"whelming" poems
The distant hollow of the high mountain pass
swallows the setting sun as it steals away southbound
behind the coastal mountain's tangerine sunset hued silhouettes
Mulberry plashed shadows pointing northward
across the evergreens outstretched dimming,
beneath the waning fade of each fleeting eventide
Sundown ebbing asunder the wafting daylight,
each gloaming of the day, helplessly a moment sooner past,
transfixed further south beyond yesterday's passing azure
The lazy days of summer escape unbounded,
nomadic as the sea I've seen sail away before;
evanescent as the beauty of the bloom summer days beheld
and the memory of the fragrance they exhale
The nebulous weight of the gravity is consciously denied
by the truths a human heart beholds
A moment’s epiphany afflicts like a rogue wave in a calm sea;
the only thing my heart ever wanted remains out of reach
Everything my heart needs consciously surrendering
to the poignant passing moment's beauty,
the falling sun at distance sets more suddenly now
Lost in the undeniable certainty
life's imminent season's change
Eyes drawn stubbornly from presence to a sky so far away,
knowing there'll be no restitution for the welling sense of loss...
A bitter sweet song mummers in the silence of the absorbing spell,
summer's sun stained pages of watermarked soul scribbles,
time tattooed reparation for the indelible ache
of a harsh grey winter loneliness
Perhaps too familiar, this whelming Déjà vu
that tears my soul; that tugs at these roots
but cannot sever their sacred grasp
But for now, eyes fixed to the sun's
inevitable tightening tether hence —
to wear weary each fraying thread's impending break
Each sunset leans a deeper angle southward
as it slips down through the firwood shadows;
illuminating other faraway latitudes
far beyond the distant horizon skies
The preordained continuum unfolding what will be ...
someone you used to know ... September 11, 2017 ... 7:30 PM
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
the amount of melanin in my skin often seems to conjure up some controversy so when I sit down to write and I see my hands, my light skinned not quite black but surely not white hands I think about the privileges thrusted upon me and when I begin to write I feel my hair against my back, my curly ***** but not quite ***** hair I wonder how what's on my head could make what's in it so frazzled
I often frustrate myself because I feel like my writing often centers around the fact that I am a woman and I am colored
and the fact that when I say I'm colored some look lost
in fact, in the film, for colored girls
Thandie Newton's character says "being alive and being a woman is all I got, but being colored is a metaphysical dilemma I haven't conquered yet."
and I found it frightening how relatable that was to me, being that I'm not quite almost a woman and not quite almost colored
but when I look at my poems they reflect that I indeed am
even though I'm lightskinned and I'm 16 and according to my white friends I'm, just like them because, as I've discovered our definitions of what a black girl sounds like and acts like and is like are extremely different
and I guess that reflects on who we've been introduced to
I have cousins and aunts and grandmothers and sisters
who represent what I believe emulate what a black woman is
and these white kids see what the media feeds about how black women walk and talk and act and lack
see when I picture a black woman I see beautiful smooth chocolate skin full lips round ******* wide hips and a smile as brilliant as her mind
when these kids picture a black woman they see ***** hair dark undesirable skin soup cooler lips and a mind filled with ignorance
and this is where my struggle begins
But in every ethnic group there is good and bad
and I am sick of black women only being associated with the bad
the fact that when most non blacks think of what a black woman is, they imagine an unintelligible mindless sassy loud mouth is over whelming to me
if you're skin isn't light enough or your behind isn't big enough you're only "pretty for a black girl"
I not only want to raise but destroy all expectations society gives black women
but I cannot do this alone
because we are smart and we are beautiful
we are troubled and we are strong
and we are one
once we stop tearing eachother down we can all be one
and I'm not sure why god blessed black women with so much beauty or why I'm so blessed to be one or why he put this determination in me but I think I will recognize it the day the world recognizes how beautiful are we.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
And then I too
am part of the silence
that casts its post-sunset stillness
throughout this swamp white oak's great spread.
It seems as though even the hive of honeybees
and the nearby nest of baby birds
have stopped to admire
the feeling of the world
tilting on its axis; sinking through space.
We all gaze further upwards,
those bees and birds and I.
And nestled in the remaining twigs above,
is the shockingly finite dance
of the leaves... of the stars.
The shadows that hang from the top-most branches
cast their way down around me
and coat their way all over the ground, making it
easy to forget the height—
the ultimate suspension. Because
born within my skin
is a swamp white oak,
stretching its branches through the
grey matter in my mind,
over-taking and over-whelming.
At the end of it all is me:
a tiny little acorn laid
by an impossible evolution
of people into trees.
Every cell becomes leaf and
the heart a listening ear. Amongst
the chorus of the frogs,
the owls, the coyotes—
the chorus of the woods around—
is that shift
so revered.
The shift of the Earth.
The Earth tilting
on its axis.
It’s time to admit that the maps and
man’s little green boxes there,
are nothing but products
of a continually
diminishing temper... showing
that when this swamp white falls,
it won’t just be a wood
that’s finally left barren.
It won't just be a body
left emptied and charred.
Please, I think, as the bark gets flimsier
and flimsier
beneath my feet. As the wind gets fiercer
and fiercer
howling in my ears. *Please. Let this lone acorn
standing here
sprout into something.
Let a swamp white oak
be seen.*
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
"I love food too much to be anorexic.
Thats the thing,
Anorexics love food.
But with anorexia,
Food is no longer,
Texture,
Smell,
Warmth,
Energy,
Taste.
Food becomes numbers,
Calories,
1000.
800.
600.
200.
Until Calories,
Become chemicals.
Sugar Free Jelly,
Pepsi Max,
Low fat ice-cream.
...
NOTHING.
Anorexia is not about a love,
It is about a hate.
An over-whelming hatred.
For your body,
For your faults,
For yourself.
Starving is merely a symptom.
Too many work out sessions is merely a symptom.
Your thoughts are a poison.
Not your acts."
My name is Athena Grace and I have battle anorexia for 4 years.
I am 16 years old.
At the age of 12 years old my idea of beauty was constructed into something toxic.
On my 12th birthday I was 5'2 and a beautiful 134 pounds.
On my 13th birthday I was 5'3 1/2 and a sliming 112 pounds.
On my 14th birthday I was 5'5 and a stick thin 100 pounds.
On my 15th birthday I was in the hospital. I was 5'5 1/2 and 89 pounds.
On my 16th birthday I was 5'6 and 118 pounds.
I am halfway to my 17th birthday and I am 5'7 feet tall and 105 pounds.
I was getting bad again.
I refuse to get bad again.
I am my own savior, and that is what I have learned.
I will recover.
I will never look at food like you do, but that is okay.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
Who decides life is not worth it?
You?
God?
When you reach this point, questioning living, breathing, you play god.
You feel your mind make,
take,
break
and create
new processes never felt before; a process of passion,
confusion, contradiction and confession.
You strive just by the thought of not surviving.
The
downfall
of a
suicidal
mind.
Painfully and buried deep down the impulses slip out.
Screams for hopes, answers, connections, positive aspirations.
Constantly wondering is this it?
Is this the end?
That your life can never peek again,
so the result of your collapse is an
eternal slumber with the devil by your side.
Whispering in your ear telling you about the ache
and sorrow your sinking heart and conscience feel.
An eternal hell. An eternal anguish, torment, suffering.
Do you stay in the hell on earth or hell in the after life?
You examine all the details
over and over
only thinking of your lonely pitiful life.
Meaningless and outrageous.
Screams moving around trying to get out but only
bouncing back inside of you to find
the little nothingness in which they are in seek of.
Literally, are taking you in and cutting you into
the smallest treads as possible over and over.
Never letting up to give the one underneath a second break.
Pounding as hard as possible.
Thudding and pulling, twisting and hurting.
Neither end nor good.
You can feel the over whelming sense of your corruption
taking you headfirst and choking your every last breath off.
Cutting it away like a river being eroded by things we cannot control.
Your life you cannot control.
People you cannot control.
You see the only outlet in your mind
but it burdens you with insanity behind it.
Taking life; your own life.
The reasons are bliss.
Sweet tender resolutions freeze
over your tempered thoughts,
fragile thoughts of a
suicidal.
Unaware of the footprint left behind.
Your stomach churns,
stirs
and confusion
sets in once again.
You feel ***** rising in your
throat about to implode
but it’s just an illusion created
in your mind;
hallucinations.
Questions are still increasing
their intensity and passion.
With every moment of aloneness and isolation,
the time ticks away from you until you feel as though
you will fly into a rage.
You take a deep breath;
intense thoughts.
Questioning right verses wrong;
life verses death;
now or never.
Take a step back
and pull the trigger;
welcome to the end.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
Born within my skin
Is a swamp white oak
Stretching its branches
Through the grey matter
In my mind
Over-taking, over-whelming
Each leaf becomes a cell
A part of me
In a most central way
And me a part of my species
A tiny acorn
In the context of its whole
Laid by an impossible
Evolution of trees
To people
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
A One sided women
She walks, stands, and waits to see the radiation that captivates her heart which skips a beat every time.
As she wanders all she can do is look over what see desires but cannot have.
'The lust of the warmth around her arms and waist is just a dream.
Only the temporary sights and glances that passes her without a doubt captures the butterflies that flies around her stomach and mind.
Trying her best not to notice but every where she goes, when she closes her eyes all she sees is what was meant to be.
A visionary photo graph of what would be the sweetest future and wish she gravitates to have and to hold.
Isolated Nights longing for the touch and tastes of bitter sweet dreams.
For only two lungful arms to wrap around tightly as she sleeps soundly and shamelessly.
But only a mist of reality, bursting into a light that wakens her.
It had got to the over whelming point that boils her fearing heart of compassion that lies within her confusion of collapsing blocks that trembled to her feet.
Blushing flesh covered to hide her mask of longing affection.
She waits and waits until the dreadful days of days come quickly in her distance gasps of time.
Knowingly it comes to the end and what all seems to be hopeless she finds what gives her the ability to withstand her days of living this reality of a place that humans call a world to live onto.
A beauty undiscovered by others but only she notices such a treasure that is not worth all the money or air in the whole universe.
Her 2nd life.
As said before only she sees it. A one sided forbidden desire that only notices as an equal to humans.
What exactly is it that she sees so much depth of unrequited lust to go forth on such a useless task.
Blinding as it may seem it’s all she cares to fall or to stand up to her it’s worth the extra steps and painful regrets that takes her place.
Even the opposing forces of beings may disagree but are there really any wrong answers?
Just the thought counts and care that lingers away to words and quotes.
Tell me, will this be another mistake?
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 1:00 AM UTC
I
His Great works, very historical with such bravery
He's Jose Rizal having an attitude so mighty
Captured the eyesight of many
But a heart whelming shot took his life but saved a country
II
"Touch Me Not" his work that saved lives of many
7, 100 and more islands not including its popularity
Has been all because of his work and authority
For a pen and paper can definitely can change the country's humanity.
My Dedication to Jose Rizal.
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 9:39 PM UTC
Obscurest night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
His destiny repell'd;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--Adieu!
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere;
Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
2.1k
whelming-
evening silence
-soothing quelling dwelling
a much quieter song
- moon pulls the tide along
singing of the sea
sun slides down-
the stars align
exactly as they should-
and shine
rest, earth-
breathe deep-
-we sleep.
r ~ 9/27/14
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
It is in those broken moments we find ourselves,
Torn to pieces, with no explanation –
A dark crevasse molded to fit our shape,
Holding our deepest thoughts, encasing our forgotten spirit,
We tend to allow ourselves to be encompassed by this abyss –
Explaining to ourselves the need to dwell on the darkened past,
Swallowed by its projection of memories,
Sprayed upon the walls of our mind like murals –
An endless catacomb of images, seemingly permanent in their manifestation…
It is in those broken moments, that we find ourselves.
Seemingly unbearable days, leading to sleepless nights,
Dreading the thoughts that creep their way to our dreams –
Resting in an endless adaptation of our subconscious,
Playing out their roles, as if upon a Shakespearian stage…
Each thought, acting its part with tragic precision,
Layer upon layer, scene upon scene…
Reaching back to grasp our inception of reality –
Griping its contents, and strangling the ideas to exhaustion; gasping…
It was in those broken moments, that we found ourselves,
With a weighted world pressed firmly upon our chest,
The ebbing soil began to crumble –
Giving light to the somber path traversed…
Filling the now hollow crevasse with purpose and meaning,
Each memory defined by the silver lining expressed in love –
The fleeting darkness, swallowed by the over-whelming feeling of home…
Finding it in the simplicity of a kiss, and the certainty of an embrace,
It is here that we find ourselves,
In the intricate details and delicate idiosyncrasies –
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
Lula-bye don't you cry
birds are chirping
sounds of your voice
they hear you sing
a tune of a voice
a Lula-bye don't you cry
someone will come soon
mean time
birds at the window
gaze through the window
see the tiny infant
cuddle up in the blanket
what is the tune
infant is singing
is it speaking to what it wants
she or he
maybe
hungry
or
thirsty
mama will be in
soon to hear your tiny little voice
crying away
a melody for
mom
knowing
she or he
is
hungry
thirsty
need of attention
of love
by a mother
hugs of love
by a
mother
is very over whelming
to how the comforts
a
infant
to suss
back to sleep
but first
the
mother checks
infants
before
she
lays
she or he
back to sleep
sing away
the Lula-bye song
comes in many ways
to understand
an
infants
cry
is knowing
the sounds outside
by many chirping
birds
is the
praise to hear
by the infant
it self
knowing
the cradle will rock
calm down the baby
back to it's comfort
a tender little kiss
by a
love
by a
mother
who settle the infant
by a gentle
little rock
back to sleep
until the baby
will cry
a
Lula-bye don't you cry
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
This feeling is so over whelming
But very addicting
Watching it slide across my wrist
Blood pouring to the surface
While I'm in the zone
I don't feel any of it
But afterwards it stings like hell
This is my Safe Haven
I have controle over it all
I controle how many lines
How deep I cut into my flesh
Knowing this is not healthy
But cant seem to stop
Sometimes making pictures
Or simply just words
Why is this so addicting?
Why can't I make it stop?
Trying to figure my life out
Wondering if it's too late
Can I change my course of fate?
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 12:00 PM UTC
I've heard mention,
of a choir of angels,
A myriad of angels,
acappella,
Sounding like a thunderous orchestra,
Singing unto the Almighty,
This concept I can understand,
An All-powerful creator,
Would require an amazing soundtrack,
Background vocals of creation,
Filling Him with whelming tears and pride,
Perhaps choking-back tears,
As word became light,
And heaven and earth were created.
I suppose again too,
Like any King,
He would have other court appointees,
A muse perhaps,
To inspire His creations,
A scribe to record His every breath, sigh and description,
At last a jester,
To amuse Him between acts,
A folly,
A clown.
I still exist,
Here, In the mortal realm,
To continue to make the Architect of the Universe,
Laugh His ******* *** off,
As I dance and perform silly tricks,
To amuse and distract Him,
from the serious business,
Of being God.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
And she loved him more than petrichor
and over-priced parfume. An over-
whelming wave of amatory prevailed
atop
the animosity. Loathing took a one-
eighty into lust. And all at once, feelings
that were entirely too familiar arose.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 6:52 PM UTC
opening up an eclectic ruddy random selection of books to the sound of classical concerto dimmed to 'whelming' (neither under nor overwhelming), is like entering point after point to perspective to new brain after old brain after subject to object to alluvit, the few, the many-- 'on July 21st, 1936, Lockheed test pilot Elmer C. McLeod, with Amelia as copilot, took the new Electra up for its first official flight..' 'This is the picture of the Djinn making the beginnings of the Magic that brought the Humph to the Camel..' 'A block away from the museum doors, the guards still follow us, until a new group of guards from the next building has us under surveillance..' 'More and more, I suspect that Buddhists and shamans are correct..' 'I liked Bloodworth and in the spring we were going to play outfield together on that Lowell team, he whose name for years had mystified me when I saw it in Lowell High and Lowell Twi League boxscores-' 'if the world at large found it impossible to believe the truth of the Holocaust, even when provided with incontrovertible proof, Berliners presented with piecemeal evidence, rumour and hearsay were bound to dismiss such talk as enemy propaganda, or perverted fantasy. As Ursula Von Kardoff recalled after the war: 'we were realistic and pessimistic. But Auschwitz?'- '"Twenty-five centavos."
"Twenty-five centavos," repeated the Syrian in a firm voice with almost no accent.'--
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
She sitteth still who used to dance,
She weepeth sore and more and more--
Let us sit with thee weeping sore,
O fair France!
She trembleth as the days advance
Who used to be so light of heart:--
We in thy trembling bear a part,
Sister France!
Her eyes shine tearful as they glance:
"Who shall give back my slaughtered sons?
"Bind up," she saith, "my wounded ones."--
Alas, France!
She struggles in a deathly trance,
As in a dream her pulses stir,
She hears the nations calling her,
"France, France, France!"
Thou people of the lifted lance,
Forbear her tears, forbear her blood:
Roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood,
Back from France.
Eye not her loveliness askance,
Forge not for her a galling chain;
Leave her at peace to bloom again,
Vine-clad France.
A time there is for change and chance,
A time for passing of the cup:
And One abides can yet bind up
Broken France.
A time there is for change and chance:
Who next shall drink the trembling cup,
Wring out its dregs and **** them up
After France?
1.3k
I opened my camera roll and started viewing photos of me, all of them, from the oldest one to the newest one, from our first picture taken together to the very last.
Before losing you:
In the old pictures I saw an innocent little girl with not a care in the world, with a big shiny smile that radiated nothing but happiness, genuine happiness.
Her eyes reflected a light that could brighten up a whole city and you could tell they were under the beautiful spell of being in love, of loving someone whole-heartedly
After losing you:
I noticed something different in the most recent pictures, I saw a broken and confused little girl, with pinkish eyes like they've been crying too much and with dark spots under them, with chapped lips and a pale face.
I saw that her smile wasn't real, and I noticed she was hiding her tears and has been doing that for maybe too long
I saw a completely different girl, one with her heart torn apart. Her eyes screamed a name and begged for his comfort, his touch and the sound of his voice.
You changed me, losing you changed me. And that's sadly how it goes: Pain, it has the devastating and horribly over whelming power to change people, and there's absolutely nothing we can do about it.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 2:13 PM UTC
when I stop
and
just let the
silence
be. . .
everything
is ok:
the tattered
tarp partially
buried in
the
hillside is
ok
the broken
bough used
as a toy
by the
poor
children is
ok
the
jaggedly
chopped
tree stump
by the
parked
car is
ok
the
unevenly
placed
stairs
that force
you to
change
your gait
are
ok
the
distant
tower
with the
blinking
light
is
ok
the
solitude
among
other
mortals
is
ok
the
whelming
sense of
being
lost is
ok
the
neat
glass of
scotch
from the
isle of
skye is
ok
the
divorced
lesbian
with two
kids at
the end
of her
rope
is
ok
the
minuscule
fly that
landed
on my
forehead
in the
bathroom
this
morning
is
ok
everything
is
ok
even the
things
that
aren't
they're
ok too
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 3:26 PM UTC
And i doubt that I will ever find peace,
but, then again, some brains are meant to storm.
But, despair not, I'll harness the tempest.
I won't shy when dark clouds form.
I will not fear the roar of the thunder,
and the lightning's burst cannot turn my face.
This tempest will not cause my mouth to scream,
but my mouth, this tempest, tastes.
And the wind may blow and shake my rafters,
let the rain fall in torrential sheets.
The over-whelming fear of my brain's storm
is the fear I'll rise to meet.
I despair for those who fear their thunder,
and hide instead of dancing in their rain.
But if I refuse to dance through this storm,
will the sun come out again?
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Its weird how small things in life,
Will give you so much pleasure.
The fact that another person remembers you,
When you have been trying to forget that world.
That she took out time,
Lowered her ego and called you asked you if you were fine.
With mischeif or malice or sinister intend.
Thats flattering. Thats so ghastly over whelming
For all she wanted to know about were how badly my boats were burning down.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
The waters are dark around me
im trying to fiind the light
Im trying to reach the top
So i can breathe
So I can see clearly
I am deep, so deep under
So wrapped up, in this current
So naive, I knew it
Im kicking, im trying hard
Hard to understand how,
How i let you get me so down.
So deep into my own head
But only able to breathe in your world
Only able to try and be everything, you could need.
The waters are dark around me.
The problems are over whelming and im stuck under.
Im trying to find the light
Im trying to reach the top.
I need to breathe.
Breathe in my own world. Be everything I need to be....for me
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 2:40 PM UTC
We are the Choice of the Will: God, when He gave the word
That called us into line, set in our hand a sword;
Set us a sword to wield none else could lift and draw,
And bade us forth to the sound of the trumpet of the Law.
East and west and north, wherever the battle grew,
As men to a feast we fared, the work of the Will to do.
Bent upon vast beginnings, bidding anarchy cease--
(Had we hacked it to the Pit, we had left it a place of peace!)--
Marching, building, sailing, pillar of cloud or fire,
Sons of the Will, we fought the fight of the Will, our sire.
Road was never so rough that we left its purpose dark;
Stark was ever the sea, but our ships were yet more stark;
We tracked the winds of the world to the steps of their very
thrones;
The secret parts of the world were salted with our bones;
Till now the name of names, England, the name of might,
Flames from the austral fires to the bounds of the boreal night;
And the call of her morning drum goes in a girdle of sound,
Like the voice of the sun in song, the great globe round and round;
And the shadow of her flag, when it shouts to the mother-breeze,
Floats from shore to shore of the universal seas;
And the loneliest death is fair with a memory of her flowers,
And the end of the road to Hell with the sense of her dews and
showers!
Who says that we shall pass, or the fame of us fade and die,
While the living stars fulfil their round in the living sky?
For the sire lives in his sons, and they pay their father's debt,
And the Lion has left a whelp wherever his claw was set;
And the Lion in his whelps, his whelps that none shall brave,
Is but less strong than Time and the great, all-whelming Grave.
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there is
!spontaneity!
in my chest, ready
to be plucked like
an apple from it's branch,
I just need a boost and the
reaching
hand--
(and there
the film clicks in
defiant
pause)
in a frame with the apple perched,
the moon patiently waiting
it's big reveal - signalling to the
silent observer a
subtle but over-
whelming
change:
I
am
drifting
in my
skin,
I am
sitting
on my
hands,
I am
doing
anything but
chang-
ing.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
i ran my fingers across the
surface of the felt art i never
colored and i remembered the
urgency when i bought it at
the gas station because i was in
desperate need of a distraction
and maybe if a filled in the
blank spots i could create an
answer between the lines so
then i would know why you
seemed so distant even though
we were sitting so close and
after the pit stop i was faced
with an empty seat and over
whelming feelings and the
walls were closing in and my
heart was swelling and bursting
with angry color and panic
scribbled on my insides leaving
red marks and i was searching
for the green marker and i was
afraid it went between the crack
in the seats or it rolled down the
aisle like the tears rolled down my
face because i had every color with
me and i had everything i wanted
except you
and looking back i realized that
that **** marker and your eyes
didn't just have color in common
i lose them easily just like i lost
my sanity on the bus ride home.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC