"virtuosity" poems
Sweet and seductive
The twilight
Can I come in?
No need to worry
Frustrated moments
Tempting lies
Please don't scream
I'll be discrete
Caresses recollected
Old embraces
********** and bathos
Fur instead of hair
Movements in a mirror
Time for breakfast
The appearance of a peach
Fried sentences
Scrambled words
Rhyming couplets
Tea and coffee
Contradictory conversations
Flee from open mouths.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
you have the formula
A Love Poem Recipe:
Fij = G(Mi x Mj)/Dij.
This formula, simplified, means that trade between two markets will equal the size of the two markets multiplied together and then divided by their distance.
(The model gets its name from its mathematical similarity to the equation in physics that describes gravitational pull.)
~~~
long ago, swore off
the love poem business.
lying that this
the last poem ever published
moan not,
statistically, for sure be
a heart-infected sick teenager
bemoaning/high fiving
their fated status
but I don't need to add to
that smoldering pile
the excellence, the richness,
the virtuosity
of the formula
a metaphor,
for the bounty and the risk,
in any love affair, thus love needy
for a diagrammed explication
two markets, soft upon each other,
multiply their trade in love and kisses
can you kiss her (him) but once?
nonsense!
saying I love you
but once a day,
like it was a vitamin,
preposterous!
no, love expands like a gas
(a distant cousin to our formula),
filling in the empty spaces,
escaping through crevices,
spilling, oft filling up
the nearby bystanders
in love,
there is no thing as
one touch clicking
but one touch
reveals the genetic marker,
the initial intimacy injection
Let the addiction begin!
ten thousand grasps,
some soft, some hard,
upon each other,
till fingers go lifelong contented numb
desire and affection spread like a
positive infection,
the curative powers
elegiac,
but never prosaic and though
formulaic
think more
voltaic and paradisiac
electric heaven
go forth and scribe
you got the secret
recipe
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
among the lean and
narrow hours
when the brutal minutes
aggrieve
like the protruding ribs
of an emaciated animal
abandoned things shuffle
into dark unkempt little rooms
littered
with the manifested debris
of a life
unspoken thoughts
in rusted cans
stacked heedlessly
on overused shelving
bowing perilously under the weight
mangled hopes
kicked into the corners
stuck to the floor
foul and fetid
vitiated with wasted time
black mold
leaking from dilapidated hearts
creating pointillism art
across the sagging plaster
overhead
consuming an ersatz
Sistine Chapel ceiling
saints and angels
prophets and devils
sepia toned
in their water stain media
disappearing
into corruptions artistic virtuosity
only God remains visible
reaching out
to give life
if any are left
to receive it
Nov 28, 2023
Nov 28, 2023 at 10:23 PM UTC
*Psychic Trance & ****** Dance,
Emitting Chemical Solace Dipped In Her Capital Romance,
Feral Atmosphere Written In Her Carnal Elegies,
Rapturous Serenades Forming Phantasmal Effigies,
Magnetized Synchronicity & Metamorphized Reciprocity,
Animating Foreplays Dazzling Her Astral Virtuosity,
Phantasmal Lips Illuminating Cherub Faces In Draped Compositions,
Painting Supernatural Visions Forged In Her Vocal Inhibitions,
Prototype Voids & Spiraling Realms,
Religious Frenzies In Her Temporal Screams,
Autumn Sun Reincarnating The Light Of The Spring,
Glass House Perspectives Blooming In Her Prismatic Bling,
Rhapsody Confessions Of Her Divine Obsessions,
Rainbow Skies Dressed In Her Spiritual Progression,
Coral Spells & Synthetic Desires,
Floral Pastels Engineering Her Romantic Fires,
Nightlife Flatlining Through Her Lonely Avenues In LSD High,
A Congenital Sinner She Respires ****** Hues With A Luminescent Sigh!
– 05:13 AM –*
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 7:51 AM UTC
it’s okay to be in love with the dying light
spending your evenings away from reality
things that make you forget about burning
and while the lasting memory haunts you
it’s cold embrace feels right
the just emotional whirlwind that feels pure
fuels your sense of being
time erodes away its value
but sometimes its strength transforms
i want to hold my former self
tell him that life is going to be painful
but he can be stronger
to make him understand isolation is chosen alienation is given
stagnation isn’t a confine to misery
virtuosity isn’t fulfilling
and sometimes the pawn’s value outweighs the king
and to live in the shadow of your own worth is a disgrace to one’s own constant growth
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 8:38 PM UTC
Once upon a time was I a prodigy,
Wandering and drifting to find a phrontistery,
A fantasy beyond thinking,
I was a child of precocious virtuosity.
But now time has liberated from my corpsic avatar,
And to God, I was announced a groom to a bride called progeria,
Not only I but now the entire human race seems to undergo ephemera,
A phenomena not to be taken dilemma,
Death do us part dear poet
Though through our good deeds our work serves eviternal, sempiternal-and eternal.
I know not who I am,
But the tombstone that is scarred with my name cements a legacy that
Buries everybody's histories.
Death is but void and will lead me to become a martyr,
For I deeply believe that poetry is the finest art And not a literature,
I am certain that a spiritual minister on the day of my burial will fail to point out that I was a sinister,
They will all say great things about me-
Where is the wrong, where is the perfect picture?
I once decapitated a seraph for I but thought it was a boobook,
Look!
Now I can be pseudocodenymic numerical, alphabetic artist.
Yet, what am I rather than being a poet?
For the reason that death will deprive me of my rights and belongings,
I don't wish to fall in love but sometimes I get caught up that she might be the daughter of Jesus,
Because I can't get my mind off her celestrial features.
Who else but her makes my story worth telling?
But yet I was in bedlam because of her,
Yelling like a certified lunatic playing,
I however can't forget the asylum's floors and ceilings,
The horrible medicine that got me to be always day dreaming.
Is this the same "cycle of psychopathic love that all these poets failed to describe?"
Affirmatively! This is something they will never outmatch,
Sadly, this all seeing sun never saw
That me and her were a match since this world begun,
Hence, I had to give her up to win everybody's heart,
I gained a voice of thunder to be crowned the darkness author alive,
So I ask, where are the poets of yesteryear? The nail biting, acerbic, alcoholic nighthawk ******** who truly knew how to write?
WHERE IS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE? WHERE IS EMILY DICKINSON? WHERE IS EDGAR ALLAN POE?
indeed I outmatch them all, do you know why?
It's because I am still alive!
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
I need a vacation.
Maybe a trip to Italy.
I gotta revitalize.
Maybe, Pompeii.
I am feeling starved of my vim and vigor.
My words are lukewarm.
There is only one option:
rekindling my virility.
I could vivify myself vicariously:
the sensuality of the city's verve,
all the daily livings of people,
venerated in an intense blaze;
might make me vivacious again.
Input daily routine.
Output socially valued norms.
My vivid, vermillion passion
has been layered with ashes.
I am desperate for veracity.
Did my igneous, poetic life temper
to an obsidian verse?
The beat in my heart
has felt industrialized,
monotonous,
a steady assembly line of chaste gray;
a vexing variance of my vitals.
Revive me: my virtuosity
will ventilate me with
venereal voraciousness.
What is left to me,
a choice of perspective:
a plunge in to the devouring,
a dive in to the radiant;
both, a swim through a viscous sea of wildfire
in Mount Vesuvius.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
(in life)
who am i to warm a cave of darkness with my lust?
or assume your darkness mine to dissipate?
as if a sacred candle burned behind the windows of my heart
and ****** its light through tip of flame beyond
,above the piercing point to spark our confirmation in a universal eye
invisible, but seen as heat you flail about
and cause to quake the melting, sliding crust i am
you have wandered by to rupture me from my serene espy.
to quarrel with mycenterself i turned into myself i am a fool,
how can a taint intention claim essential gravity to good?
encumbered with a blinding zeal
i almost rage amid to satisfy
irrupt, and only drape with words i barely see defined
to justify the greed
in unknown passions gathered out to sun,
eyes aglint of golden maxims worn
by public distorts, magisters of lies
spilling over paths..the voyeuristic farce of virtuosity and virtue mating there
commodities of ****** pride and shame
that cater to ambition's lurid lure:
massively conjoined our worlds, aswirl
transform the pulsar-vortex at the base of me
from threaten-fount to million-twiching node
it sears the face from all our superficial doubts,
gluts us writhing mercy in oblivion.
...transparency collects an inner soot
as we devour red-tip wicks in wax we puddle with our sport--
the outer glass respires steam into the winter nights
--hot against the skin
in flesh embarking in that window *** at last,
we smudge our bodies over every icy pane
--entwined, concupiscent flames
to blacken out the world we claim as only there for us
.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
I am sick of poetry—
its useless, meaningless strings
of words
elegantly dressed in profound tailored suits
of gaudy fabric.
Who is this who speaks against the soul—
ignorant and foolish, deriding the gem
of thoughts vibrantly propounded into motley lines of literary art?
Ha! Literary art?
Similes are like a bad joke,
alliterations are agitating,
personification ***** and,
hyperboles are more horrid than death
Poems are not simply stanzas of well-contrived writing
Of fanciful sentences stretching the mind.
Each letter spells purpose,
Then in the right lighting
Reads entirely different
Yet still masterfully designed
It is simplicity secreted beneath heaps of perplexity
and effortless rhyme,
bombastic diction contorting
the most puerile of deliberations into virtuosity—
two-dimensional make-up of verbiage—
flinging arbitrary words and
lines left
and
right
Christmas
The entire concept is ludicrous.
A
rhyme
goes deeper
than its sound,
and
a single word
normally goes deeper
than its context suggests.
A random
notion may not be
as arbitrary an idea as one
primarily
assumes
it to be.
Nothing is simple about it.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Just like I said
It’s easy to do.
******
Hypocrite
Misled
Piece of ****
Ignorant
Foolish fiend
Virulent
Philistine
Infantile
Aberrant
Juvenile
Miscreant!
True poetry at last!
Stripped down to pure emotion
A lovely middle finger manicured just right
The quintessence of feeling etched with furious care
Thought and emotion woven together to make an unlikely masterpiece
And so it is discovered: the marriage of two conflicting entities can and will engender beauty.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
Weaving words,
so carefully. Every
syl
la
ble, crafted.
Spectacularly
laced, though the
unforgiving blue lines.
Wonderfully
chased by the
deadly silent black pen.
These words,
meaning or no?
Mischievous and
deceiving. Or
hopeful and
believing?
Where do they go?
Where do they lead?
Follow them, yet
could they be
seen?
Fortitude and fragility.
Miles apart, yet
undeniably the same.
In the world of words,
it's all just a game.
Coincidental rhymes, and
sentimental times, or
simplistic virtuosity, and
complicated philosophy?
These worlds in words,
are never as they seem.
But who are we to judge,
when the words in the world
are never what we mean?
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
Bodhisattva
Boundless energy
Eternal Light
Gone beyond all fear
Form is emptiness
Emptiness is form
Buddham saranam gacchami
Dhammam saranam gacchami
Sangham Saranam gacchami
I have come to help all beings
And deep inside
I have the most wondrous heart
I must cultivate Ren
Human heartedness
Virtuosity
Know the male, but keep the female,
Being the universal river-valley,
Being the the universal river-valley,
One has the eternal virtue [te] undivided
And becomes again as a child
They tried to banish me
No No No
Boundless light,
Boundless energy
Ten-thousand eyes
Never tire of seeing
I will return
I must help all sentient beings
In giving
I will receive the greatest gift!
Buddham saranam gachammi
Dhammam saranam gachammi
Sangham saranam gachammi
Love
It's love
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
Prowess, judgment, and bravery
Solitude is a walking hope
Tours of energy, have the world savory
Delighted with peace, a rallying cry of cope?
Delivering the news
Of austerity, the tout of power
Has the future, a fusion of a worlds good
Separate me from a stir of vicinity, baring is how?
Hello since a raging storm, has the voice
A waiting hour, to search forces for voids
Of caring for a wish of simplicity, a unifying choice
To place the service of ourselves, into the light of sorts?
Gifts of love?
Seldom to venture forth, with the arms of fated curiosity
Charisma in a whole ley, of works we dote are us
But a risk of beauty to a chaste, is it virtuosity?
The cloth of voiced persuasion
Halt and eschew the truth, a weary solemnity
Just for peace's argument, is tomorrow a savior's intuition?
Just because willingness has a soul, do we know a nativity?
For the silence of creation, a secret of simplicity
Worthing itself, as a shared host, of what was might
Many and decision, any and intimation, of divine sincerity
Has the moment and the need, of a universal right...
Children grew, with the passion of inclusion...
A habit of vice, to vindicate a victory
That has the voice of dependency, a filial cause to win
The marvel of understanding what will, a patience in history
Sep 2, 2024
Sep 2, 2024 at 6:09 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
The virtuosity of the words you spun
lead me directly to the *****
and as I looked at its blade
so shiny and big
I thought it rude not to obligingly dig
so I dug and dug
and dug dug
until my hands were blackened and cold
and then I lay down in the pit
and waited
to wither
and old.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 8:05 AM UTC
roaming................
..............................wildly free!
an alteration
.........................to the Story
an aberation..........................
.....................................(some say)
well, let them have their SAY
and let them dress in their despicable robes
(pretending to be "King")
............
we are all so
"ragged 'round the edges"
let us walk away
from the Virtuosity
that creates
our Virtual Reality
and find the REAL ONE!
(i'll look for you
until we............
.............................meet.
and joyously)
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 3:55 PM UTC
Tones of a thorough voice
Masculine or feminine, tender to a fault
And a whole leap of conscience, for to liberty we were...
The time of collecting notice of a shared decision, for a salt
Restitute, and wondering if gay can be?
The tale of lived hours, home to save a callous share
Of what is us, if thundering frustration, have to heed...
Will a certainty of poise, begin with destined options or a delinquent flare?
A voice through enough, is careful, to tell the chance...
Of cease and herald, my timidity is for better all
Them and sense to seem, the better of a falling man?
That has seen a wiser choice, the breadth of concern to any's call?
Truer to define a shout, than a whisper of curiosity...
Mind over mention, of matter's at hand, may and?
Have the courage to live in well and lent light, a virtuosity
That comes and goes like a lover, notice me in the sulk, of also ran...
Time immemorial, them given implicitly...
Finished thought's, that feed me for years...
Kissing questions sound enough, to live the life of reality...
And a brown-nosed television, with an excuse of purposes to suggest we're...
Jan 10, 2023
Jan 10, 2023 at 8:43 PM UTC
listening to contemporary soundscapes on the radio
I realize I am the age of my grandmother
when she was terrified that I was
happily howling the latest Beatles songs
and trying to play them on the piano which
for her
was a sanctuary of late 19th century music
she liked to play with virtuosity and passion
much of what my culture radio station
calls contemporary music
or pop music stations praise in their charts
does not really catch my ear either
times keep changing
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC
My bed is double functional
I use it to make love on
And it is where my mind becomes extracted from my body and goes to planes of potent virtuosity
Where the sheer sound of self-reflection is an incredible pleasure
The body, a conveyor of material wants and superfluous desires is left behind in puzzled abandonment
But the mind does not lament
It blasts out of the squaller of the western world and all of its heavy reliance on demystified theatrics and the attempts of restoring a cleavered generation gap
The mind’s finesse and savage grace carry it to a hypnotic river of awareness and comprehension
The river bed is self-continued
The latency stage is over, all indications point forward to end the played out injustice of self-deprivation , run with fluidity and quit the life of a spectator
Then, pool into the communal crown
Where we are all holy royal
Where we are all enrolled enthusiasts of freedom from one’s own shackles of doubt and shame
The corrupt coercion is out of favor and now we've assembled without the fear of involvement
For we've been in play since we crawled out of the womb
But it is now that we have decided to speak
And this drastic turnover is first and foremost and idea, no more no less
Not a law
Not a war
Not a religion
Not and organization or a political party
It is an idea to let the mind wander and find independence
Independence from the body, the world and all the smoke and mirrors that pollute it daily
Then grab the vibrations of positivity in terms of thought and action then touch with an extension of personality
So go, live in your uptight, delightful, tangible world and dispel this theory
I’ll stay here sitting astride this moot point
-Tommy Johnson
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
Speed in love
Speed to eat, from a rainbow
Speed to know, the sun shines for us
Speed to give, a heart an angels how
Spare me...
The reach of roles; worth endeavor...
Subtle likes, of when the earth becomes anarchy
Can't, a face see the life we were?
Candor, in a hand held
So to how, a vestige of resilience
Come by sense, a meet so little
Of how a soul can be, a lover's chance...
Save a wish
The times throw of light
Sense we shall know, has reality to relish
Stark knowledge of better, than a dread right...
To see what went away
In the might's of generosity
Just to become, just to say
We know love is life's virtuosity
Oct 27, 2024
Oct 27, 2024 at 8:55 PM UTC
I woke up today wondering why everything hurts
I took the road never traveled
I happen to be the first
Through the door in light chasing shadows in the dark it was worse
The path of most resistance the distance drive that's how it works
ambition determination and commitment employ your worth
in my search
arguably no dispute
been refute and disdained
abhorred because I contra the ordinary contrary
to what's been saying
I took the road never traveled
the high road the freeway
the path most resistant which consist of no leeway
No leaders of consistence
no reference refer too
reverence from virtuous
virtuosity a virtue
virtually reality unreal
what I'm close to
I see it before it happens
with know I told you's
true? who told who as I trot through the babbles my foibles chatter
that's what's the matter
It's the path of most resistance the road never traveled.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
A woman's beauty
is in the flickering
essence of her
heart,
like the virtuosity
of De La Tour
her face is fading,
yes,
she is beautiful
but against the odds
I am enraptured
over what she told me
more than her lips,
hips,
and
finger tips.
I will forget her face
that's part of a controlled burn,
but I cannot
control how much
fire
will remain
as a result of her thoughts
and how they engulfed what was
hackingly breathing inside my ribs
when they burned me.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
The incessant need for togetherness,
More alone than a single blade grass,
Relationships that need foreverness,
As fused as are the grains of sand in glass.
Relentlessly seeking love through giving,
From an abyss of generosity,
To connect with loving souls is living,
With such self-proclaimed virtuosity.
To be close is just to make someone feel,
To give just to elicit emotion.
And love returned for giving is the deal
Like a returning pendulum’s motion.
This instinct brings innocents elation.
Why does it reek of manipulation?
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC