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Penthesilea Feb 2016
"You're hurting yourself, " he said.
"It's better this way than allowing you to be the first." she replied.
No words can explain the pain I went through when I let him hurt me.
Linguistic Play Sep 2013
Friends, family, foes, and those of woe,
I invite you to dance this delicate tango with me,
right on the line of reality and fantasy.
It is here, that,
I invite you to the mad tea party.

Now, let us get one or two,
three or four,
maybe ten, one hundred, zero things straight,
you are not to be late to the mad tea party,
you are to set your time straight and do not stray,
but rather show up without delay at the time that serves your mental estate,
at a time that feels right with your bones,
now, now don't miss that time and don't be late.
We are of strict dress code here at the mad tea party.
You are not to wear what you saw on him and she and her and we unless it is of,
suitable expression to your situation,
you are to dress accordingly with your mentality,
nothing else will pass the test.
You are to act accordingly.
Do not laugh when not appropriate, and sit up straight when your spine tells you.
Do not speak when your mind is forced to be spoken.
Now, have we all straight.

I cordially invite you to the mad tea party.
Where we dine and wine and tell tales of time,
and rejoice on the words those delicately spoke,
and dance on the lines theatrically strewn across the room,
and sail across every last tale from you and he and yeah her over there too.
I invite you to the mad tea party.

I invite you tell of when you first saw the earth breath,
when the trees and the leaves set to dancing,
when you first heard the wind laugh at your grin,
and when the raindrops ran fearfully from the erupting sky.
I demand of you to tell nothing but that of truth,
and watch as the molecules in the air take to vibrating.
Take notice to musical clinking of the entities amidst you,
and take pride in the gentle stride of the clouds overhead.
Did you notice the flowers laughing at you,
in between the birth, death and rebirth in accordance with the sun?
Did you notice the flowers pull in their petals as they shyed from your step?
Take notice to the music and laughter around you at the mad tea party,
take great care with the feelings floating about the air, vulnerably buzzing from mind to mind,
before their decline and descent to rest their heads.


You see, it is here at the great mad tea party,
that we do not devoid you of the ability to do as your energy demands,
with the issues of time and dress and proper behavior.
It is here that we tend to focus on the earth and the breathing of the molecules and atoms  around you,
it is here that we go mad.
and it is here that I cordially invite you,
but before you make your reservation, please eliminate all hesitation.
You see the mad tea party is not readily accepted,
by the constraints of society and the binds of reality.
You see the mad tea party is misconstrued by masses more than just a few.
Those who long buried their soul look down on the guests,
for they are different than the rest, in that, they're welcoming,
into their soul the ability to go mad which is taught to be bad.
So before you make your reservation be inexplicably sure,
that you are in fact,
ready, for the mad tea party.
J.
J.
Ah, J.
A love I hath excitedly longed to find,
A love t'at previously had no name.
J.
A love too thrilling for my sights to feel,
and perhaps th' only love t'at couldst make me thrilled;
A love so genuine and benevolent,
A love so talented and intelligent.
Ah, J.
A love t'at just recently landed on my mind;
And made all my lyrical days far more splendid;
A love t'at briefed, and altered me more and more;
A love so chilly and important, with subt'leness like never before.
Ah, J.
My very, very own J.
Perhaps my future king, my precious, but at times villainous-darling.
Oh, J.
And perhaps I am just not as virtuous as I might be,
But t'is poem shall still be about thee;
For thou art-within my minds, still awkwardly th' best one,
With a pair of oceanic eyes too dear; and a civil charm so fine.
J.
J, o my love.
If only thou knew-how oceans sparkles within thy eyes,
And 'tis only in thy eyes, t'at any of t'ese complications might not become eerie,
And then t'is destiny is true, as well as how truth is our destiny;
So t'at any precarious delicacy is still faint-perhaps, but not a lie.
Oh, J.
A bubble of excitement t'at my heart feelest;
But if consented not, shall be the wound no blood couldst heal;
Ah, J, if the heavens' rainbow wert fallen, t'an thou'd be purer;
Born as a sin as us all humans, thou art cleaner to my heart still, and canst but love me much better.
Ah, J.
If only thou knew-how madness floweth and barketh and drinketh from our spheres,
But even th' devil cannot spill its curse on our strangled love;
At least until everything is deaf-and we duly cannot hear,
As skies descend onto th' sore earth; and our dumb sins are t' be sent above.

J.
How pivotal thou art to me-if only yon foliage couldst understand;
If only t'ose winds were not rivals, but one-or at least wanted to be friends.
Ah, J, even only thy words filled my comical ******* to th' brim;
And as far as heavens' angels canst hear, I am no more in love with him.
Ah, J.
'Tis cause my verses are seeking thy name, and his not;
I may create th' words, but thou deviseth my plots;
Ah, and him, the bulk of egotism, and whose frank misery;
Are but too disastrous to me, and in possession of too much agony.
Oh, J.
Thus thou art th' only one who remaineth solemn;
Th' one to remain ecstatic, and as less aggressive as calmness;
But of the broad thoughts I used to think of him, I feel shame;
He is just some unborn trepidation at night-though on fine mornings, he is tame.
Ah, J.
Let me disclose th' egress of thy journey, and tellest me now-is which towards mine?
Ah, thee, thou who art so bounty, and deliciously fine;
And t'ese thoughts of thee-are often tasty, and oft'times generous;
'Ven when thou'rt mad, and thy chanting is vigorously serious.
Ah, J.
Thee, a soul of painless blood;
Whose disgrace hath been buried;
Whose vanities hath been laid off;
Whose miracles hath been lavished on.
Ah, J.
Thou art one bright portrayal of my merit;
I fell'n love with thee in a single bit.
Thou bore my tears, and scorned away my guilt;
And in th' swaying summertime, thou wert my protective shield.
Thus my, my very own J.
My gale-like, and unutterably luscious poem;
About whom my thoughts are jolly, but mindful and insensible;
Ah, J, I wish I were more frail, paler, and gullible;
Ah, but if only being so couldst make me more compatible.
Oh, J.
And compatible, compatible with thee alone;
Fleshly be thine whenst all is borne on thy own;
Be thy only trusted companion, and thy eloquently verified wife;
Be thine, and thine in wifery only, throughout and for th' rest of thy life.
J.
All Let me then guess but the tranquility of thy thoughts-hath thou gone mad?
Behind us are rainbows, and thus thy songs should not be sad;
But even though they were sad, I wouldst lend thee my heart;
So t'at no summer sunshine couldst further tear us apart.
J.
Ah, J, why are th' blue skies far too impatient in thy eyes?
Just as how thy deep scent is febrile in my air;
Thy gushes of breath are thick in my young weather;
As buoyant as yon summer itself; as voluptuous as lingering daisies.
J.
And t'is ****** scream, within my heart, needs indeed-t' be fulfilled;
And its vulnerability t'ere always, to be killed;
Ah, J, t'ere is 'finitely no poem as beautiful as thee;
T'ere is no writing yet as such, as trivial and distant-as my eyes canst see.
J.
Ah, J, darling, and my very fine darling; is chastity to thee virtuous?
About which my soul is hungered-and t'ereby curious;
But if 'tis so, I shall be merry-and ever meekly laborious;
I shall make it tender, and maketh it a reliant gift, to thee.
J.
Ah, J, and thou came to me one aft'rnoon, with a sweet muteness;
For to thee, poems are far more pivotal to a young poetess;
Yes, and far prettier t'an a beastly bunch of words;
Whose curse is whose sweetness itself-and whose whole sweetness is curse.
J.
Ah, J, so shall I be thy pure lady t'en?
For purity is a curse-and related not within t'ese walls;
Walls of discomfort-irresolute and at certain times foreign still;
Walls t'at shun us-and be ours not, due to t'eir own reserved castigations.
J.
Oh, querida, my random rainbow-but still my dearest querida;
My poetry in th' morning, and th' baffling flute, for my evening sonata;
And as it is sounded, I shall be thy private lonely prelude;
But th' one who maketh thee singular, and nevertheless, handsomely proud.
Ah, J.
And thy perfect red lips are th' stillettos of the sun;
Critical but radiant-all too agonising in t'eir inevitable shape;
So t'at kissing might be just too much fun;
And from which, o my love, t'ere is no such a famous escape.

J.
Ah, J, thou knoweth not-I am asleep only within thy remembrance;
As how I am awake only in thy life, and partake of my justice, in thy glory.
Ah, J, but if satire were the only choice we had, shalt thou be with me?
Ah, my J, for be it so-I shall never regret anything, I shall never say sorry.

J.
Ah, wherefore art thou now, my love? I am now cursed. My dreams are mad.
I am now crawling out of whose realms; I wanteth but'a stay no more in my bed.
Ah, J, but in my dream thou wert too miles and miles away, and indolently anonymous;
I hatest sleep t'ereof, for t'ey piercest me so tiringly, with a harm they deemest as humorous.

J.
Ah, sweet darling, and in our dreams, t'ere is no strain, nor piety;
Even thou-in th' last one, despised my pyramids-and my chaste poetry;
Ah, querida, I am but afraid our loneliness shall be gone 'fore long;
For its temporariness is not sick, and canst work its way along, with a belief so strong.

J.
Ah, love, but t'is loveliness itself-is indeed tyrannous,
And its frigid poetry is randomly perilous,
As how th' daydreams it bringeth forth-which are luminous,
But as love is innocent, by one second canst all turn perilous!
J.
Ah, J, thus our story is brilliant, and in any volume real' magnificent,
With curves palatable, but with some greyness too fair-and too pleasant!
Ah, J, if passion dost exist, and thus maketh it all real;
And at once I shall understand thee; and listen only, to how we both feelest.

Ah, J.
My very, very own little J.
My dearest J.
The harbour of my ultimate love.
My most cordial, and serene spring of affection.
My most veritable nirvana, my vivid curiosity-and shades of frankness.
My dream at heart, and my sustainable ferocious haste.
Th' love in which my ever fear shall subside,
And be overwhelmed by its unfearing light.
J.
Oh, J, my glossy, exuberant darling.
And as more winds sway, and amongst the green grass outside,
I canst but feel thy eyes here watching;
Thy eyes t'at widely grinneth, and flirtest with my poetry itself;
Thy eyes t'at forever invitest, yet are all more daring than myself;
Ah, J, even though t'is love may be a secret scene,
But I hath felt, even vulnerably, not any provoking passion so keen-
For though they couldst my flowed veins hear,
They were still delicately unseen-with a serenity t'at was ne'er here.
samasati Sep 2012
I love you* isn’t

A fleeting memory of a camping trip.
It isn’t a strings attached contract that is signed out of intimidation or guilt.

It doesn’t last ‘until…’
You disappoint me. You abandon me. I find something better.

nor does it lay within the depths of ‘only ifs’ :
{only if you love me - only if you see me for who I am - only if you bake me an apple pie}


I love you is
Being able to love myself and vulnerably feel safe with who I am- in your  eyes

It means you are free to be you, to choose freely for yourself and bring forth any awakening, lesson or consequence with no judgment or close-minded examination.

It shakes loose of any stern expectation or obligation made for you because there is no need for you to size up to any other standard that isn’t You.
I love you means you are and always are enough.

It defines no separation between us; yet at the same time – I can celebrate my love for you without the presence of your face, voice or perfumed scent – you are always with me.

I love you is
My full acceptance for the beautiful, strong & powerful Being that you are –
In each bold and thick fiber.
It is the act of fulfilling my inner-self with such gratification and wholeness
Because it feels so utterly good to love you.
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of *****-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dog tag,
Or better still a dog, a colossal pet beast,
A humongous Harlequin Dane to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is, after all, dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes and boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.

We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo, they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?

You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
He leaves you on the ice floe,
Remembering not to leave the sled,
The proverbial Sled of Abbandono,
The one never left behind,
As it would be needed again,
Why not a home in storage while we wait?
The family will surely need it sometime down the line.

A dignified death?
Who can afford one these days?
The question answers itself:
You are John Goodman in “The Big Lebowski.”
You opt for an empty 2-lb can of Folgers.
You know: "The best part of waking up, is Folger's in your cup!"
That useless mnemonic taught us by “Mad Men.”
Slogans and theme songs imbibe us.

Zombie accouterments,
Provided by America’s Ruling Class.
Thank you Lewis H. Lapham for giving it to us straight.
Why not go with the aluminum Folgers can?
Rather than spend the $300.00 that mook funeral director
Tries to shame you into coughing up,
For the economy-class “Legacy Urn.”
An old seduction:  Madison Avenue’s Gift of Shame.
Does your **** smell?” asks a sultry voice,
Igniting a carpet bomb across the 20-45 female cohort,
2 billion pathetically insecure women,
Spending collectively $10 billion each year—
Still a lot of money, unless it’s a 2013
Variation on an early 1930s Germany theme;
The future we’ve created;
The future we deserve.

Now a wheelbarrow load of paper currency,
Scarcely buy a loaf of bread.
Even if you’re lucky enough to make it,
Back to your cave alive,
After shopping to survive.
Women spend $10 billion a year for worry-free *****.
I don’t read The Wall Street Journal either,
But I’m pretty **** sure,
That “The Feminine Hygiene Division”
Continues to hold a corner office, at
Fear of Shame Corporate Headquarters.
Eventually, FDS will go the way of the weekly ******.
Meanwhile, in God & vaginal deodorant we trust,
Something you buy just to make sure,
Just in case the *** Gods send you a gift.
Some 30-year old **** buddy,
Some linguistically gifted man or woman,
Some he or she who actually enjoys eating your junk:
“Oh Woman, thy name is frailty.”
“Oh Man, thou art a Woman.”
“Oh Art is for Carney in “Harry & Tonto,”
Popping the question: “Dignity in Old Age?”
Will it too, go the way of the weekly ******?
It is pointless to speculate.
Mouthwash--Roll-on antiperspirants--Depends.
Things our primitive ancestors did without,
Playing it safe on the dry savannah,
Where the last 3 drops evaporate in an instant,
Rather than go down your pants,
No matter how much you wiggle & dance.
Think about it!

Think cemeteries, my Geezer friends.
Of course, your first thought is
How nice it would be, laid to rest
In the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.
Born a ******. Died a ******. Laid in the grave?
Or Père Lachaise,
Within a stone’s throw of Jim Morrison--
Lying impudently,
Embraced, held close by loving soil,
Caressed, held close by a Jack Daniels-laced mud pie.
Or, with Ulysses S. Grant, giving new life to the quandary:
Who else is buried in the freaking tomb?
Bury my heart with Abraham in Springfield.
Enshrine my body in the Taj Mahal,
Build for me a pyramid, says Busta Cheops.

Something simple, perhaps, like yourself.
Or, like our old partner in crime:
Lee Harvey, in death, achieving the soul of brevity,
Like Cher and Madonna a one-name celebrity,
A simple yet obscure grave stone carving:  OSWALD.
Perhaps a burial at sea? All the old salts like to go there.
Your corpse wrapped in white duct/duck tape,
Still frozen after months of West Pac naval maneuvers,
The CO complying with the Department of the Navy Operations Manual,
Offering this service on « An operations-permitting basis, »
About as much latitude given any would-be Ahab,
Shortlisted for Command-at-sea.
So your body is literally frozen stiff,
Frozen solid for six months packed,
Spooned between 50-lb sacks of green beans & carrots.
Deep down in the deep freeze,
Within the Deep Freeze :
The ship’s storekeeper has a cryogenic *******
Deep down in his private sanctuary,
Privacy in the bowels of the ship.
While up on deck you slide smoothly down the pine plank,
Old Glory billowing in the sea breeze,
Emptying you out into the great abyss of
Some random forlorn ocean.

Perhaps you are a ******* lunatic?
Maybe you likee—Shut the **** up, Queequeg !
Perhaps you want a variation on the burial-at-sea option ?
Here’s mine, as presently set down in print,
Lawyer-prepared, notarized and filed at the Court of the Grand Vizier,
Copies of same in safe deposit boxes,
One of many benefits Chase offers free to disabled Vets,
Demonstrating, again, my zombie-like allegiance to the rules.
But I digress.
« The true measure of one’s life »
Said most often by those we leave behind,
Is the wealth—if any—we leave behind.
The fact that we cling to bank accounts,
Bank safe deposit boxes,
Legal aide & real estate,
Insurance, and/or cash . . .
Just emphasizes the foregone conclusion,
For those who followed the rules.
Those of us living frugally,
Sustaining the zombie trance all these years.
You can jazz it up—go ahead, call it your « Work Ethic. »
But you might want to hesitate before you celebrate
Your unimpeachable character & patriotism.

What is the root of Max Weber’s WORK ETHIC concept?
‘Tis one’s grossly misplaced, misguided, & misspent neurosis.
Unmasked, shown vulnerably pink & naked, at last.
Truth is: The harder we work, the more we lay bare
The Third World Hunger in our souls.
But again, I digress.  Variation on a Theme :
At death my body is quick-frozen.
Then dismembered, then ground down
To the consistency of water-injected hamburger,
Meat further frozen and Fedex-ed to San Diego,
Home of our beloved Pacific Fleet.
Stowed in a floating Deep Freeze where glazed storekeepers
Sate the lecherous Commissary Officer,
Aboard some soon-to-be underway—
Underway: The Only Way
Echo the Old Salts, a moribund Greek Chorus
Goofing still on the burial-at-sea concept.

Underway to that sacred specific spot,
Let's call it The Golden Shellback,
Where the Equator intersects,
Crosses perpendicular,
The International Dateline,
Where my defrosted corpse nuggets,
Are now sprinkled over the sea,
While Ray Charles sings his snarky
Child Support & Alimony
His voice blasting out the 1MC,
She’s eating steak.  I’m eating baloney.
Ray is the voice of disgruntlement,
Palpable and snide in the trade winds,
Perhaps the lost chord everyone has been looking for:
Laughing till we cry at ourselves,
Our small corpse kernels, chum for sharks.

In a nutshell—being the crazy *******’ve come to love-
Chop me up and feed me to the Orcas,
Just do it ! NIKE!
That’s right, a $commercial right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Do it where the Equator crosses the Dateline :
A sailors’ sacred vortex: isn’t it ?
Wouldn’t you say, Shipmates, one and all?
I’m talking Conrad’s Marlow, here, man!
Call me Ishmael or Queequeg.
Thor Heyerdahl or Tristan Jones,
Bogart’s Queeq & Ensign Pulver,
Wayward sailors, one and all.
And me, of course, aboard the one ride I could not miss,
Even if it means my Amusement Park pass expires.
Ceremony at sea ?
Absolutely vital, I suppose,
Given the monotony and routine,
Of the ship’s relentlessly vacant seascape.
« There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea,
And I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates. «
So said James Russell Lowell,
One of the so-called Fireside Poets,
With Longfellow and Bryant,
Whittier, the Quaker and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.,
19th Century American hipsters, one and all.

Then there’s CREMATION,
A low-cost option unavailable to practicing Jews.
« Ashes to ashes »  remains its simplest definition.
LOW-COST remains its operant phrase & universal appeal.
No Deed to a 2by6by6 foot plot of real estate,
Paid for in advance for perpetuity—
Although I suggest reading the fine print—
Our grass--once maintained by Japanese gardeners--
Now a lost art in Southern California,
Now that little Tokyo's finest no longer
Cut, edge & manicure, transform our lawns
Into a Bonsai ornamental wonderland.
Today illegal/legal Mexicans employing
More of a subtropical slash & burn technique.

Cremation : no chunk of marble,
No sandstone, wood or cardboard marker,
Plus the cost of engraving and site installation.
Quoth the children: "****, you’re talking $30K to
Put the old ****** in the ground? Cheap **** never
Gave me $30K for college, let alone a house down payment.
What’s my low-cost, legitimate disposal going to run me?"

CREMATION : they burn your corpse in Auschwitz ovens.
You are reduced to a few pounds of cigar ash.
Now the funeral industry catches you with your **** out.
You must (1) pay to have your ashes stored,
Or (2) take them away in a gilded crate that,
Again, you must pay for.
So you slide into Walter Sobjak,
The Dude’s principal amigo,
And bowling partner in the
Brothers Coen masterpiece: The Big Lebowski.
You head to the nearest Safeway for a 2-lb can of Folgers.
And while we’re on the subject of cremation & the Jews,
Think for a moment on the horror of The Holocaust:
Dispossessed & utterly destroyed, one last indignity:
Corpses disposed of by cremation,
For Jews, an utterly unacceptable burial rite.
Now before we leave Mr. Sobjak,
Who is, as you know, a deeply disturbed Vietnam vet,
Who settles bowling alley protocol disputations,
By brandishing, by threatening the weak-minded,
With a loaded piece, the same piece John Turturro—
Stealing the movie as usual, this time as Jesus Quintana—
Bragging how he will stick it up Walter’s culo,
Pulling the trigger until it goes: Click-Click-Click!
Terrestrial burial or cremation?
For me:  Burial at Sea:
Slice me, dice me into shark food.

Or maybe something a la Werner von Braun:
Your dead meat shot out into space;
A personal space probe & voyager,
A trajectory of one’s own choosing?

Oh hell, why not skip right down to the nitty gritty bottom line?
Current technology: to wit, your entire life record,
Your body and history digitized & downloaded
To a Zip Drive the size of the average *******,
A data disc then Fedex-ed anywhere in the galaxy,
Including exotic burial alternatives,
Like some Martian Kilimanjaro,
Where the tiger stalks above the clouds,
Nary a one with a freaking clue that can explain
Just what the cat was doing up so high in the first place.
Or, better still, inside a Sherpa’s ***** pack,
A pocket imbued with the same Yak dung,
Tenzing Norgay massages daily into his *******,
Defending the Free World against Communism & crotch rot.
(Forgive me: I am a child of the Cold War.)
Why not? Your life & death moments
Zapped into a Zip Drive, bytes and bits,
Submicroscopic and sublime.
So easy to delete, should your genetic subgroup
Be targeted for elimination.
About now you begin to realize that
A two-pound aluminum Folgers can
Is not such a bad idea.
No matter; the future is unpersons,
The Ministry of Information will in charge.
The People of Fort Meade--those wacky surveillance folks--
Cloistered in the rolling hills of Anne Arundel County.
That’s who will be calling the shots,
Picking the spots from now on.
Welcome to Cyber Command.
Say hello to Big Brother.
Say “GOOD-BYE PRIVACY.”

Meanwhile, you’re spending most of your time
Fretting ‘bout your last rites--if any—
Burial plots on land and sea, & other options,
Such as whether or not to go with the
Concrete outer casket,
Whether or not you prefer a Joe Cocker,
Leon Russell or Ray Charles 3-D hologram
Singing at your memorial service.
While I am fish food for the Golden Shellbacks,
I am a fine young son of Neptune,
We are Old Salts, one and all,
Buried or burned or shot into space odysseys,
Or digitized on a data disc the size of
An average human *******.
Snap outta it, Einstein!
Like everyone else,
You’ve been fooled again.
Maman Screams Dec 2013
A step foot wrong
For will I fall*

©2013 Maman Screams
Nik Krutilla Jun 2013
I want to reveal
things about
me
and have you
seek out their
origins.
I want you
to pour over me
the pieces of you
I don't know
yet.

Maybe we need
to stop.
Stop allowing all
the doubts
and
insecurity
infused from everyone,
past...
present...
to keep our
thoughts tied.

What have we
to lose
but
time and hiding.

In my gut
I feel a weight
could be evaporated
from us.
A light
glowing dim between
could be
illuminated.
Completion and
a knowingness of
who we are already
is not a hole
either are trying
to fill.

Maybe we just want
a hand to hold
after our struggles.
A comforting embrace
to melt into
after our pain.
A heart to accept us
completely
and love again.
Maybe
we just don't want
to carry fear around
anymore.

Intimacy is something
vulnerably created
and hardly given,
I know.
Spiritual connectedness
is the highest of highs
and I think
we're both wanting
to fly.


*©NDHK
Lappel du vide Mar 2014
i feel

naked

but vulnerably so;

i don't want to let you in,
show you the deepest crevices of my soul
not for fear of embarrassment,

i'm just not going to let you break me in half
like that.

"leave before getting left,"

a motto for girls like me.
                                                             you don't know the frustration
                                                           when things don't go as planned.
stop saying
                  g
                    o
                      o
                        d
                          night.
Mariam Paracha Jan 2013
You…
Good for nothing, light weighted
Changes direction according to the wind
It does not have a mind of its own
But I trusted it
To shelter and protect me
But alas…
I live in a windy city,
And it tends to be greedy
Gathering things that lie in its path,
Just like a colonizer
blowing across from one country
to another.

I pin together the sides
Of my fly away kameez/ dress
With nervous, embarrassed fingers
Pressing down, as if to close
a window or a swinging door
left unlocked on a windy day
letting black cats and dusty winds make their way.

Incontrollable weightless
It rises, it flashes
Waving like a red flag in front of a blind bull
Eyes on the Prize - You’re such a tease
I fumble carelessly
My hands desperately try
To hold down my dignity
Before it flies away,
Like a feather from a bird
That slowly descends to the floor
It is so light and so delicate.
It can be easily ripped off
and plucked away like a shriveled
dead fly away hair

I become a nervous wreck, picking at my scalp
One by one, wrapping it around my finger,
running my fingers through my hair
only to find bare skin, lying under dead hair.
Vulnerably the naked scalp peeks
through thin strands of hair
like a sheer curtain that hangs in my room
too afraid to draw it,
because I will have to put faces to the silhouettes,
And I rather know the world
as shadows and black outlines
At least that way
I won’t have to see the eyes
that pierce through me,
Unzipping my skin.
Lora Lee Nov 2016
It's hard to know
where to go
from here
empty pages
            in my book
unwritten before me
and the vastness of ocean
washes over this desert
blurring the lines
between the
wounds inside
and perceptions
               of reality
I am stuck
in this foreign place,
a fine-chiseled limbo
etched upon
           my face
My past strong
behind me
pushing my limits
to the hilt
fingers brushing
new firmaments
                of grace
spilling silver
              from silt

I am ready
to see the future
burst forth and unfold
ready for my
raw elements
to be spun wildly into gold
these invisible wings
after years of
being wound in
            tight, rigid curl
are stretching out slowly
being coaxed to unfurl
And here I stand
my feet sturdy as roots
as the sands of time
bud tender shoots
my eyes locked to the stars
fixed in sanguine dream
no need to staunch
the flow
           of liquid
that freely streams
It pours out
from my eyes,
this river of salt
because growing pains
        sting --
it's nobody's fault
Yet it's
tearing me up
into coarse,
ragged strips
descending
upon me
with scratches and rips
and for every burn
branded into my flesh
new insights
are woven
from putrid
               to fresh
For every laceration
I bear upon this heart
there is a gleam in the garden
as seeds germinate
               their start

And as my soul opens out
      expands in deep
           vital glow
            I am as
             a child
who still needs to grow
Her moonlit eyes
set on
          unknown realms
her pillars fallen,
senses overwhelmed
vulnerably jaded,
yet unafraid
because stars  
sometimes
burst into
novas
creating
new
      light
             from
         shade
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbCIg3UbjNg
The Day We Met Was Like A Flash.
It Passed To Soon.....
The Day We Met...Was Scarred,Bruised,And Burned, Cut, ******...
Nothing You Say Can Make That Day Blurry..
It Will Always Remain And If It Were The End Of The World..We'd Die In Vain...Nothing You Say Or Do Can Erase This Pain. Only If Depression Could Drain...Me And Him Always Seem To Plead At The World's Feet. But All We Do Is Bleed. Me And Him...Were Destined. This Is Fate.. And We Always Have That Second Chance..Because..We All Own 2 Little Things You Call.....Faith And Love. Love Is Just Another Word..You Use When You Want Or Need Something..As So They Say But Love Actually Means...Loyalty Observed Vulnerably Even In Eternity. Love Is A Promising Word. You Have To Trust And Believe Then They Won't Give Up. Just Like Henery's Dad Is Towards His Ford. Giving Up Is Also Cheating...It's An Excuse...It's A Lie...To Hide Only What's Behind...Your Mind.. Just Follow The Path That Lead. The Day We Met Happened So Fast. The Day We Laughed Just Went Past. The Day I Confessed Was Like A Piece Of Glass...The Day We Met Was Gone And Done.


**Make Sure You Cherish Your Friends..For As Long As You Can...Understanding It May Very Be Your Crush..I Give You This Advice.
It's Better To Stay Hidden In Silence Were You Believe There's Hope And Light...Rather Then Being Heard And Thrown In The Dark...
Don't Give Up.
Liam Sep 2014
awakening autumn air
absorbed with thrown caution
a penchant for yawning leaves
an affinity for desiccated hearts

stirring lakeside willows
whisking emotions away
wafting feminine fragrance
in walking women's wakes

moving to its own designs
gusting in pursuit of change
swirling clouds of romantic disarray
into dizzying vortexes of possibility

expanding the bellows of intimacy
lovesmith for glowing molten souls
passionately ignited, vulnerably cooled
forging bonds, tempering existence
Kasey Dec 2013
This isn't Paris, there are no lights here
But the stars that sit vulnerably above the dark streets at night.
Reflecting on the drops of rain that fall with no order filling the potholes and cooling the air.
Even the desert gets cold in December, and the cold makes everyone feel lonely.
So here's to the bowl of glitter on my desk.
The letters written that will never be sent.
The twin sized bed unkempt and cold by the window
And the lights that stopped working weeks ago.
To scarves that warm necks and hats that warm heads
While there's nothing to keep my heart from nervously pounding every time the dog barks at night.
Here's to coffee tasting and wrestling over the last brownie,
Friends that become lovers and lovers that stay friends.
The lamplight is dim but it's there all the same
And as long as my shivering hands can type I'll be writing these letters I'll never send.
In my journey I have not decided
If walking in blinding light is better than wandering in the blackest night.
I give darkness such negitve continuity, no fault of my own, societal programming, when I am feeling lost.
And
Yet I can't even move to feel my way in the brightest of light that stings and attempts to eat at my eye lids through the crevices of my fingers.
So
Which is the better?  
To wander in the dark associated with loneliness, helplessness, cover, or protection
Or
Feeling around in the light  associated with bravery, certainity, vulnerably, or exposure?
Somehow I seem to have slipped onto a ship without anyone at the helm and I,
Neutral
I neither give a here nor there on which to decide
Only
More so which one bares more of a case on better returns.
2015©copyright by J.Barraza
Dear Jan 2013
YOU ARE LOVE!
You are the dream  
You are reverse raindrops rising.

You are fantasy
Made real by the magnetic pull that guides you to me

You are
Liquid lucidity
Your lips languid
How they speak to me.

You are the wetness of my mouth
You are the blood in my veins
You are the oxygen in my brain.

You are the arched back
the parted mouth
the eyes in the back of the head.
You are
The escaped animal sound
Sending waves of pleasure
And hummingbirds to my bed

You are the Earth beneath my feet
You are my dove
You are all of my love
YOU ARE PEACE!

You are the resurrection of perfection
You are intoxicating liberation.
You are the crystal cave
Humble in your beauty

I WANT TO BE NAKED WITH YOU!

Stripped of this garden of blood, bone, flesh, and muscle.
INTO OUR BODIES OF LIGHT!
The garden of the lucid rise.

But before we are freed
I want to admire every vein on your body.
Follow their faint glow
See where they guide me.

I want you to feel the delight inside of me!
I want to eat this innocence and turn it into love made vulnerably.

I LOVE YOU AS I HAVE ALWAYS LOVED YOU
NOT SINCE,
BUT ALL ALONG
Hannah Marie Apr 2016
That crazy little thing. 
Have you ever been so attracted to someone that you can't even fully look at them. 

Not like you can't look at them like glance at them but you can't rely look at them. For when u pass at just even near them the connection is so strong, so deep that you feel as if everything moves in slow motion for the fear of the electricity sparking and making a new current. 

Eye contact is literally so dangerously impossible for the fear of exposing your soul's window and the curtain being left opened has made you tangled and enraptured so vulnerably not only lost in your transparency but also in how willing you are to be seen and to see the deepest most intense free side of someone. 
Have you ever had a small chance to be with this person. Where all the intimacy of souls and the electrical current could have been placed to start a fire that would have burned for energy and warmth. But instead of being the carpe to the diem you waited and avoided and lost that moment.
your fire still burns in my heart
my lungs are gasping for your air
i mourn the loss of you
vulnerably and emotionally
i scream in agony as i think of us
my heart belts hymns of you
you were always so concerned about hurting me
because you knew that one day you would rip my heart apart
and leave me too broken to be fixed by anyone else
will i ever get over you
Nidhi Sharan Jan 2020
Being Vulnerable does not come easily to Me!
To be heard and felt, to hear and feel felt like emotions with no meaning,
Then you sailed through and entered my space and saw things which I had not been able to place,
on the very landscape of my heart and soul, and you drilled a hole,
On the fabric of my life- spread and somehow, I experienced “wholeness” once more!
I became someone who feels and expresses and is not afraid to take chances,
This is a person whom I used to know, the original Me and Myself,
I gradually started to break promises I made to myself,
of not being vulnerable, emotional or open to any feelings,
I don’t want to hide behind this façade anymore,
Longing to feel the sun burning my skin once more,
I'm glad you exist, even if it’s on a different plane,
For through our interactions every time, there is so much I gain,
Pain is not what I have feared, it’s the explosion of joy that I don’t know how to handle,
Guess what? being vulnerable still does not come naturally to Me
Its only when I look into your eyes, which reflect the expectation of pain back to me,
Even though we are both smiling at eachother in this moment now,
For you and I are overlapping spaces, torn and ravaged blue
and for both of us, it is our very own Vulnerabilities which binds us like glue!
raðljóst Jun 2015
i am in love with how your words caress me
how your voice echoes in my mind like soft, slow piano
delicate words and murmurs before sleep

i am in love with the way your smile lights a fire
deep in my heart
where i never knew heat could reach

i am in love with your ever-present joy
your experience of love and life
and the way you find strength in pain

i am in love with the movements you make
under the sheets in the afternoon sun
and with the glow on your skin
and the way that you come to me, passionately

i am in love with the sounds you make
when you whisper, laugh, or sigh
and how you send shivers from my head to my fingers
down my spine and to the tips of my toes

i am in love with the way you reach for me
with your questions and with your hands
always searching for more of my soul

i am in love with the way you hold me
for a moment, forever
for a breath, for the night

i am in love with the way you love me
patiently, vulnerably, honestly
how you crave my spirit whole
Jay M Wong Apr 2014
Oh dear shield upon the fortress walls for me,
Only wear'st thy facade shall gracefully hide,
Until may the masks fall when vulnerably free,
Shall see'st none of thy face of thee other side.

For but I shall mask the mask, for none to see,
And that I shall keep'st thee secrets that I fear,
What the horridsome being is named truly me,
When wandering greeting souls draw a'near.

To falsify oneself shall be'st thee greatest task,
Inevitably abandoning 'tis world without trace,
Shall I then wear and unwear mask after mask,
For now even I know not of my truthful face.
A poem on the wearing of so many masks that eventually one no longer knows what his true face is.
Clarissa Clark Dec 2010
The wind opens the clouded curtains
to reveal the shining sun.
This glorious orb had winked, however uncertain
That the wink was directed to only one.
I saw this phenomena, and felt
as if I was revealed all truth.
In this game of life, I was dealt
With the eternal heart of a youth.
Granted to me
by that life giving sun
Was the power to see;
A gift that cannot be undone.
So I blinked one eye
And winked in reply.

I continued upon my way
and saw in the distance, a creature.
His teeth were on display
and squinty eyes added to the feature.
Twas a smile that was given to I,
and felt as if I was one with his soul
as I caught this beauty with my eye;
Just then I was complete and whole.
I was so graciously given
By this beautiful creature
The heart to keep on livin'
As his smile was my greatest teacher.
So I stretched my lips from ear to ear
and smiled back, for I was no longer in fear.

The trees shook and rustled
as I was slowly passing by.
And as the leaves bustled
I glimpsed the wave as they said hi.
I stood still to stare,
as the leaves were dancing a greeting.
I felt the love that we do share,
'cause my heart was aflame and beating.
I was knowledgeably instilled
By this humble, but noble tree;
my quest for friendship is fulfilled;
'cause I learned that there is always a we.
So with my hand, a branch I did take
as I returned the lovely handshake.

I heard the blissful chatter
of a girl years younger than I.
I asked what was the matter;
'I'm laughing!' was the reply.
Her carelessness got the better of me,
and in her freedom I cheered with rejoice,
as we danced and shared the eternal glee.
I was jubilant to hear the guffaw in her voice.
I was so ecstatically presented
by this lightened and carefree soul
with the sense of freedom, cemented
knowing that, of myself, only I am in control.
So I took her hand, and gave a great bellow,
as I gave her a laugh like a jolly 'ol fellow.

I could feel the totality of the earth
in my humble, but powerful heart.
I was a part of the on-going mirth
as I saw creation as God's art.
I could feel the boundless love
that was radiating from every being.
Twas the state of bliss I had been dreaming of;
A feeling that is oh so freeing.
I was permanently endowed
by this force I was so familiar with,
with a love, of which I am proud;
A feeling that is more than just a myth.
So I vulnerably opened my heart with pride,
and returned that love worldwide.

Ever since the day
of those subtle realizations
I have made a point of each today
to join in the celebrations;
by laughing, loving, and befriending.
Diya Jun 2020
She is the fragrance
that can effortlessly diffuse
Into your anatomy!
She can even tame the demons
That hides within you!
She is stronger than you can ever be
Yet as fragile as a broken heart
Her tears are vulnerably bold
And when she smiles,
Sanguine rays will pervade your soul!
A Vast ocean flows in her eyes
That can drown you in it..
And Her wild mind,
Is more fierce than
The beast that roars
In the darkest woods!
Thanks for reading!
Shoutout to all women!
Actually, Wrote this for a friend:)
Parker Wallis Nov 2011
Maiden, maiden
With locks of hazel
And skin of pearly white,
I beckon you, dearest beauty.
I present to you a rose.

But what is this?
The rose does wilt,
As if smothered by winter’s grasp.
Had I not plucked it a moment ago?
What spell or trick is this?

If only I were to see your eyes,
The eyes of an angel fallen.
I beseech to you vulnerably,
Yet your eyes never stray from your lap.

And what purpose do you have
On that boat in placid waters.
I pray, come, my pet,
For these mists are friends foremost
And undertakers in due time.

And yet not a word has escaped
Your rosy lips, fairest maiden.
‘Tis silent as death, this marsh.
I doubt your senses are dulled.

You hang your head as a holy sister,
But in mourning or not, I am unknowing
Speak of your pain, and I shall remedy;
Your wish is all I require.

Still, my lady, your voice is unheard.
To heal a foreign wound would be, at best,
Foolish, but perhaps, with your invisible lyre,
I can ascertain what is needed:
You, my delicate flower, can be saved
If you, in turn, save me.

I was blind before but not now.
No doubt, my lady, the frill of your dress
Reigns above all else, the grains of wood
On the boat’s hull is what you fancy most.
I see it now, true as every morn’s dawn.

Before my eyes this very moment,
I see but a mirror, and on the other side,
True beauty, beauty admired from a far,
Beauty to tease the poor souls who reach
And wish for something more than frigid glass.
Based on "Alone Painting-Part 2" by F.R. Janseen
Amber Drake Jul 2014
As I step out of the crowded train of reality,
The dirt of sorrow clings to my ankles.
Ragged clothes drape my body,
As hostile hands grip my arms.
Confusion captivates my mind,
The unknown brings fear.

Crammed like cattle,
Through metal thorn’d gates.
Deafening voices roar unfamiliar words,
As rough hands grab all;
Separating men and women,
Forcing to conform to a line.

The cold chill of the air pierces,
As mud cakes beneath my feet.
Anticipation and fear infiltrates…
As I look ahead and the line separates,
Right and left, the only choice;
As mothers scream for their daughters.

Shoved to the right, questioning the left,
Watching the lefty’s last walk.
Shriveling screams reverberate,
Watching ****** smoke climb.
Fortunately escaping death,
But longing to already be gone.

A monster masked by medals,
Strips my rags and shoes,
Leaving me cold, numb, and violated.
As I continue the line, he quickly picks the flower.
Overwhelming tears drain my face,
Vulnerably pressing forward through thickening mud.

Another beast with dull blades,
Cuts all my hair down to the skin,
Shaving away all beauty,
Leaving me only a bar of soap.
Pushed under rusted pipes,
Trickled with chilled droplets.

Overwhelmed by unfamiliar feelings,
Pushed away from the bathhouse,
A rucksack is packed over my head,
Over my shivering frame.
My name, identity and worth are stripped,
Replaced by six black bloodletting digits.

As time goes by, some are gone.
Lying in the wooden egg carton.
Matchsticks in dampened boxes,
Soon loose their spark,
As the flesh seems to disappear,
Leaving only brittle bones.

Ducts are dry from empty reservoirs,
The human seems dead.
Animalistic hunger possesses my mind,
As hollow stomachs rip with wanting.
The demon guard whips as hunger pains,
Starving the innocent matchsticks.

One false movement ends with lead,
Winces of pain punished with leather.
Enduring bloodied feet and cut up hands,
My boney body pushes the wheelbarrow,
Throwing lost souls into a meaningless grave,
Causing me no remorse.

My vacant existence leaves me broken,
Making me question all I have known.
My empty black eyes lost all desperation,
My envied physique transformed to a corpse.
Heart slowly pumping, making me deathly alive.
The soul-less walking skeleton.

My Auschwitz, my Auschwitz;
Breaking every cell and soul.
Isolating me from the outside.
Ironically destroying rather than protecting.
Disillusioned guards enforce,
Forcing me to do the inevitable.

Dizzying pain and uncertainty,
Making me aimlessly wander.
Perception highly surreal,
When nightmares seem true.
Melting towards death,
Body too weak to move.

A soldier’s screams seem like wind,
His kicks and punches feel like pillows.
Brown mud and black boots mesh together,
Reality turns to slow motion.
A black stick aimed at my head,
I smile and…
Black.
Michelle Garcia Jun 2015
We center our lives around hands that circle around endlessly, from three to twelve and nine to eleven. Day and night, it dances to its own heartbeat of rushed harmonies and hollow clicks. We are only given a specific amount of time with each other, limited revolutions around the sun- and it is never certain. That’s the terrifying thing about it, that time is never guaranteed.
We cannot control what will happen between five and six. We will never know how the next sunrise will look but we expect it anyway, in its radiant magenta hue of six AMs that can never be reincarnated.
Each day, life begins a new cycle of magic, the melody of pink-faced newborn babies screaming shrill cries of disapproval and utter confusion. Life will also cease to exist in the same day. Gray wrinkles and hands that have created and lived and thrived will morph into the hands of the clock they once lived by. And time will end, their hearts beating in sync with the monotone ticking of diminishing time. It is an unexplainable, powerful enigma that we will not ever begin to understand. Time is our only mystery, the substance that fills the gaps between life and death in order to conquer beauty and the power of it.
It is uncertain,
it is terrifying,
brilliant, dissolving and irreplaceable.
Today, someone will fight back waves of tsunami tears, eyes watering as they watch their bright-eyed blushing daughter walk down the aisle in her dream wedding dress. Someone will take their last breath on earth and exhale a life of both regret and contentment. Someone will take their first, inhaling hope and promises that will only swell and envelope them over time.
Someone has just tasted the sickeningly sweet taste of first love, with fingertips like bolts of lightning and a heart like a frightened alley cat, unsure and vulnerably afraid. And just around the corner, someone has just watched love fade away with empty arms and a burnt tongue, watching it disappear slowly- the way sugar dissolves into water and becomes absolutely nothing at all.
This morning, someone will hold their innocent baby boy swaddled in blue hospital garments- and blink- only to find him walking proudly across the stage, towering over everyone in his indigo cap and gown. A child will gaze up at their loving, sprightly mother only to lose track of time and suddenly will find themselves staring down at a platform resting in lonely cemetery grass.
Time is an insane concept, of waiting and rushing and the routine hum of life while we hope for a reality better than this. In times of crisis and in times of unbreakable power, time is the only insane concept that has ever possessed the capability to keep us sane.
Time is not infinite, nor is it fleeting, but with each thump, click, and tick, we are given chance after chance to shed the skin of the past and become brand new all over again.
We are only given a specific amount of minutes. To laugh. To cry. To kiss. To smile.
What will you do with yours?
Esmé van Aerden May 2013
I prayed for the first time in many moons yesterday.
Hurt and anger seemed to choke my heart,
and its poisonous vines crept to my brain,
s l o w l y
making the world around me turn
so everything I knew and grew to love,
vanished.
The time,
I thought,
had come.

I prayed for the first time in many moons yesterday.
Sick of living the way I was,
I pleaded for a change.
Regretting straying away from Faith,
lying vulnerably on my bed,
I pleaded with God to forgive me.
The suicidal thoughts and depression
had gone too far.
Devilish thoughts consumed me,
and I needed to feel whole again as I once did.

I prayed for the first time in many moons yesterday.
Feeling compelled, I opened my Bible.
Psalm 140-143, each segment in my Bible entitled
to everything I prayed for.
A Prayer for Protection
A Prayer not to Sin
A Prayer for Safety
A Prayer not to be Killed

God answered me.
Again, I was drawn to my radio.
The first words I hear upon switching
to what I considered a "dumb contemporary Christian" station;

"I'm forgiven."
This did actually happen to me, and though I still struggle with my faith and personal issues, things have been looking up. It DOES get better! x
A-S Jan 2016
I wish to dream with you,
feel the happiness songs try to explain
and love what we are supposed to create.

We are so stuck in time.
I can't get comfortable enough
with the thought of being vulnerably in love.
Nora Mar 2016
Waved bangs frame
Your fair young face,
And flowing clothes hang
Like drying laundry
From your gangly limbs

We met for lunch once:
You, daughter of
the stars and I the curious
Traveler. My words did
Not flow as I’d hoped,
But hung limp in
The air vulnerably--
For your guarded heart
Ignored their pleas.

I see you daily, star child,
With your hooped earrings
And painted lips, eyes
twinkling like distant suns.
I will continue to admire
you from afar,
Even if our worlds are
Not in orbit and our
galaxies sit light years apart.
For the dear friend who decided I wasn't worth her time anymore (but I still see her everywhere)
jeffrey robin Jul 2010
naked as a  human being must be

vulnerably
intelligence
shatters the fear
and the greed that thusly proceeds

from our  inability to love

come

be purely naked and nurtured by
eternal reality

and such as me

who are always here
Rina Steinberg Feb 2014
Thoughts of ancient visions and past tribulations
leave uncovered scabs on my soul,
vulnerably marking it like Cain's.
Unknown forces move me to replay situations of what was and no longer is.
Ghosts,
pulsing through my coronaries,
leave me with a burning sensation
that isolates me in yesterday.
Catharsis is a joke.

Each hour or year I absorb my sins and the sins of the world.
They are beginning to clot,
And the tears do nothing but  inflame my eyes and my conscience.
Hark! conscience- swollen,
swollen like a cancerous infection of the mind
surging through my neurons,
covering them with concrete as it claims them.
There is no purging.

Quiet fears leap from my mind and
Trickle down my neck,
Clinging to hair follicles as they creep,
Slowly
     Tearing
At my focus.
I shiver.
With apprehension
Of a potentially empty tomorrow,
I tremble at the thought of satanic beings.
Catharsis is a sick joke.
tamia Dec 2017
This is a rebirth—
I will bid farewell to all this hurting,
I will shed this skin along with what I once felt,
and leave a little thank you note on the fridge
for all the bad days when I felt like sinking into my bed to disappear.

This is a reincarnation—
I'll revel in the familiarity of days long gone like past lives,
I'll listen again to the songs I loved when I was fourteen
and perhaps find new meanings,
I'll search for the innocence I lost to time and age,
and hang on to every bit of soul and memory I can muster.

This is a renaissance—
Little by little I shall rediscover my body and heart,
My soul will awaken with curiosity and be fuelled with a lust for life,
I'll fall in love once more with the world in a different light.

This is the revolution—
It's the dawn of a new age of knowing my own worth.
I have allowed myself to feel and hurt, to love and lose.
Like rebuilding a fallen civilization
I will step forward defiantly and vulnerably,
I will love myself and live unlike before.
Vidur Khanna Nov 2015
Drenched on a cold blooded afternoon
For I was always different
From the usual misfits of the universe
Vulnerably concurrent but different

Frogs of a well
Diverse but in an aspect same
Couldn’t reach their zenith
But I, I was not the same

For we the leopards
In this bounty jungled
Spotted with past laurels, fame
For with history my thoughts never mingled

For I could see far and beyond
Outside the realms of humanity
For I was always different
Grounded,blind in my cemetery

For I am not a Roman Diete
But a paper boat on the currents
For I was always what I am
A roaring lion but different
Kewayne Wadley Oct 2016
How clumsy of me;
to sit straight up with attentive ears
The vulnerably of giving what's missed
Mistaken as misplaced.
I liked this clumsy side of me
Lopsided stumbles, a bit more reckless
This constant fumble
Definitely generous; mistaking kindness as guilt
A sense of being misplaced
How clumsy of you to drop something so precious
When all along did you ever want it
That sudden pain that wraps around your chest; manic
A sudden throb that complicates the slightest of gesture
How clumsy of me to misplace everything where I thought I would find it
Again hoping sufficient in empathy
How clumsy of me

Rendered helpless
Searching for sincere apology
When in reality it was me

 

with unsteady tender

— The End —