you do leave, I'll make sure I haunt you with this voice, these eyes, these I-love-you vibes, Darlin, you won't leave without an extra soul following. Cause you're gonna remember, you're going to remember me even if it kills us. You'll remember the way it felt when my lips crashed into yours, you'll remember laying in my lap while my hands roamed your face, you'll remember it all. You see, I don't remember things very well. For instance, I don't remember exactly when I first realized I loved you, which was after I had loved you but before I could admit it to myself much less to you. I only remember wanting to hold you, the times where you were the only one that could make me happy, and I know that's still how it is, at least on my end. Something about you makes the green storm halt. I don't remember what made me want to say that I loved you back, but I do remember trying to find something funny, just to say, to show, so that I could watch you laugh again. I love your laugh, Sydney Collins, I love you. I don't remember what made me fall for you exactly, but I do remember noticing you were being quiet when I finally stopped talking about myself once, and I remember knowing that I would do anything to make sure that you're okay again. See, I **** at really helping, but I want to, believe me. I want to help so many things. I want to help the voices and the thoughts get easier. I want to help the anger and loneliness, I want to help you. I want to be YOUR person. Forever. I want to protect you, let me check under your bed for beasts, back into the closet I go for monsters, I REMEMBERED, but you see, you don't need me to do the second part. The secrecy and skeletons, the ones you lay to rest, you keep it shut for a reason, don't you? Locked and sealed, like your mouth, never opened long enough for anyone to know what's going inside, but I will check regardless, and if you say, " J, don't say **** about that body," I'll smile and ask "what body?" and shut the doors, find my way back to you, and tell you that you hide the smell very well. Because I'm on your side, love, I'm not the enemy. And, just so you know, I always bring a shovel with me, should you need it. Closets can only hold so much, and you'd understand that, wouldn't you? Wouldn't we? GOODNESS! My heart is ******' POUNDING.

  You make me see gold when things are black.

  We are Not Veronica and JD.

  I have to admit something to you. When you talk like, oh it's happened so rarely, but like.. that. I freak the **** out because, wow! how do you do that to me? DO I DESERVE IT? No, no, no. OH, no I don't, I could never. I don't deserve a lot of the things that you tell me. But I think of you, I think of you so often. When I'm alone, I imagine you're touching me, I think I need your touch. You breathe sometimes and these knees buckle and this heart swoons and I cry out "ASEXUAL" because holy ******* **** *** with women seems so scary, and oh **** how do I hold myself back. I just want to see you smile, hear you breathe a sigh of relief, and listen to your sweet nectar laugh when flattered by one of my compliments. I want to feel the warmth of your skin while your body is wrapped around mine, and hear the beat of your heart while I lay against your chest, though I'm happy if you'd listen to mine instead, I know how you prefer to lay. I want to watch your chest rise and fall as you sleep and kiss you until you wake up. I want to feel safe with you. I want to feel...small.. with you if you get what I'm saying. I want to trust you.

  Let's talk about our issues from now on, rather than ignoring each other, please.

  I really don't care if I have to cross a sea of vulnerabilities and emotion, I would do it all for that time you said that my, MY, smile made you happy. Because when you're happy, I'm happy. And ****, my chest feels all fluttery whenever our eyes meet, and jeez I'm just a frikity freakin' mess whenever you make me laugh, and GOD I love it when you call me baby or princess or kitten or whatever name because hell I don't have to be a girl for those names to mean the world. I'd love anything that you call me, just as long as I can call you mine, still. I will say this, love, I will tell you that I'm gay, just for you. I'm a ******, I'll scream, until my mouth grows numb, tongue forgets how to speak, teeth rot out. Until I die I will cry your name, and from then I'll sign it, and you'll teach me how won't you? I will never NOT want you, Sydney. You're part of my life now, a big part of it, and that means that even five years from now I will remember you. We can't go back, now, these are important memories. I'll write I love you until my fingers forget how to hold, how to touch, how to be fingers, I'll write until said fingers break and ******, I'll write until my fingers forget how your hands feel wrapped in mine, until my poems no longer reek these cliche pitiful words, and then I'll continue because I will never stop. I will look for more ways to make sure that you are HERE! In my heart, in my eyes, in my head.

  "All I wanted was you."

  There are very few things that I can be sure about, and one of the only things that I'm sure about is the fact that I mean it when I tell you that I love you. YOU cannot help how I feel, and, quite frankly, neither can I. Nothing will change it unless I want it to, and of course, why would I want that? your voice whispers a gentle need back, I know you feel this too. So I beg of you to call me a thousand, billion, trillion times, tell me that you want me, too, just me, only me, that you love just me, only me. Babe, I'll write your name times infinity between each phrase, I will love you more than you love me, and you'll drown, fire child, in my love. you'll hiss, I'll cool you down, but I will not ***** you.

  For I am just a candle.

  And you're the flame that takes me away.
sometimes I just feel like writing, and that's okay. usually, it isn't much. I struggled with a title for this, so I just started to write until it was okay again. I think that some of these things don't really make sense, but I scramble to hold the things I write. They escape a lot. I read this to her out loud, she said that she had never been compared to a flame, not like this. she said that her ex compared her eyes to the ocean, so when I said, "they are not the ocean, not something to jump into" she smiled. that made me happy to know, that I did something like this right.

I edited this a lot after reading it to her, and after listening to what she said. I apologized. I told her "Yeah... Yeah, apologize. Words are ****. But that's all I have. Yknow? I'm sorry. I'm sorry for assuming that I knew you, for saying that "I get it" even though I couldn't possibly get it. I'm sorry that you're losing yourself, and that I twist your words when you try to talk about me, or about your ex's, or about anything. I'm sorry that I'm one of the people around you that's always ******* up their arm. I'm sorry that you think I won't love you unless you're funny. I'd love you even if you were a tomato. I'd love you even if you were coffee. I'd love you even if you were my worse nightmare. I'm sorry that I got mad, I didn't understand, I'll try to be better with that. I'm sorry that I took you listening to music as you not wanting to talk to me, I forgot that you have other things. You're more than what meets the eye, I'm sorry I forgot that, I'm sorry I assumed things. I'm sorry that I won't understand your mind, I only ask that you help me try. I'm sorry for shutting you down. And mostly I'm sorry that you think I never changed from my past, that I'm still toxic, that you don't doubt I'll cheat or have. I haven't. I won't. I'm sorry that I'm toxic, I'll fix it, I'll get better. I'm sorry that I said I tell you things that everyone knows. I'm an open book, like you said I'm easy to read. I shouldn't have said it in that way, truly I have nothing to hide. I'm sorry that I keep repeating my past mistakes. I'm sorry. And I love you."
She was supposed to call me, but she didn't get the chance to. it's almost three in the morning, I'm pretty sure she's sleeping. I'm very glad she is, though, because I know her insomnia has made it really rough on her.
anyhow, enjoy yet another one of my entries.
would you even call what I write poetry?
What a sin
What a grave sin
A fox in
A sheep’s skin
Echoing the mob’s
Democracy-peace-and –unity-
Packed wish
Enunciating bright days
They will soon relinquish,
He touched
In every credulous heart
A sensitive cord,
Cognizant, an all-out support
To him
They will accord.

True, he basked under
Taps on the back
To his expectation ten fold
And laudations untold.

Nothing toothsome he left
In the political rhetoric dish,
With colorful diplomacy
He adored
To garnish,
So he made many
Their speculation
To relinquish.

He also won the international
Community’s “go ahead!”
Abstaining from
Their customarily
“We are afraid!”
They declared
“He has no fault!”
Smirking behind his back
“Congra a Trojan horse
We have got
Who buys all what
We say
Without a grain of salt,”

To solve the paradox
The mob must unmask
And chase
The fox,
A jackal
In a green pasture
Is unorthodox.//
Politics is a nasty game!
Brian Turner Jan 2021
With mighty aplomb
You drop your vitreous 'view bomb'
With unorthodox precision
You squander my decision

You have one filter
And that is to kilter
The views that don't come from a stranger
The views that echo in your echo chamber

Fair pity to those who reach out with an olive branch
To give you another chance
A chance to move away from grief
A chance to turn over another leaf
I learnt about "Echo chamber' behaviour today and how it can apply to extremists. Some people have reached out and changed their views. Echo chambers exist on social media too.
Sofia Mar 2016
i saw you the way an artist does
brilliant and bathed in holy fire
your scars
the strokes of a brush
your anatomy every medium
your smile
a photograph in
black and white
your lips
oil on canvas
your eyes
watercolor on paper
your hair
texture and dimension
on a portrait
you and i
an unfinished graffiti
an unorthodox art form
fleeting and reflective
but a masterpiece
nonetheless
John Stevens Jul 2010
May 18, 2001
Wayne M. Williams Sr. slipped the bonds of life and is now in the arms of Jesus.

For death is just a change of address.  We go to a place of freedom.  A place that is free of pain, free of sorrow, free of doubt, free of uncertainty.

Saturday night, Dad Williams moved from Denver Street in Turner, where he left behind the earthly possessions,  to Jesus street in Heaven where there was a room prepared and waiting. Jesus said that He would go and prepare a place for us that we may be there also.   To paraphrase the Apostle Paul, “Wayne has run the race, he has fought a good fight, and now he has crossed the finish line."

Wayne’s father, Harrison Williams, raised his family to know God.  His Father started school for the first time when he was 16 and had a total of 23 months of school.  He had a deep desire for knowledge that he passed along to his children.

He was a self educated man.  He studied Greek and Latin. He knew the Bible from cover to cover.  He preached the word of God in Texas to any and all and did so until the day he died.

He had God’s promise that his children would come to know the Lord.

Well, it took some time for Wayne to come back to his Godly heritage.  But come back … he did.

This poem I am about to read captures Wayne’s spiritual journey.  The love of God and the price Jesus paid on the cross captured his heart.

The theme of the music Wayne wrote and sang had to do with the Cross.   The title is “Arms of Love”

Arms of Love
(Love Divine)
———————–
I was lost in sin from doing my will,
My need was great, impossible to fill.
Then someone told me of Your love divine,
How You came to earth to save mankind.

I called Your name Lord, not knowing the cross.
Would You be there, for me - the lost?
Would I be worthy to call Your name?
The deeds I had done, had caused You shame.
———————–
You were there, oh Lord, waiting for me,
With arms open wide for all to see.
You lifted me up from my deep, dark sin,
And gave me peace, such peace, within.

I sought Your touch for the love I’d missed
From the times of doing, what I thought best.
I sought Your presence to receive Your love,
And found such joy, God’s gift from above.
————————
Your love covered me, in all my need,
I saw the cross where You did bleed.
I felt Your love growing deep within.
Your touch cleansed me from where I’d been.

You cleansed my soul from inside to out
By Your love divine, I have no doubt.
Your love surrounds me, all my days,
As I walk with You, learn your ways.
——————–
In desperation I had reached for you,
Oh love divine, I found You so true.
So find Him now, oh dear one I pray,
Give Him your life, do it today.

He is waiting for you, with arms of Love,
The precious gift, from God above.
There is grace and mercy, waiting for you,
With love and forgiveness to see you through.
————————-
Lord, I call your name, now knowing the Cross
You are always there, for me - the lost.
You make me worthy to call Your name,
So the deeds I do, won’t cause You shame.
———–
John Stevens 2-13-2000

Sometimes we can carry around a lot of baggage in life that is totally unnecessary.  We can harbor resentments of things long forgotten.   We can let the opportunities for knowing the Savior slip through our fingers like sand.

If we wait until we feel we are good enough to meet Jesus, to take Him as our Savior, we will not make it. We will be lost.   He wants us just as we are with all the warts of life, problems, fears and doubts that life can bring.  For you see, it is never too late to seek the face of Jesus and give Him our lives as we transition from this state of the flesh (which as I get older is not so great) to the state of the spirit. Even when life is mostly over we can place our life and trust in His hands and it will be secure.  Even when we know Jesus, when we feel we are not close to Him at times, we can have the assurance, that blessed assurance,  that He is always near, ever present, holding our hand, leading us to our destination. For without a doubt, according to Romans 8:38-39 “Jesus is our eternal security”. Nothing can separate us from Him.

I have known Wayne for over 35 years, nearly 34 years as his son-in-law. He has always been a man of high integrity and honesty.   He has been the best father in law a man could have. Anna already knows this.  She is the best mother-in-law a guy can have.   Over the years Wayne and I have talked for hours and days at a time about various subjects.  I have seen him grow in his walk with God.  Some may have thought he was a little unorthodox but his heart was right and his love of spiritual things was evident.

At Christmas times when my family would visit for a week… when everyone had gone to bed…. in the wee hours of the morning, he would be strumming his guitar and singing hymns.  I could hear him in the quiet of the night.  It was a comfort to me to know that the Lord was on his mind. That he sang of God’s Love.  That he knew of God’s love.

It has been a great privilege to know Wayne and listen to the stories he had to tell about WWII when he was an MP and many other stories throughout his life.  I never ceased to enjoy the stories… just as I enjoyed hearing the stories over and over from my father who got his new address in 1996.  My Father came to know Jesus in his late sixties.  He knew and rejected accepting the Lord as his Savior until one Sunday morning in church, he walked down and knelt at an alter and said, “it is time”.

My father and dad Williams saw each other only once many years ago at Christmas time.  It was fun to watch them talk and reminisce about the old times.  Now they both live on the same street - for there is only one street name there….  Jesus Street.

Dad Williams had a lot of questions about life.  About things in the Bible mostly, for he studied the word.  Many times he asked me questions year after year. I apparently did not get any smarter from year to year because we went over it again and again.   Now he can get the answers he always was trying to figure out.

He will be missed by his family and friends.  I believe his angel came and escorted him into God’s presence.  Home at last.  The angels are rejoicing in Heaven today because another one made it home.

—————–
(This was delivered at my father-in-law’s funeral. He was rough on the exterior but on the inside… kind, gentle, loving man.  I am a better man because of knowing him. )
ThatSynGirl Feb 2016
I aim for insanity and should I land among the sane, with madness seething from my fingers, I will touch every one of them until Sanity is only a vague memory that none of us can quite recall.
I wrote this for my bio piece but I actually like it as a poem itself. :)
f Jul 2018
I didn’t sleep tonight
Well.
I did something kinda
I never remember being a typical child. I was always wary. And very aware of everything. And I can’t remember a time where my brain wasn’t bouncing around, inquisitive. No matter who you are, there are small things you do that aren’t actually unique. All humans twitch in a spot on their face when they’re disgusted. We all have a nervous tick. Etcetera. Knowing this as a child made me very self conscious. My ego would say it made me self “aware”. But I watched my movements. And paid attention to my nervous tick. Phrases I would pick up and find amusing, and why. I was so careful not to do anything that would put me in a vulnerable spot. I wanted to be perfectly unnoticeable.
And I decided tonight, I’d go through the years that were especially hard for me and addresss the trauma in a chronological order.
Some of my very first memories ever in my life were of violations. I was touched and caressed, but not by my mother. This terrible man with a bit of a belly. And I would have thought it was normal, except for the sick bottomless pit in my stomach. And my rigid muscles. And it hurt sometimes.
Then I remember being with my mother. And staying at the white house with the flower pots filled with cigarette ash instead of soil. And I kinda liked it. The flower pots I mean. But I absolutely loved being with her. So many memories with her. So many sunny memories.
But I started seeing her less and less. And it was just weird. And uncomfortable. I had somewhat numbed myself, and hence there were many years spent I’m a daze. I was dreaming. But it was a melancholy dream. And I remember the foster kids my parents fostered. And they made me do things with another family member. Multiple times. And it was just so odd to me that this would happen, I didn’t know if this was normal or not. But I thought all this time I was somehow responsible and I’m trouble. Or at least, if I discussed this with any adult, it would be entirely unorthodox. Ludacrious.
And there was so much pain.
Then I had grand mal serizures (or however you spell it idc) for around two years I think. Only about like 8? Seizures. But every time it happened I just felt my memory going away. It was the strangest sensation. I would lose an entire week here or there, and days after they happened I would be a little dysphoric. And maybe there is a god that had mercy on me, and gave me those seizures as a way to literally forget some of what I had been through. Or repress I guess.
Anyway, then I was a very charismatic, secretly introverted girl during junior high. I had my first kiss and it really ******. It was just... tense-*** lips smushing against mine. I also had my lips closed though because I didn’t know you parted them for kisses. Like I had always seen my mom and dad do a quick peck so I didn’t know what to do really. But he said I was a good kisser, but what junior high boy wouldn’t say that about any girl he kissed tbh.
And I became VERY devout in the religion I had been raised in. Full-on future missionary. I read the scriptures frontto back multiple times. Blah blah blah.
Then I met my first love, and there was an electric shock that went through my body. I was mesmerized by this feeling. I shook his hand, told him my name, and he told me his. That went on and off from 9th? Grade? until I graduated and a little after. It was a long relationship, full of a lot of different times. Good times, bad times. But mainly we were toxic to each other. We didn’t know how to love properly. He was fighter, who believed he was the king of kings. And I thought that in every single way, he was. I was truly bewitched. And he’d hold me tight, and wouldn’t let me go, even when I wanted to be let go. He collapsed at my feet and sobbed in my lap. And I did the same with him. We were so wounded, but similar. And found solace and endless banter in a moment together.
At this point my mother died. And I travelled barely out of state to attend her funeral. I saw all of my siblings. And stuff slowly started coming back to me. Weird snippets of early childhood existence. I couldn’t process it all, and so I emotionally shut down for the billionth time. But my first love was here for me.
Leaving a note on my doorstep that I remember particularly. “On sunny days, on rainy days. You are just as sweet.” With cherry blossoms.
Funny, my mother smelled like Japanese cherry blossoms.
So eventually we had raging hormones, young teens, and we started becoming intimate. But I was rigid. And in the back of my head, I knew why. I had repressed the repeated acts of abuse throughout my entire life. But I just wanted to forget about that. It didn’t make sense, I loved him, so why should I shy away from physical/****** interaction. I believed I was broken, something more was wrong with me. And one night he fingered me, I guess he had learned that from watching ****? Because I had no idea what he was doing. And it hurt because I wasn’t even wet. But I just was silent with a clenched jaw, not wanting to be a disappointment. The next thing, I lost my virginity to him. And what’s funny is the way he convinced me to is by saying, “For Science!”
I still find that amusing. I was like 17 or 18 I think and still a ******. I should have stayed one. The first time we had *** and I lost my virginity just seemed like I was sleepwalking. I was watching myself interact sexually with him, but I wasn’t present. Every single time I was sexually abused rushed back to my mind. And I felt as though somebody had cut off my limbs, severed my head, packed my whole body (piece by piece) into a business briefcase. And walked out the door with my body.
After that I kind of freaked out. Just too much going on. I couldn’t handle it. And my first love tried to **** himself in the months following. I think, after almost four years of companionship, we had *** only a handful of times, and it got easier and easier for me. But he tried to **** himself after we were “off” again. So I went right by his side, trying to piece together his life so he could be at peace. And not have the turbulent mind he had. And we were together. But then I had gotten up the courage to break it off again, and for good. We needed to move on. I knew what I was going to say to him, I knew I wanted to be close and have one last moment together. Finality. Closure.
But he said, “you kissed another guy. You cheated on me.” And in my head I was like no **** really what about the multiple girls that were your “friends” that you cheated on me with. Throughout the entire relationship? But I said yes, he kissed me. And I’m sorry. And he said, “We’re done.” And got up and walked off, leaving me on the curb in front of his house. No words can describe the torture it was to finally be done. And to have it be on his terms, with no closure. He was so cold. I hated it when he was like that. It was like looking in a mirror.
And that’s all I can talk about.
Funny timing, it’s 7:30 am. No sleep since yesterday at 8:00 am. Ramblings of a tormented soul.
But that was the thing I did tonight. Remember my earliest memories, and go through my life in chronological order. Accepting that it happened. At least to this point. I think I’ll keep going tonight, we’ll see.
But it’s wednesday, and I definitely need to shower for work.
-nobody
7 - 11 - 16
shooshu Jan 2016
confessions from
a cerebral inkwell
hemorrhaging the
paradox of spilled
holy water blessed
in unorthodox
black lace.
||shoo.shu ||
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
With the box lid closed
It's dark inside,
There are no colours
We can't abide.
But a golden sliver of light seeps in,
To expose the colours there within.
We see red when enraged,
And scarlet dancers crowd our stage;
A red-blooded male brags virility
Through rose-coloured glasses of masculinity.
Some grow green with envy,
Reveal they're yellow in enmity,
Are blue when feeling empathy,
Turn blue holding out for sympathy,
Are tickled pink with comedy,
And white as a sheet with tragedy,
Or brown-nosed with syncophany.
If your yellow-bellied you may run,
And green-gilled after Jamaican ***,
Write purple prose when versifying,
Ashen coloured when you're dying.
True colours show outside the box,
Use grey cells to colour unorthodox.
Our true colours are harlequin,
That fade to black at our end.
Tinesha Garcia Feb 2011
To us, the world can be painfully beautiful,
staring through the stolen glass eyes of an Aquarian child,
a vision, a sensitive vintage acid spell.
Overt transcendence beyond abstract universal turns into Bohme consciousness: Unorthodox awareness.
Cracking jokes about death, laughing off serious black-and-white situations,
find them an electric bridge between the Rainbow corner of the sky and home,
a thick, liquid existence illuminating yesteryear’s universal revolt.
Poetry by MAN Sep 2014
Oh all the poetry in me head
Many Masterpieces never said
Melding works of the dead
I am the writer you'll take what is fed
Eat up these delicious words
Unleash upon society tasty verbs
Unorthodox I'm a writing nerd
Strive to push boundaries of absurd
Open imagination like a can of worms
Squirm from emotions as they turn
I am fire feel me burn
Down to be taught that's why I learn
I'll write the book you turn the page
Knowledge hits your mind like a 12 gauge
Not a prophet more a Pervy Sage
I have magic in me like a Mage
King of Poetry label me with a tittle
Potential to perform like an American idol
To evolve always grow to me is vital
To not reach full potential is suicidal
Join me on my journey feel the rub
Kissed with gifts from heaven above
Feel you..heal you..I will not shove
Me Head Flow potent full of love.....
M.A.N 9-9-14 Me head flow..from soul..me show..me grow..was feeling good this morn so I wrote this before going to work..;))))
Sad Girl Mar 2021
Rememeber how she loved you.
Remember how she smelled.
Remember the tiny hairs
on the back of her neck
and the way that she spoke
your name like you were
something special.
Remember how she laughed
at your poor-taste jokes and sewed
the buttons back onto your pants
when your weight fluctuated
all of those years.
Remember reading stories
to each other at night
and sharing your unorthodox thoughts
over a warm mug of something or other,
whenever she was into that sort of thing.
Remember driving miles to see her
and feeling like you'd never parted.
Remember sharing your insecurities
and your dark memories that you dare
not share with anyone else.
Remember how she never uttered judgement
in your direction even when you choked up
during those discussions.
Remember laughing.
Remmeber holding her.
Remember how she smelled
after a long stressful day
and how- to you- it smelt
sweet instead of sour.
Remember the sound of her voice
when she sang to you.
Remember when that same
"beautiful" voice cracked
when she would cry.
Remember making her cry.
Rmemeber the first time that your hands
forgot what a delicate little girl she was
when you struck her.
Remember her forgiving heart.
Remember the number of times
that you said "I'm sorry".
Remember the fire in your stomach growing
during those fights.
Remember how the love outweighed the issues.
Remember crying in each others arms
as you made up and held each other
so tight (it almost hurt).
Her smell.
Remember that.
Remember the first time that
you slept in seperate beds again,
like before there was an "us".
Remember waking up alone,
missing her.
Her smell.
Remember watching her pack her
things and walk out the door.
Remember how unreal it felt
and how you couldn't stop it.
Remember when words weren't enough anymore.
Remember why she walked away.
Remember trying to hold onto
the memory of her smell.
Remember how empty your
arms felt the night that
you couldn't remember anymore.
Take it all in.
Take some time to sit with it.

Now try to forget.

Try to forget how
much it hurts to

Remember.
sappy soppy garbage.
DC raw love Nov 2014
some people think they have everything
yet something will always be missing

some people think they know everything
yet they forget

some people never go hungry
yet they don't know hunger

some people always smile
yet are never grateful

some people walk bye
yet never say hello

some people never think
yet never try

some people never care
not knowing what care is

some people say thank you
but only frown

some people are miserable
and hate everything

all of these people
don't know what

LOVE IS
Hayley Coleman Feb 2014
And I feel it now,
The rushing guilt, the sickening doubt,
The feelings I never wished to feel again.
And words are sprouting, growing, and shouting, from their captivity inside my head.
I'm not sure what I'm trying to say, I'm not sure where I'm going,
I know that surely I am growing,
I know that rhyming is nothing
But a pattern.

So if everyday was a challenge,
And every breath was a risk,
Why does humanity continue to live?
As these thoughts absorb you, and these questions envelope you,
Into some foreign core.
I will continue to nourish some unknown object,
The unknowing of what is to come.

And if I were to personify every action and every word,
Would I drive myself insane?
Because bringing feelings and emotions into your eyes is surely something I cannot seem to obtain.

Do you notice the drifting?
Do you recognize the time?
Do you often wonder about the first time you saw me?
Because I think about you often, and the small things.
Like the feeling you get when you see the rain.

There are millions to billions of emotions associated with every word of this sentence.
Am I the one to judge how you feel,
When I can't even uncover the meaning behind my words?

— The End —