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Stephanie May 2018
My chest is heavy

Calm down you say

My breathing is rapid

      It's no big deal you say

My heart is racing

     What's the problem you say

My words are caught in my throat

     She wants attention you say

My head is spinning

     She is being dramatic you say

My whole body is trembling

     Why do you act like that you say

My tears won't stop falling
    
      Don't act so weak you say

My screams echo inside my head

      It's just another day you say

My mind broken and realing

      You're so bothered by little things you say

My heart is shattered, unrepairable

Why do you say all these things you say
When you have experienced a trauma that leaves you with ptsd any little thing can be a trigger
ICN Oct 2015
all these broken things surround me
our broken relationship
these ripped papers
the pencils that i snapped in half
that ugly drawing i drew

the pictures on the wall mock me,
your eyes penetrate my soul
they capture a much simpler moment, in a much simpler time of our lives.
//how come i'm there for everyone, but when i most need people i'm alone?\\
grace snoddy Dec 2017
how do you love something back to life?
how do you heal someone who is unrepairable?
what do you rely on? what do you use?
hope is merely but a bandaid on a broken bone.
no amount of love can fix what was already broken.

we were broken from the start;
nothing more and nothing less.
we built our love on a foundation of false hope.
nothing more
and nothing left.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
this is truly a welcome break from:
freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

     pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

   a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
     they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
                
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                   a man with...
a gamble...
         i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

   the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
       there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
   even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
             past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
     i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
   and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

             Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
               lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
         i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

   when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
   weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
   much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

           chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
           da pacem domine...
             agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
         there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
   new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
       i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
             kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.
susan Aug 2015
i use your words
as a bandage
encircling my heart
trying to hold together
what little is left
     of love

        but

the anguish
and bitterness
have torn apart
any semblance of healing

and no words
or kind expressions
can mend something
with pieces missing.
some damage is beyond repair
Laurie Fisher Mar 2012
Rotten fruit is still fruit, no matter how bitter or sour the taste
I don't keep rotten fruit in my house, there is no what if, or case.

Decomposition is the fate, once a fruitful piece of life, is now death,
served, rotting in its place.

I won't be the piece of fruit rotting from the inside out,
because of the fruit that surrounds me.

You smell is getting stronger, your taste; undesirable.
I cannot digest, your unrepairable.

One last time I will reiterate,
I don't keep rotten fruit in my house, there is no what if, or case.
The Frustration Is driving me insane
I thought you was Abel turned out to be Cain.
Sometimes I want to push you in front of a train but
that would be to easy these days seem so much the same
Patience is a virtue yes I'm frustrated and may hurt you
only to feel bad because the human in me hurts too
My quest for happiness is like a trek to find the end of a rainbow
I've lost my light and my path I don't know which way to go.
Seems a lot of people would like to see me fail and
well I've done just that and somehow avoided jail
It's a wonder I'm still alive seems it's not my time to die
I bottle up emotions and at random moments I cry.
Used, abandoned, No one came to pay my ransom
Now damaged, unrepairable, but still somewhat handsome
Life threw me a fastball and I struck out a few times
my days are filled with lust No wonder I learned to rhyme
trying to climb my way out of my hole hoping this may be my gold
I haven't accomplished much of anything at 23 years old
Yes, I've wrote a bunch of non sense
but it has brought me not one cents and
I'm actually in debt for sharing my two cents.
My life is like a comedy I, myself laugh maniacally
at one point someone thought I was inspiring.
I try and stay optimistic hoping to ease this stress
as I feel the rope tightening around my neck.
The lightning bolts my only hope the reason I log on
if you didn't give me strength there's no way I could write on...
Thank you to everyone for your support and love
it goes along way.
Marco Batista Nov 2013
I Jammed the pain inside, to wait for the defects to reside. Today strays and wanders away until it's stuffed down inside the void of discomfort. Let's roll our imagination onto light able paper, light it, and watch it burn..

See because that's what addiction does. It overrides your body latching on your inner artistry for its fuel. Pretty soon you become a machine, something mindless. Fasten your seatbelt because your on auto-pilot.

Now the transactions of your body really start to inaugurate. Your internals no longer has what it takes to fight, to resist, so now come the alterations.The tips of your fingers go hand in hand with the tip of your tongue. How your saliva's lust for substance dismantles the chemical compounds. Your taste buds loving that all too familiar feeling. Your greed full blood consuming every inch of it. As the destruction slowly trickles down your throat your anxious. Then the finale comes, the moment you've been waiting patiently for  the manipulation and overhaul of your brain and your reality remodeled, your home.

In those seconds pain is never an option, never a thought. Your lost out at sea. But that's all it really is, seconds, minutes, sometimes hours, just a little more time to stick the dysphoria on the back burner. When in truth you've just deepened the scar and exposed it to infections. When it's gone your left with broken thoughts that feel unrepairable.

Addiction doesn't just come from pre-packaged materials, they come from every entity you wish that blocks the truth out. They come from unfulfillment , pain, and soak themselves until you are left with no control. You have to fight, fight for your life. Face the music
Christina Maria Mar 2019
Wasted years on toxicity
Broken promises
Lies and scandal
Used and tossed aside

Made out to be a villain but actually the victim
Helpless and hopeless
Destined to be

Unrepairable damage

c.m.l.
Mikoarenas Apr 2016
I'm tired of this fake reality.
This non existent world I call home.
This fantasy where whales fly with the wind while woodpeckers swim with the waves.
A place that Impossible scenarios call home.

Exhaustion takes me there every night.
I've studied this place and I know how it works now.
It's not a home for impossible scenarios but a place for false hope.
It takes your memories and creates fantasies that'll never turn into actualities.
I've noticed this so I've stop trying to go there.

These nightmarish places disguised as fascinating fantasies are no interest to me anymore.
I'm leaving this hellish place behind but I'm not going to leave without something.

I'm not going to let my nightmares runaway with years of my dreams.
I will drag something good out of this situation because my teacher told me to write a celebration.
When in reality
For me at least
That is almost unachievable.
Key word almost

All I have ever wrote is depressing poems crafted by a beautiful mind using sinful words.
So I ask myself:
How is this possible?
How does one take a hellish situation and find hope?
How does one go outside their comfort zone?
What am I going to do?

I've tried before.
It only stuck me in second place at my freshmen year slam which ***** because I finally know I'm much more then some ******* second place at a freshmen year slam.
I just wish I knew that early.
So I wouldn't have to have these emotional scars, and physic.

They have returned, day after day, week after week, year after year.
But I am done.
I'm going to find something good in these nightmares if it kills me.

I've taken these emotional scars and taught myself to deal with them.
These scars that are unseeable can't restrain me anymore.

You see, I finally now how to give celebration to these corrupted dream catchers that live inside my head.
These Permanent EMPs that block dreams and not nightmares.
These things that have created unwanted dates with unwanted "dreams".
I've experienced anything and everything there.
So if I'm gonna pull anything from this hellish place.
It's experience.
I've played this game of life hundreds of times and I finally know the level nows.
I know where not to go.
I know what not to do.
And I know who not to talk to.

You see these things are just thoughts from my broken guardian angel trying to warn me about the bad things in life.
The things in life that broke her and made her unrepairable.
She does not want that for me.

So thank you broken guardian angel for stealing my dreams and making them nightmares.
I've only just realized that these nightmares are metaphors for hard life lessons.
This was suppose to be an Ode for my English class but I kinda went over board :/
AP Apr 2015
In this moment I've never felt so empty

My heart is a wooden slab being knawed away at by pesky termites that leave unrepairable holes

And my lungs like Swiss cheese that can't seem to give me the oxygen I need in order to rid the lump of sorrow in my throat

It's in this moment that your back has turned to me, as I count your steps and wait to hear the slamming of a car door

I count on you to look back at me and smile, but my hope has again betrayed me, and I realize the last I'll see of you will have been this moment

So I've never felt so empty
I've never felt so alone
Sidenote: Happy Easter everybody. Enjoy it
Soph T Apr 2016
I wish I could smile,
but you took that from me.
You broke me,
and shattered me into a million pieces.
You can never put me back together.
I'l never be the same,
because now I'm broken,
and I'll never be fixed.
I remember the day when love you'd say
Embrace me and take me to the place
where we'd both engage... In love filling the dull and pale page
Inspiring the knowledge of an ancient omniscient sage

I remember the scent that showered my senses
I remember the nuzzle and the puzzling glare
When you'd stare wondering if I would stay
and from this buzz magic we shared
And laying you on my lap studying your soul's map
Searching for the destination of your heart
healing the wounds along the way where the wolves marked
Will I ever succeed mending a broken heart? I wondered.

So many pieces didn't seem to fit
How do you survive going about as a wreck?
I guess you go on for there is ever someone next
Oh! Only leaving you more lonely
Your heart crying: "Somebody hold me,
Burn the sour of my throat that chokes me"
And honesty and loyalty you know no more
Only a cognitive matrix that has you feel like *****
You lost the battles but won the war
You are the monster of your love sore
The pieces leave wounds unrepairable and
inspires a behaviour unbearable
Leaving you in dramatic peril

But love you still have
Settling you know not, always quick to dance
but so many malevolent composers are there
Can you please them all?
Will they sit beside you on your bed after *** or leave and close the door?
A sham a shame, who to blame?!
Once red, now a black broken rose
squandering pink minnows
Sweet cheerio! And money band
Heart of gold and hands of sand
Will you ever find form?
Will you ever heal from the storm?
I hope the poetry of the moments keeps you warm.
Binary code

Life to me is similar to
Binary code cause your either a one
Or your a zero not to be cruel like Nero
but that's just how it runs

Rich or poor zero and one
Not in the sense of you don't matter
But in the sense that some climb the
same corporate ladder

That others like me must of walked under
so zero represents hunger
And it maybe crazy to be labelled a statistic
but your always a number

Like a jail bird in prison social security
or even a credit score
Even prostitutes on escort websites
Are rated with a score

Your age, your salary,were all ******
It's not limited to profession
Even the priest tells u how many prayers
to say after confession

Racing time minutes from seconds
That accumulate to hours
9/11 two towers and 24 hours
In a day 7 days a week for power

We struggle hoping our troubles
Are more subtle hopin Donald trump
Isn't quoted by your boss
saying "your fired", a year is 12 months

But Friday the 13th if superstitious
Means 666 may send viscous
Demons while millions of ******
Are released in one ******* visit

Your height and weight, 6 pack
A perfect 10 describes good looks
5 stars tell how well your hotel is to dwell
but 187s a ****** and all crooks

Know tha 5.0 isn't a lottery# took
but a warning to book it or be booked
But in life we all have a 50/50 chance
if we really try but to look

With perfect eye sight is harder than just
having a 20/20 vision
Gotta watch for fakes that send over scams
til ur bent over, ****,,..now your  wishin

It could all be equal like positions
Designed so everyone can find
A balance of there talents a give and take,
if you will.... even like a.... 69?

Give me yours and here's mine
But nothing's that even, but as for odd
There's a lot of odd, cuz ppl are odd
And odds are someone will rob

You of your dignity. Money or job
Til too high is the number of your
Blood pressure that'll measure
if u need a stretcher and now to be sure

Let's check the number of your temperature
cuz outside it's 30 plus
But it feels more like 50 below zero
When your visa statement erupts

After your wife of number 10 years
of marriage decided to make
Another negative number work against you
at a 17% interest rate

It's all numerical I'm hysterical
Comparable to psychotics unrepairable
And after all this numerology psychologically
ima be damaged cuz its labotomy type terrible

All I want is some fresh bread for a sandwich
and to relax with a beer but first
I had to go to the bakery to get the fresh bread
and of course what occured....

I stand in line for such a long time
And got annoyed I wasn't served
So I yell what the hell, only to hear them tell
me  "please take a number sir "

Life...... life to me is similar to binary code
cause your either a numer one
Or your a zero .....
not to be cruel like Nero but that's just how it runs....


...... Ones and zeros I tell ya...
Ones an zeros......
.. If your not a one....
Third Mate Third Jun 2014
for Maria

you want to ask,
knowing in advance,
the answer is a scream
even if it is silent traveling,
on a frequency transversing,
that humans cannot discern

so strange is it,
that the imposition
of the interrogatory
is the almost harder part
of the two dance partners,
question and answer

a simple
"how are you"
is simply inadequate
in every respect,
it is almost,
disrespectful

for there is no how or are
and for sure, there is no
you anymore

how could there be,
when pieces of your flesh
by hot combs inquisitioner pierced,
levying cuts impervious to
medicinal magic

asking
how was your weekend,
beyond absurd,
what matters the day of the week,
when the unrepairable ailment of thy soul
has a permanence that makes
calendars superfluous

but on certain days,
certain worse than others,
because they freshly dress
the still red scars,
fresh bright pained painted with
unrepressable, unsurpassable memory agonistes
of seeds and wine

so you ask dumb,
you ask blind,
waiting for a
shotgun blast reply,
hoping you will be
the forgiving kind,
but prefacing the inanity with
a forgiveness plea confession,
"I don't know how to ask"

and you reply
"there is no correct way,
and
there is no correct answer"

and neither the interrogator
or the interrogee is content,
the Yankee boy and the Southern gal,
unless it is to scream,
till the air in the lungs depleted,
and when replenished,
having screamed to the heart's content,
the heart impaired,
cannot ever be contented

your own insane humanity prompts
to ask again, no matter,
for the only correct thing
is the asking~caring,
even though advance notice
has been given,

**there is no correct answer
Cece Dec 2011
I swore to myself
I would never let anyone break
through those walls again
after you tore them down.

They were crushed,
beaten,
and mangled.
They bricks that held my flimsy heart together
were completely obliterated.

Slowly, I hauled the unrepairable pieces.
I have started using a stronger barrier
where nothing can get through.
Not even someone like you;
Sweet, innocent, and caring.
An unsuspecting visitor.

I recreate a portion of this wall
Sturdy enough, I thought
for now.
Proud of the long way I had come.
It is reasonably hard work
for such an undeserving
*****.

An unpredicted smile,
along with the brushing of a hand
against my face, tucking a loose strand of hair
away behind my ear.
Causes all progress to disappear.

**It will never get easier.
You will never cease to take my breath away.
Dante Prince Jan 2019
Dear ***,

Another sleepless night, I found myself staring at what used to be our lake. The beach was ghost-quiet except for the screams of seagulls and the smashing of water against rocks. The air outside felt cold, but it did not compare to the ice that bedded down inside the hole where my heart used to live.

As I stood there, I thought of our evenings gone by, the good ones, and the bad. I thought of all the love we shared and the all the fun we had. If I knew that sunset would have been our last, I would have told you how much I loved you, and that I never wanted to let you go. I know how much you loved me, as much as I loved you, but when the sun sets, darkness follows.  

I truly miss being a part of your life, and me being a part of yours. Everything around us is precious and can be taken away at any moment; so we learn to love and cherish every little thing we have, for as long as we have it.  I will forever be grateful for the time you were in my life and that summer spent on the beach.

Every time you fall in love, you take a risk. Well, I took a risk and ended up getting my heart broken into a million tiny unrepairable pieces.  I do not regret falling in love with you. I will forever possess our secrets, our connection, and the memories we shared.

All your butterflies are dead. That makes me sad.

Isn’t love suicide though?  You go into it and never come out, someone else does.

I come to accept that, once upon a time...counts for nothing...fade to black...

Sincerely,

A broken-hearted fool who has to figure out how to stop loving you
Weeks of not eating or sleeping had made me  delirious. Sad songs, others writings, and quotes have inspired me to write.
Emily Foster Nov 2013
I'm slowly breaking

tearing apart

unrepairable

like a spinal chord

torn in two.
ugh I just hate feelings, don't you?
Love is unforeseen.
Love strikes at any moment undetected.
Love happens when trading back and forth poems.
Love happens as you cuddle.
Love happens when you are dancing.
Love happens as you laugh in unison.

Love happens;
As you "lean wit it, rock wit it".
As you hold the person most important to you.
As you look within their eyes,
and see another life.
As you meet them for the first time.
As your lips finally touch.

Love is;
The warmth within when you see his/her eyes.
The loneliness you feel when he/she leaves.
The chills down your spine when he/she is in pain or hurt.
The greatest connection one can cherish between another human being.

Love is never lost.
Whether death cuts in between.
Whether the world ends.
Whether the damage is unrepairable.
Whether time has separated you both.
Love is never lo...
Love is nev...
Love is...
the shuffle parts were inspired by stephen kings' dark tower series ^_^
I'm not sure who to address this letter to, myself or my ex lover...

I've always had this love affair with self destruction. As if life wasn't already difficult enough, I constantly sought out my own blend of vices and chaos to add to the mix. Perhaps something inside me has always been beautifully broken, disastrously unrepairable; so I've endlessly searched for things, places, and people that either were damaged themselves or caused further destruction. It made me feel closer to normal.

Every relationship I had was one I knew was doomed from the beginning. Yet, I chased after them anyway, running after the pain I knew would come. It was almost as if there was a little red button, above certain people or right before I did something incredibly stupid, that screamed and beeped and flashed "DO NOT TOUCH. MUTUAL DESTRUCTION ENSURED." Obviously, I always pressed the button.

While I admit I have caused more people undeserved pain than I care to think about, I should clarify it was never about hurting you. I think somehow I innately understood whatever I was about to do would blow up in my face, send shrapnel ripping through my already wrecked body; and that was what I craved. I was and am addicted to destruction.
"But I wasn't prepared for how completely you would ruin me. If I thought I knew pain before you; I was sadly mistaken."

This is just a stream of consciousness and entirely incomplete, but I need some advice or critiques. Feel free to please let me know what you think so far.
glass can Aug 2013
Unwish readings, rapists, unrepairable rips,

I wish to undo
the space between
me(                                          )you

and where I once wrapped my thighs around your hips
and the whistling trill of my sleeping breath once felt a home in the



cavernous space




between your head and your breast

and I
and I

found shelter in your curls,
pulling until they escaped from me, undone.

Mussed love, entombed in the perfumed past of white rooms by untouched oceans
and unsullied books, too occupied by the wonder found in each other, each others' bodies

and I lie awake with the ghosts
in haunting of my own accord and I watch at the window
                                                      and I watch at the window
                                                      and I watch at the window, waiting

I wonder
I wonder

could you need me, still,

now?
Sam Rowell Jul 2011
Who will shine brightly now that he's gone
Like the candle lights after the funeral
His life was put out.
For some people life will never be the same
Their hearts forever broken.
He could be replaced by none
That boy was someone's son
Someone's friend
But in the end
It didn't matter.
Too scared to go for help
Too alone to cry out "Please someone SAVE me"
Too desperate for an end to see that things would get better.
But you don't care
Because you never recall
Those times in the hall
Him: pinned against the wall
Feeling so small
You: Looking left then right
No teachers in sight.
How could you not see
This young man's desperate plea
For you to just stop.
Everyday you harassed
Made a fool of him
You were so cruel to him.
WHY?
His faith in humanity was destroyed
No longer finding happiness in the things he once enjoyed
The void you made in his soul
Unrepairable
His life was so terrible and unbearable...

So he took it.

He left no note
No reason
But like leaves after the changing of the seasons
He had fallen.
Years later



His memorial coated in dust
Just a faint memory of him remained
Stained by your association
Frustration building in those he loved
Shoved reasons that made no sense
Intense questions remained unanswered

And because of you





They never will...
Harmony Sapphire Feb 2015
Old people become like children.
They need care & monitoring.

Broken & unrepairable.
Intolerable & unbearable.
Stained, torn, & unwearable.

Empty & no longer full.
Anger takes you like a raging bull.
Motivation pushes & pulls.
Through & behind locked doors.
Solid brick walls coward's hide from us all.

Guilt has shame.
Responsibility blames.
Isolated & insane.
Somethings stay the same.
Sometimes people, places, or things change.
Somehow all becomes strange.
Memories rearrange.
Ambitions & goals get deranged.
Shattered dreams are pained.
Credit is unfamed.
Wild hearts are never tamed.

Fallen through the cracks like grains of sand.
Your destiny is purified your hands.
You fall where you land.
"Family" has you labeled & banned.
Inspirations & Aspirations are canned.
Your future is never planned.
Traffic flow gets slowed & jammed.
Victims are slandered & slammed.
Innocence gets ******.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved
rhiannon Feb 2019
Heart Broken!
Holly’s Story:

Snow swirled around the misty,dark forest as i walked through carefully.Dead leaves crunched and the wind blew heavily.Trees swayed from side to side,shaking colourful leaves onto the ground.Red,orange and green.The colours of the beautiful Autumn.I was alone,listening to the birds sing their sad,melancholy tunes as they flew past.Cold air blew against my back.I shuddered.And turned to the icy footpath.I skipped along merrily,chasing the little birds as i went.The dark approached and i found it harder to see where i was but i still happily played with the squirrels and robins as i walked home.

It was now pitch black outside and i completely lost where i was.I continued nervously.My heart beating fast.As i was walking i could hear footsteps moving towards me.I stopped and listened.The footsteps seemed to be getting closer to me and approaching more quickly.I turned around but couldn’t see anything.Then i tripped.I stood back up.As i was about to run something grabbed my arm and pulled me.Who was it?Where is it taking me?I scream.

I tried to wriggle however the hands gripped more tightly and and stayed firmly against my small,cold arms.A couple of minutes later,i stopped wriggling as i started to feel extremely tired and soon i fell asleep,breathing in the cold air.

The beautiful sun awoke me and i stood up,brushing the Autumn leaves off my ripped,muddy jeans.I walked through the hanging branches and shadowed trees.Something was moving in the distance.I concentrated hard and saw a dark figure moving towards me confidently.As it approached i could make out a face.It’s eyes as blue as the ocean and features pale.It stared at me with an expression of hatred and loathing.It was wearing dark clothes and was extremely thin.

It moved from behind the shadowed trees and i started to recognize it.My ex-boyfriend.He looked sad but he glared at me with hatred.It seemed like he wanted some sort of revenge on me but it was hard to tell as he also looked sad.As if he wanted to tell me something but just couldn’t bring it into words.

It all started last summer.It was the hottest day of the year.The sun beamed its hot rays and smiled cheerfully at the playful children.I walked through the grounds of the house to the lake.There stood Alex.I placed the flowers on the fountain side and picked up the vase.”Here,i’ll help you,”Alex said as he tried to grab hold of the vase.”No,no,i can do it.”i replied.He continued to pull,insisting that he should help and…The vase smashed into tiny pieces.I cried,”Now look what you have done!”I leapt into the lake to fetch the pieces.Soaked i climbed out and walked back to the house.I turned around,he was still there and looked shocked as if he didn’t know how to react.To some people it may have seemed silly but it was a really valuable vase of my granddad's and the only thing i had to keep as memories of him.And it is now unrepairable.

It was mid-afternoon and our servant,Becky was cooking a roast dinner for my older brother,Max,who was returning
home from Cambridge University.No one was in the mood for a hot meal when it was already extremely hot.Alex sat next to me at dinner.It was awkward as no one knew what to say.I was still really upset with him.

He phoned me and messaged me after that saying that if i let him help it wouldn’t break.I started to ignore him for weeks and he said,”we can’t stay together if we are not even talking,it wouldn’t be right,i’m sorry!”

I know i should just forgive him but it upsets me too much.He walked further out of the forest and stared at the sky.It feels like he might be trying to bring back the happy memories we had together before we split up.I still think about it sometimes and feel sorry for him that he is so heart-broken.I just can’t quite explain it to him.

Alex’s Story:

Watching the distance between us both when we used to be so close just breaks my heart.I think back to all the memories we had together and happy things we done and just wish it could still be like that now.If only Holly understood how much it means to me.I sit on the snowy bank and the dead Autumn leaves and write in my spotty note book.

“It’s hard to believe

That you no longer

Care about my feelings,

Knowing that we

Were once so

Close to each

Other.

Why can’t the

Bond we had

Still be there?

Sitting in the

Darkness,

Remembering the

Happy times we

Once shared,

I hate the

Distance that

There is

Now between

Us.

Why don’t you

Understand?

Why don’t you

Care.”

I then put my notebook in my pocket and alone i stay in the cold,dark forest.Maybe one day Holly will understand.

A few years later!

I still go past Holly’s house sometimes to remind myself of all the happy memories that we shared.I never see her anymore though now that i am a famous Poet and Author.We never got back together even though i really wish we did.I love visiting the area Holly lived with the beautiful flowers and colourful leaves surrounding the forest and all the cute,little animals that sing their sad songs of Autumn.It’s peaceful! But sad! The magic that Holly brought to it is no longer there and i’m always there alone now so it isn’t as special as the times i spent with Holly.The wildlife no longer moves cheerfully in the wind and the leaves don’t have their sparkle that they used to have.Even the snow doesn’t swirl around the dark sky anymore.Everything has changed.

There is only one thing that keeps me going and that keeps me going and that is my books i write.Without them i would be trapped inside my own thoughts and sad memories.
A sad heart breaking story!Bound to bring you to tears.
Maeve Aug 2015
And I love you with every inch of my being
Though it sounds cliche
It couldn't be more true.

When you left, I shattered.
Clenching my teeth and tightening my bones
To keep from falling apart

There was so much happiness
So much I should've appreciated
So much I loved but never knew

Now we just might be an unrepairable vase
Left in pieces on the ground
Too broken to put the pieces back together

But I love you.
I love you so much my heart feels as if it is being consistently beaten with a hammer
I love you so much I am crawling out of my skin waiting for you to come back

And if I weren't afraid of looking so desperate
I'd beg you to give it another chance
We could be greater than we were
We could love stronger than before.
Alyssa Feb 2014
It's days like this when I still feel in love;
then I realize he's gone and the pain comes rushing back again.
Now I just feel the chill of the open window
and I'm no longer enlightened, just bitter cold..
Time is supposed to make this easier, but why wont my heart forget?
Just reset like before.
I don't understand.
I seriously think it's untreatable, unrepairable.
That was all I had left in me and now I'm just tired..
It's exhausting trying to feel anything other than heartache and terror.
Even those feeling exhaust me.
I'm tired...
Đaviđ Dec 2019
A fractured spirit as a child.
Divorced parents.
A Saturday father.
A jealous mother of happy time spent with our father.
What very little time that was.
For me it was never close to enough.
That precious time was reduced even more.
I missed and needed my daddy.
But mom didn't care, her feelings were clearly more important than a fragile child.
After being dropped off by our father there were times of mental and physical unwanted unnecessary uncomfortableness.
All I wanted was time with my daddy but it became scarce, because our father did not want us subjected to that type of behavior any longer from a jealous woman.
Fractured spirit led to a fractured heart.
Part of my heart was so loving and warm.
The larger part was so cold and so bitter.
Which has led to a fractured tormented soul especially after losing my daddy a few short years ago one March day.
Watching my daddy suffer first hand from stage IV lung cancer opened up old and new wounds.
It fractured my mind.
It fractured my very essence of being.
Why is my existence completely fractured ?
Why was it after watching my father get so abusively tortured by cancer did I and do I feel so broken and unrepairable ?
Perhaps it's because I want the same fate as my daddy and I won't feel whole ever again until I do.
I've never been a truly happy person since my father left us as children.
I've never been whole, ever, and I never will be.
I drag my fractured existence through year after year since my daddy's passing.
Never caring, even a little if I myself was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer
tomorrow.
Selfish?
Perhaps.
But that cold and bitter part of my heart doesn't care much about selfishness.
It only cares about the exhaustive numbing pain it has dragged around for nearly 50 years.
As other layers of guilt with other separate affairs of my fractured heart have been added throughout these painful years, life if I am to be honest, has almost become a nuisance.
Crowds of people I avoid because my cold bitter heart trusts no one.
Outside of my home I venture only because I have to, to support the family I created.
Otherwise my fractured being I would keep in my home away from a world I almost despise and sometimes loathe.
Money does not make me happy.
Love does not make me happy.
Nothing will ever make the bigger piece of my fractured heart happy.
It's north pole cold and it will never be warmed until I suffer as my daddy did and I finally leave this place called Earth that I look at as hell.
I only need to leave my home for one day to realize that this really is hell on earth.
Until I can get away from the ignorance...
the I I I I I ...
the selfishness of just about every human being I encounter everyday I will never be happy.
When I see my daddy's face and Jesus's face is when my fractured heart will become whole once again and when I will finally allow myself to be happy.....at long last.
I can't wait to know even something as simple and taken for granted as being/feeling whole.... I can't wait to know how that feels because I never have.
A whole heart from me would be absolutely angelic.
A heart that Jesus has longed to see whole too, i'm sure of it.
Sarah Nov 2015
I watched you
spiraling like
falling
confetti, resisting
hitting the
ground
in a chaotic
dance, the bats
of origami

I'm not sure if you know this,
or if I've ever said it-
and I'm honestly
not sure what
you know,
but

after the party
when the candles all
burnt out
and you were
sweating out
the belief you're
not enough,
I was sitting in
a rickety-old-fold-up-chair
tapping my foot,
thinking of telling
you that
you are enough,
you're celebratory confetti,
a thousand sprinkles of
abstract shapes
hard edges
inexplainable
indescribable
unrepairable

and after every show,
every party,
after
every means of celebration
where the balloons might be
released and where
the blow horns might
sound,
I want it all
to be with you,
we can't conquer the world,
but
we'll sure as hell
confetti the
ground.
devante moore Dec 2014
True love is a cliché
I rather take a bullet to the head
Then think there's another human made for me
Think you could please me?
Please..
You have a better chance touching the moon
Tried the love thing before
The aftermath worse then a typhoon
Debris everywhere
The damage was to extensive
Unrepairable
So I left everything there
Packed up an fled  
No point going back for love
I left it under the stack of chairs
here’s the thing with moving on. it creeps in, slowly.

when I was first broken up with, the pain felt unreal. the thoughts of being forever unrepairable plagues your mind, and suddenly the world is a lot darker without them. more dark than a solar eclipse, their absence leaves you in pitch black loneliness.

but there are stages to moving forward, and each person experiences them differently. but you can always guaranty that although the one you miss is constantly on your mind, the thought will eventually start to dim. like a trying lightbulb, it will attempt its last ignition alive and fail. it will dim out without your knowledge, and your heart will eventually be okay with it.

like I said the process creeps in slowly. one minute you’ve forgotten about their beautiful smile and perfect hands and the next you’re remembering the goosebumps that arose when he touched you. you’re reliving an experience you’ve held dear to your heart, and to no avail, nothing changes. you’re both on opposite sides of the universe, strung up in old feelings like ***** laundry, but are somehow airing each other out. looking forward.
sometimes you’ll look back, but you’ll never allow your shoulders to follow. you’ll never be able to do that to yourself now because you know the second you do, everything comes back, right?

i’ve allowed to let my shoulders turn but only come back as a walking ghost. its a distance I respect, love and hate all at once. I love it because sometimes I still get to hear the laughter. I get too watch how careful his hands are when he pours his drink, or hands me the remote. its a torturous feeling of bliss, wonder and nostalgia. I hate it for this, too, because when you see those delicate hands, you wonder what they would feel like on you again. you wonder if they wonder, and that’s the end of it all.

when you wonder, you wander. I go into this reality of what has been, and what could of been. It’s an escape from what is and, for just a while, I can ease the initial pain and remember what it was like to have your lips against my skin, touching everywhere and healing everything. Sometimes that’s all you need- not the person, but the feelings they arose in you.

that's what hurts about love; it will always move faster than time and somehow allow us to remain completely still, unchanged, unwillingly hinged together by a thread.

so that’s really the question: are you pushing forward? Are you meeting someone new? Does she smile at you like I used to?

       I beg you don’t forget. please don’t forget about me.

- moving on
Derek Leavitt Jun 2015
I know love to be true and so untrue.
Innocence is your greatest deception and yet your only ally.
I cannot feel for that of which is like me... but older... wiser.. much more in experience.
Trust is no longer an option, let alone a factor... but is an asset is as good as an enemy?
Can they think?
Do they adapt?
What is the light without the darkness?
What is Joy without sadness?
How can you grow without being destroyed and then rebuilt?
I hate and I love.
But I hardly love and usually hate.
Respect is not a passed around toy, but it is something to deeply consider in hard times. (How pathetic and yet.. understandable)
The wisest are unrepairable, and the young are too predictable and sensitive.
Beauty becomes more rare because ugliness becomes beauty. Nothing is truly ugly, you just have not noticed it's beauty yet.
Do not touch what you cannot reach but grab that of which is beyond your comprehension and never let it go.
Life is nothing without death... and Death... is only the beginning.
A collection of poetry in one... days of pain finally formed into words... but what is to be understood?... that is for you to figure out, alone, my friend.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
.and i wrote this... back in January of... perhaps this year... a disclaimer: bones and prose... to have reached a traction of nearing 1.4K readers elsewhere: i don't expect the same numbers here... of that i am imploring... but i want to remember something: i probably misjudged celebrating the worth of Dickens' Pickwick Papers... the moment i heard it was... an imitation of Don Quixote - it was fun to read... before i was reading the papers via the gresham publishing company edition from... oh the 19th century... that's before the book started falling apart from actually being re(a)d: no matter the decency of binding... flimsy papyrus in the end... good enough to look at when stacked on a shelf and an artifact for the eyes... so i decided to finish reading the papers... 2nd hand penguin modern... as ever... why do they write these synopsis spoilers... even a mere allusion to: 'the pickwick papers are the english don quixote'... you know... when reading this book without a synopsis-of-allusion... i very much enjoyed it... but since i have re(a)d Don Quixote... and... frankly... the ballet by the royal opera house was par excellence... now i don't feel so inclined as to be motivated enough to celebrate Dickens anymore... notably to boot there was that essay by Milan Kundera.... as any continental european: not much of english literary adventures is given much thought: it appeal to the everyman but... that's my problem too... Shakespeare is great... when recited... not when read... you require good acting to appreciate shakespeare... a stand-alone dynamic of me: reader of Shakespeare? it's not a selling point... it doesn't feel right! shakespeare? isn't that a household noun akin to chair... hammer... why would it need a capital S(igma): to focus on... what... exactly? shakespeare, hammer, nail, towel... fridge-freezer... fork... muhammad ibn abdullah ibn abd al-muttalib... hey-zeus ben josephus... flour... cheese... i was going to enjoy the pickwick papers to the end but then the disclaimer that it's an imitation don quixote tale... and suddenly the fire - of eagerness... became a stalemate of cinders and stealthy coals... no, clearly the milan kundera essay didn't help either: who would want to reread don quixote: i know some people do reread books... i don't understand my grandmother in that respect... or... i remember when it school we were governed by repetitions of rubric... i hope: prose is where allowances for voyeurism / exhibitionism come to the fore... third party details summoned... that sort of "thing"... but of course i wanted something original to come to the fore... a proverb... it might be persian but it might be absolutely original from circa the baltic region: in between all that's west and russia... a corridor of peoples and nations that... given the greenwich mean time would have to incorporate Greece... and most probably Egypt... and Israel... it reads: all in capital to escape this myopia claustrophobia fudge of paragraph: BETTER A SPARROW IN YOUR HAND, THAN A DOVE UPON YOUR ROOF... years later a proverb would have to be disguised in cosmopolitan spreschen by some "****" of a bachelor... with his 'categorical imperative'... ah... a proverb isn't... that? i like the nuances of proverbs... blindly walking to metaphors... or not expecting a rigidity of life dictated by the already creasing formality language tools: dear sir, yours faithfully vs. yours sincerely... ms. vrs. mrs. informally email: hello! ****-wit! rather than... penned to paper and carrier pigeon bound... stamp! stamp! lick! dear... besides... as you get older and drinking is still a quenching of "thirst" you allude to nicknames for certain spirits: ***** becomes a headache of pravda (truth) while whiskey becomes ms. amber... beer is notoriously gods' ****... along with cider and mead... etc. what is a black cracovite... oh... you know... just an alternative to a tequila shot i invented hearing the story about... once upon a time in cracow... it was snowing... it was snowing a soot-esque sort of snow... the lonely chimney of aushwitz... wa puffing up in all its glory... in english it can translate to: well... what haven't i to thank for... or the jews... to thank for... that these lands are the remains of... at least children might be inclined to play games at the foundation of pyramids... we sure as hell did... near Ypres... in world war I trenches... i can't imagine what games children might invent in these... teutonic strongholds of totenkopfschwatzen... i would gladly send each brick by brick to the rightful owners of these camps: 1000 years from now it might be disguided that... under the auspicious rule of king Casimir's ghost these were "our" original intent... it ruins the land but preserves the memory of a people more invested in a newly established state of the Levant... yes... i need to figure out the paragraph: i need to revisit it more often: this slender-manning of a verse esque casccade doesn't aid me: i need to replica congestion and myopia and all that's cosmopolitan "nice"... what is a black cracovite... for years i wanted to land in the old capital when visit my grandparents... warsaw was always too far removed... like london already is... back toward glorifying Cracow and some elder supreme of the Piast dynasty... that this is written in english and not in native... well... it shouldn't have been written by an englishman with all his darwinistic / anglican / atheistic / rational / ayn rand borrowed sensibilities... a black cracovite as far as i can tell is... a spin on a tequila short... one requires smoking a cigarette... the ash is deposited on a licked space between the thumb and index finger... the ash is licked... a shot of ***** is made ready... what replaces the bite of a lemon is a grit of black pepper... yes... i have to invest in a paragraph more: for all its congestive phalanx remedies: i posit this the most redeeming: remedying... closure... it's far removed from airing out grievances when words cascade... now i should have concerns for contending... imitations... cheap-sell-offs of these words... outlandishly left to the open cringe of... simply-leash: i'll probably trail off on a ***-note, a falsetto... absolutely necessary... one cannot feed too many expectations without feeding those necessarily in pursuit of sustenance... be gone! countess bathory-veneer!

this is truly a welcome break from:

freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

    pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

  a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
    they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
              
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                  a man with...
a gamble...
        i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

  the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
      there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
  even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
            past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
    i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
  and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

            Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
              lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
        i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

  when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
  weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
  much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

          chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
          da pacem domine...
            agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
        there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
  new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
      i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
            kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

p.s. after completing a walk in the woods:
a walk most adventurous in it being solitary...
i thank the forest for my solitude...
i started knocking on a dry piece of wood
still attached to the earth and roots...
in a forest: knocking on a tree...
i perceived the door
upon re-entering
traffic and hardened grit of road stuff...
let's replicate this...
me... you... alone...
let's both abide by needing
superstitious elevations of:
not truth alone... hardened and dim-witted
by objectivity...
truth tailored with metaphors...
all the nuance we can hope to find...
i need to... aloofness... solitude...
i need you, forest...
more than i care for noon
and proof of body that's this extension:
leash! shadow! noon!

                    smyč! cień! południe!
Khaniek Feb 2020
I wanted you for myself.
All the time. With me always.
God knows best.
This river flowing within runs deep.
These feelings are lasting and can never be wasted.
God knows best.
The hurt that would follow I’m sure would be unrepairable.
I’m tired.
Frustrated.
A little angry too.
I wanted you for myself.
All the time.
With me always..
But, God knows best.
Imotional Jun 2016
Expressed emotions
are less powerful
than those that are
built up and let out
at once. They leave
more damage that  
is unrepairable.
susan Jan 2016
you reached my heart
with your pleading eyes
begging me to make things
better

oh, how i want to

it may be difficult
   easing your pain
i could offer a kind word
open arms
but your pain is deep
from many years of damage
it's left you nearly unrepairable

but looking closely
i notice a glimmer of hope
in your weary eyes
a spark that hasn't been extinguished

and it's then i know...

it's not to late
to try and fix you

and together
we'll make you into a stronger version
than the one you were before.
ashley, my heart breaks for you
but you are strong
and you will get through this.
i love you.
CryBaby Di Jul 2018
"You were already broken,
I knew that from the very start.
I knew you were broke but
not exactly how much you were,
and with extensive amounts of unrepairable damage.
Having no idea how much you would
end up braking me and my heart.
You told me when we met that you are
a lot to handle,
but nothing about you and your
abilities to dismantle.
I think you kept me around to run back to me because although you would deny it,
you knew precisely just how much I loved you actually, and exactly everything that
you meant to me.
Whenever you felt unwanted by everyone, right into my arms you'd run.
I was your toy to play with for fun,
or to bend over for whenever
you wanted to ***.
You always said you didn't fit right
in this world,
that you were done with trying,
and you no longer wanted to live.
How you have nobody,
and no one who really loves you..
But there I was,
right there in front of you..
and I REALLY ******* did ..."
.
Kimberley Sep 2018
i think she mistook the hurt in my eyes
for jealousy,

i think she confused my heartbreak with hatred.
i can't hate her. i never will

i think she thinks i'm bitter he chose her
but that's not it. that will never be it.
it's about losing the one i fell inlove with
it's about all the memories that faded from his memory
it's about me and my heart.

i'm hurt. i'm broken. i don't know how to heal.
i don't know how to cope. i know i can do all these things
but i just don't know how.

i'm trying to pick the pieces up. my heart is on the floor -
shattered and unrepairable for the time being.
i can't fathom how i'll make it through this one but,
i know i will.

i know the fighter inside. i know what she's capable of doing.
i know what she can handle.
i'm just not sure if she can handle it yet.

— The End —