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Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Sara Jun 2018
I'm transparent like a window
but I'm prone to keeping curtains closed
to cover up my youthful,
aching, naked soul.

I used to be promiscuous;
my essence on my sleeve.
a charming laugh; a crystal glass
from which many a fool drew drink.

A chalice of life;
warm like cinnamon wine,
soft like angel's delight.
Beheld by every eye.

But it never felt right;
I was smoke off a fire,
yet still smouldering coal.
Just a young, beautiful

byproduct of desire.
There's no smoke without fire.
Although, I tried to fan it cool;
the flames ran only wilder.

But as the old wind blows, it seems
a withered tree still grows new leaves.
A dandelion spreads its seeds
but they lie far away from me.

Now, I move transcluently-
ultraviolet invisible ink-
I speak in soothing whispers;
they travel further than you'd think.
Iridescence is things seemingly changing colour on their own- I think we all have the power to grow and move away from our pasts.

I love how fire is a destructive yet cleansing force.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
When I enter,
the black holes of myself,
they are located,
transcribed upon the
blackboards of our
unified bodies,
the magnification of energy
transversed,
principles demonstrated
by the unconcluding
conclusion of the expansion of
creation,
the rebirthing of one universe
never ending

When I enter a woman,
the discovery sought,
the definitional needed,
the proofs equational,
the factors constant,
not the variable
truths,
the demonstrations positive,
the constants of the universe,
combinational, all within,
a single point glistening

to gentle comfort this
knowledge of my wasting,
the foresight of my limitations
from the day of birth
my matter,
matters,
my energy
neither destroyed or created,
illimitable,
my decline inevitable

and yet

cannot alter my atomic structure.
my future guaranteed,
my inner light,
traveling so fast,

it has yet

to arrive

When I enter a woman,
the laws of physics
become special theories
of relativity,
we are motion in time,
force and energy
nucleotides rawest refined,
elemental and particle nuclear,
packets of light
exclaimed

When I enter a woman,
organic, chemistry,
interdisciplinary
my body and its life force
shaped as
electric current transceivers
crossing galaxies,
there can be no deceivers,
there but and only
the birthing of heat,
a byproduct of
interjection, conjunction

she is my proof
long after the
log normal of my nerves,
now parceled to the
invisible of an oscillating
log natural,
fertilizes the sea grasses
that so intoxicate,
flying, carried,
by the invisiblity of the winds,
all-where I have chosen
as my shifting shape,
when this container
leaks and crack'd,
rentery orbit,
the nearest garbage strewn
construction-dead
lot

When I enter a woman,
physics far beyond
the commonplace,
physical transition
to knowledge
of life ever after

death and fear are
time sensitized
passing notions,
crushed by the
consolation of physics,
the eternality
of a time
once begun,
cannot end,
and therefore
this,
my one theory of everything,
is the God
I worship
The phrase "the consolation of physics" was taken from a novel,
City of Thieves by David Benioff. The other nonsense is all my fault.
11/23/14 8:30am

for my blonde Big Bang theorist
Bad Luck Jun 2014
Cheated and defeated –
                  my mistakes, themselves, repeated . . .
A monster made of gluttony;
                  I’ve no option but to feed it.

I saw the writing on the walls,
           But, my feeble eyes had failed to read it.
Still... I’m not convinced that this warning,
        Was chosen by my eyes, not to be heeded.

Perhaps my head was the catalyst
           A byproduct of an acid trip;
           Had split this world in two.
Some for me, and some for you.
Maybe . . . this warning wasn’t meant for me.
Maybe . . . it’s for the second half of two.

“Ye kind-hearted shall not go forth”
                              … is what I believe it said,
But I can’t be too certain.  
                              After all, I’ve lost my head.
Which brings up some emotions -
                               Or maybe, they’re allusions?
But, I can’t tell through the hallucinations
                If these are real or illusory movements.

So the fish hook pulled me deeper . . .  
                       All the while, stretching skin.

                       I knew not about the rabbit hole
                       to which I just dove in.

It seemed a lot more like an alley when I first took a glance,
Once I took a second step, I guess I chose to dance.

               Oh, what a performance it’s been!  
                And we haven’t yet hit intermission!

                 Although, I’m not sure when that is…
                            As I seem to have lost my vision.

The Queen of Hearts shouted,
                              “Off with his head!”
But without a brain to notice,
      I couldn’t hear what she had said.
She said it before the guillotine dropped…
So was my brain already gone
                      When my head hit the block?

I’m not sure where to find the pieces.
                     I didn't know I fell apart.
                     I didn’t know
I was a headless servant
                    To the heartless
                    Queen of Hearts.

Now, without a head,
                   I’m trying to piece it back together.
And I’m worried that this rabbit hole
           just may have me trapped here forever.

So, I’ll trace my steps backward, to try to find my "forward."
But as I set my pace faster, I find I'm moving slower.
Things turn upside down, when you’re this far down . . .
And the carousel just spins – around and around.

Gaining speed, with increasing malice
I hopped right on
        And chose a different path than Alice.

Here we arrive again at choice, but was it one at all?
This is when I found the Hatter – where the bounds of logic fall.
He asked me why I was there.
             He said, “My boy, have you gone mad?”
And as I searched for reason,
                                          I concluded that I had.

Standing on the ceiling,
            we both watched the world, twirling.
Sipping from our cups,
            between the stirs of sterling.
We chatted over tea, and while I was now content with spinning . . .
My content grew simultaneous
with the Cheshire Cat’s grinning.
He looked at me and said,
                                      “Upside down, yet, you seem alright?”
I responded with a “Hm…”
                                        and my spinning turned to flight.

I flew from the table and
       As I questioned if I was stable,
I grasped for the air.
       And for the first time . . .
                                          I was able.

Apart from the question, I now knew that I was mad,
Because I gripped a fist of air,
                             knowing full-well it can’t be grabbed.
I swung through the air…
                                    maybe I flew . . . I’m not sure.
But as I passed over ground, I surveyed it for Her.
I looked for Alice as my guide,
                              but someone took her place:
The "heartless" Queen of Hearts
                                     and her over-sized face.
Was it the face? Or just the head?
                            What’s ahead without a face?
It seems I lost the bounds of logic
                                    upon my fall from grace.

Was I flying?
Or was I falling?
It seems that orbit was my calling . . .
Where, as high as I fly,
   the paradox of orbit keeps me falling.
Maybe I’ll stay out here, where it’s quiet by the stars
And there’s no signs to read;
               no catalysts for scars.  
But did I ever escape?
                Am I still in the hole?
I found among these fragments
          the completion to my soul.

Somewhere between falling and flying,
              I told the truth while I was lying
And found my equilibrium
               between the living and the dying.
"Bad Luck: In a Wakeful Contradiction" is now available on Amazon in paperback!

Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1691941182
Enigma entity’s ethology entelechy as it relates to clairaudience clairvoyance.
Everyone has a personal futurity fatidic or existential metaphysique.
What we need is a universally acceptable form of id conclusion.
Unfortunately we can’t even agree on the social stigmatisms of ego’s expression.
We are relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity that succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integrateable forms.
There is no functional deontology, even though its visage would seem to portend cogently fecund probity for all.
We are not ethereally sublime, we are corporeally preternatural.
Objective is individual; obligation to each other is not a mandate.
Though many might find it inherently indispensible to some it impedes success.
The depths of debauchery this debacle ensues are almost intrinsically endemic to our race.
How am I going to get there becomes more important than ‘what are we fighting for’.
So, if there’s no unity of purpose how do we decide who we are fighting for.
Will it be good for all or lead to oligarchy and subjugation, the seemingly inescapable byproduct of capitalism, the inherent decadence of socialism.
It’s times like this that make me love the constitutional fortitude of Americanism.
Theoretically I have an inalienable right, hypothetically this leads to anarchy so I’m not allowed to mess with your rights.
This is mandate.
The republic for which we stand.
Mendacious tales of unity, not merely the obstinate tenacities of I, but also the cogent fecundity in the infamous we-ness of us.
The notorious they-ness in them

Indentured servant sails, serendipity servant serenades.

Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all.  Some of us are even into the various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness and all the rest of those similar states of analogous configuration and ancillary subordinateness.   Vicarious recalcitrance for all!!!  Eclectic synectics, avant-garde illuminism.
Grace Conde Oct 2018
I exist
on the border
between Reality,
and the Imaginary.

I breathe in belligerent Black,
and Withering whites.
I am incapable of grays,
a gradient of gruesome Grief.

I dance on the Border,
exhaling exuberant fragility,
my border is made of glass.

And I rise from the ashes,
a Byproduct of the
bridges I've burned.
Craving soothing touch,
Yet silently seeking
Incriminating Isolation,
Addicted to my own destruction.

A shattered soul dutifully
Dances on the Border,
Held captive by her sins.
Trapped between Good
and Bad. Happiness
and Heartbreak. Lost
and Found. Death
and Resurrection.

Born on the Border, a
Simple Figment of
Immoral Imagination.
Within each and every one of us
is a unique culture:

Ethnocentrism
reaches just as far inward
as it does outward:

Just because
academia
has imposed it's own
fascist, totalitarian, absolute
definitions
does not mean
that it has final say:
i postulate
such adacemic-fetishism
is merely a byproduct of
propaganda
pushed by Big Money
rather than
a genuine insitution
of respectable edification:
that is
i see it as
a mere appeal
to authority;
a well-known logical fallacy
to those who are in the know.

Tread lightly.

Modern Academics
seems to be
yet another
corrupt branch
of Business;
little more.

Academic achievement
is not equivocal
to intellectual worth:

a graduate's degree
is moreso
a status symbol
than it is
a credential
anymore.

'T'is vile idolatry
in lieu of
an individual's personal philosophy;
that's not to say it's
absolutely worthless,
but it may as well be
in today's job market
(unless it's a business degree!)


Then again,
that's just my opinion.
i guess i oughtta shut up
before Edu-nazis shut me down.

Oops, did i type that out loud?
I'm so sorry, you see,
vhat i meant to say vas:
Heil Stanford!
Heil Harvord!
Heil Berkley!
Heil vhat i am told zu heil!
Heil zhe publishing companies!
Heil zhe holders of student loans!
Heil egredious student debt
in lieu of philosophical discourse,
let alone progress!

Heil vhat i see on TV!
Heil *******!
Heil alkohol!
Heil gasoline!

Do not qvestion zhe dogma;
go back zu sleep, you sheep!
Yet another write intended to be easily digestible by the masses, without any sort of difficult, contentious, or otherwise thought-provoking material so as to preclude any sort of discomfort or disagreement.
Written solely to be popular and to reinforce the status-quo.

Maybe I should stick to music. Y'know, something everyone can agree on. ;)


-
What I’ve Learned as a Writer
By Leo Babauta

I’ve been a professional writer since I was 17: so nearly 24 years now. I’ve made my living with words, and have written a lot of them — more than 10 million (though many of them were duplicates).

That means I’ve made a ton of errors. Lots of typos. Lots of bad writing.

Being a writer means I’ve failed a lot, and learned a few things in the process.

Now, some of you may be aspiring writers (or writers looking for inspiration from a colleague). Others might not ever want to be a writer, but you should still care about writing. I’ll tell you why: it’s an incredible tool for learning about yourself. And if you’re an effective writer, you’re an effective communicator, thinker, salesperson, businessperson, persuader.

So for anyone interested in writing, I’d love to share what I’ve learned so far.

    Write every **** day. Yes, even weekends. Yes, even when you’re busy with other crap. Each day I write a blog post, an article for Sea Change, part of my new book, or perhaps part of a novel. If I don’t have enough to write every day, I start a new writing project. I write at least 1,000 words a day, but you don’t have to write that much. Writing daily makes it a routine thing, so you never have to think about it. You just do it. It gets much easier, less intimidating. You get better at it. It’s like talking with a friend: just how you express yourself.
    Create a blog if you don’t have one. Whether or not you’re a writer, you should have a blog. Why? Because it’s a great way to reach an audience, to practice writing on a daily basis, to reflect on what you’ve been learning, to share that with others so they might benefit, to engage in a wider conversation, to learn about yourself. Anyone who wants to learn about themselves should have a blog. (Protip: Try Sett to start a blog — it’s a great way to grow an audience and community.)
    Write plainly. I think this is from Strunk & White, but it works well for me. I write in plain language, leaving the flowery stuff for others. Academic writing is the worst — it’s so stilted no one wants to read it unless they want to show others how smart they are. Technical jargon, business-speak, pretentious vocabulary, insider acronyms … none of them have any place in communicating with your fellow human beings. Only use those things if you want to hide the fact that you don’t know what you’re talking about.
    Don’t write just to hear yourself talk. Lots of people like to go on and on about themselves and their lives, but readers don’t come for that. Readers come for their own purposes. You’re reading this to get ideas for yourself as a writer, not to hear the life story of Leo the amazing writer in technicolor detail. Now, you can tell stories about yourself if they’re vividly entertaining or inspirational or really instructive. But have a purpose, and be sure you’re meeting that purpose. Don’t just ramble.
    Nearly everything can be shortened. Including this post, of course. I could probably cut 25% of this post and get away with it (I’ve already cut 25%). Go through your sentences and ask: is this necessary? What purpose does it serve? How would this read without it? And if you can, drop it. It makes your work more readable, clearer.
    Fear stops most potential writers. Most people don’t write (publicly at least) because they’re afraid their writing will ****. Well, it will. Everyone ***** at first. You don’t get better at something by sitting on your hands. **** it up, put yourself out there. You won’t have many readers at first, when you ****, but as your audience grows so will your skills.
    Read regularly for inspiration. I might write more than 1,000 words a day, but I read 10 times that. I read books and (online) magazines and blogs and more. Reading gives me ideas, shows me better ways to write, gives me access to the best teachers in my craft (amazing writers).
    Procrastination is your friend. Every writer lives daily with procrastination. If you allow yourself to feel guilty about that, then you’ll feel bad about yourself as a writer. Instead, embrace your procrastination as a friend, enjoy it … and then ask the friend to leave for awhile so you can get your work done. No friend should monopolize all your time. Get your writing done, then invite the friend back when you have free time.
    Have people expect your writing. This is another reason blogs are fantastic: if you build up an audience, you feel the pressure of their expectations. This pressure is a good thing — it keeps procrastination from taking over your life. You know the audience expects you to write, so you get off your **** and you do it. Before I had a blog, my editors were the people expecting my writing.
    Email is an excuse. We often go to check email because it feels productive (and it can be), but it’s easy to use that as a way to put off the writing. Honestly, if you close your email for a couple hours, nothing bad will happen. Close it, close everything else, and get to writing. Your email will be waiting for you when you’re done.
    Writing tools don’t matter. Most people tinker with their writing tools, trying to find the perfect system. ***** that. You can write with anything, as long as you have a keyboard. Yes, I much prefer typing to writing by hand, because I’m much faster at typing. I can get the words out closer to the speed of my thinking. But what writing program I use is irrelevant: I write in TextEdit, Sublime Text, Ommwriter, Byword, Notational Velocity, in the WordPress or Sett editor in the browser, in Google Docs. Just open up a new document and start writing.
    Jealousy is idiotic. Writers can often be insecure types — perhaps it’s a byproduct of putting your soul out in the world for all to criticize. So they’re often jealous of the success of other writers. That’s a complete waste of time and energy. It does you no good as a writer. Instead, learn from the success of others, see what’s good about you, and merge the two. Be happy for people. It’ll make you happier too.
    Writing can change lives. When I publish a post, I hope it’ll be of use to someone. But the responses I get are often incredible — people tell me how much a post or my blog in general has changed their lives. I’m blown away by this. When you put something with good intention out in the world, you have no idea what kind of impact it might have on others. It might do nothing, but it could have a profound effect on someone’s life. That’s truly powerful. That’s truly a reason to get up and write.

And one thing I’ve learned, above all, is this: the life that my writing has changed more than any other is my own. Writing for you has changed me, in ways I am only beginning to grasp. In wonderful, crazy, lift-you-off-the-ground kind of ways. And that makes me want to do it forever.
Jeremy Betts May 2022
(too long version)

Life indeed pushed me to the edge of the cliffs end but the jump was my decision, no one there could ever be bothered to care enough to even explore the simplest question much less begin thinkin' about askin' what I was thinkin' when I settled on the option I ultimately, on more than one occasion, failed at miserably while attemptin', like the byproduct of rabbits ******' my faults are multiplyin' as my spark goes dark at the same time my shine went dim, not worth restorin' this vessel that sits as decoration in a white trash front lawn deterioratin', startin' from the back end then devourin' the engine

One step forward, two giant leaps back pedalin', that was the general motion of regression, lookin' like I'm plagiarizin' Michael Jackson when he's on stage performin', masterin' that classic moon walkin' he's known for doin', never as smooth as him but you get the picture I'm paintin', losing track of my destination as it began droppin' out of sight behind the horizon, followin' the trail the sun was blazin'

Can't see the forest for the trees and vegetation, could have heard the pre-lumber fallin' if you would only humor me and at least pretend to listen, but that there is somethin' you have zero interest in which is interestin' cause if the past has taught me anythin' about what you find pleasure in it's that you're lovin', above everythin', the chance to keep pointin' out and highlightin' how I'm a terrible human bein', a garbage person but not a man and no CDL license, I'm not pickin' up the trash I'm metaphorically dwellin' in only then to have it pile back up again times ten, ultimately creatin' my own land fill location within, wilfully lettin' recycled misfortune to continue hittin' me on the chin, it's due to inadequate trainin', not for the lack of tryin' to defend

No direction just a lie practiced to perfection too keep 'em from noticin' my state of depression, leave 'em guessin'. But to keep the honesty rollin' in I have a confession, I'd loan you the money to pay attention but you'd never take that good for nothin' offerin' and I ain't even placin' blame, just sayin', I know my position, I'm fully aware I'm on the losin' end of this game of tug-a-war life and I are playin', though I think it's cheatin', countin' cards to ensure a win, gamblin' that I'll give in and fold before noticin' I'm the mark bein' taken, the journey of life is a rigged expedition

What am I doin' besides losin'? Why am I here became the daily question, how do I get out this mess of confusion that's drownin' me to the point of extinction? It's an impossible equation even for a mathematician with years of education, so you know for certain I'm lyin' when, for no good reason, I have a go at answerin'. The slipknot is workin' just as I was expectin', slippin', goin' taunt, slidin' into its final position

I should mention, if you're thinkin' this has taken place solely for attention you're sorely mistaken, you never come to that realization, dodgin' conversation in an attempt to avoid confrontation, leavin' me noticin' there's no one standin' by and extendin' a hand to help and lookin' back there's never been. No one attendin' my lonely execution by decapitation in an effort to stop the spreadin' of harmful misfortune I feed myself, bad for my mental health, a deadly addiction that's become somewhat of a tradition through repetition, turnin' a weapon on myself, worsenin' my condition, that's a fact based observation not an opinion

No resolution in the hard hitting revelation that there's no salvation for someone who's gone and done what I've done and gone on livin' in a web of fear that I first spun for protection but couldn't stop the infestation from gainin' the traction it was needin' for the completion of my complete elimination

Cravin' anythin' real to place my faith in, I'm bein' told the hate and pain I'm bathin' in is of my own creation, I can see the connection as I sit broken down in the intersection of real life and fiction, I've lost control again and once again there's no mulligan. Am I seein' the glass half full or half empty or maybe it's all an illusion regardless of perception? Lost my vision, can't see through the pollution and corruption runnin' rampant with no solution comin', I'm a simpleton so this ***** gettin' confusin', a complete brain malfunction

I've awoken the beast within and just as I was predictin' we instantly began battlin' to the death, fightin' for position and a quicker end to the situation I'm always findin' myself in then findin' out for myself that it's always been my own reflection startin' back in my direction, the ugly inside is finally outwardly projectin', can't even pretend to be my own friend, enough is enough, I'm saying when

Its lurkin' just under the skin, waitin' for the moment to strike and beat me down to nothin'. When will it end? Never I'm guessin'. I'm gonna have to try to put an end to it all myself again, tirin' of the repetition to the point I usually take no action, sometimes due to exhaustion but still just lettin' it all happen like that's what I was plannin' from the beginnin' but that makes about as much sense as quittin' ****** right after the needles insertion or waitin' till after overdosin'

Frustration givin' way to aggravation and aggression leavin' little satisfaction even if I could squeak out a win, but I'm no longer wastin' time waitin' for that to happen so I'll probably most likely be caught sleepin', dreamin' about what could've been had I listened to my gut feelin' and put in the same amount of stock I place in what my treasonous mind and heart are always sayin'
and not let doubt creep in and claim top billin' as it's permanent position, knocking out compassion and reason, replacin' both with the hate and weight of a nation

It's a fools mission, I WILL be beaten' into submission, the last thing I'll hear as my energy gives up on existin' is the mortician statin' then time stampin' my expiration, that and the body bag zippin', family left pickin' out a coffin from the bargain bin, not worth payin' a fortune, only payin' little respect to the fallen then quickly forgotten at the drop of a pin

You're sayin' I have a purpose but I'm witnessin' me wastin' every minute of the earths rotation and never reachin' the conclusion that I was slackin', far to laxed in the preparation for a home invasion of this mental prison I'm caged in where I'm servin' a life sentence and I'm mentally and emotionally starvin' while my vision of any kind of future begins to darken

No open invitation, but that's not stoppin' my personal demon from just walkin' right in and startin' the killin' spree up once again, focusin' first on positive motivation just for existin', of course that's just my imagination, but could you imagine? A horrible vision to the average pedestrian, I know, but I still crack a grin at the thought of it happenin', the devil on my shoulder is at it again

My light fractured through a prism and some went missin' and I never got around to lookin' so no chance of gettin' it back into my possession, there's no raignin' it in, goin' from a fools errand to a search and rescue mission seemingly overnight but for what reason, just to teach me a lesson? I don't test well, I won't make it to graduation

Choices made out of desperation got me lookin' and feelin' like a felon, to survive I had to become the villain of the biography I'm narratin', this isn't livin', at best it's just barely holdin' on for dear life and weakenin', a measly attempt at survivin', forced into an intimate relation with the unforgivable, each of the sinful deadly seven

The line not to cross was paper thin, walked it like a drunk person in front of a couple corrupt police men, heathens but feelin' better than, lost control long ago, before I fell off the wagon, I ain't talkin' about drinkin', it started way back when with prescription medication, ones that were suppose to be helpin' but then used for wreckreation and that's when it began draggin' me down to an underground parkin' garage elevation

I didn't have a break down, like I said, it was a break in home invasion with the assumption there was somethin' worth takin' to begin with but everythin' inside is broken and you can see the corrosion of the foundation built on sand, makin' this temple worth nothin', even self worth is fadin'

Graspin' at the air and yet again findin' nothin', grapplin' with the notion I'm nothin', prayin' my emergency flotation device will suffice cause the water is ragin', feelin' the undertow currant strengthen in it's concentration, I think it's attackin' and there's no escapin' so I began blinkin' SOS in old fashion morse code hopin' you don't need help with the translation, if that's the case then I'm done for, why bother debatin', I'll take myself out of the equation, preparin' my soul for the comin' evacuation

You begin lyin' just to raise my spirits but I ain't buyin' into what you're sellin', counterfeit concern bein' spoken with no emotion or conviction, after the extensive evaluation I see it's no garden of Eden I'm livin' in, again, someone's been lyin', I'd be wakin' right into the den of a rabid lion shrouded in original sin, I ate the fruit knowin' full well it was forbidden, straight up poison but zero ***** were given, so this was bound to happen, the writin' was on the wall, who am I kiddin'?

You have my permission to begin the process so let's just go ahead then and get this over with so I can silence the voices within, I've eliminated every complication, layin' on the tracks at the crazy train boarding station, awaitin' the unavoidable, provin' I was correct in the assumption that this is the right time to initiate my endin', a personal Armageddon...oh, well hello, you must be that Satan guy I've been hearin' so much about from everyone preachin' directly in my ear then going out the other, it's still hard not to listen, I'm just tyin' up a loose end or two then I'm yours for the takin'

...alright, thanks for waitin', now then, let the journey to my endin' begin shall we? I'm takin' the lead on this one cause I know where we're goin' and I'm no good at followin' direction...obviously, it goes without sayin'

©2022
Nat Lipstadt May 2015
I cannot sleep, thinking:

I cannot give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical love poems.

I can give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical life poems.

In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil mix.

A voyage endless.
We too, our voyage.
Endless. End less.

Examine the crevices and ravines that
are the map of your hands.

Your voyage's log, memory storage.

Indestructible.
In the clouds's moisture,
ever recycling, it is all kept, stored.

Your hands well recall
the very first caress,
the softness of the baby skin,
the sweet of the lips,
thirty some long years after.

Dare to dispute?

The original animus,
the anima and the persona combination
the byproduct of blood and tissue,
some call spirit,
some call soul,
is matter that cannot be
destroyed,
nor created.

It only voyages on,
the conservation of mass,
our body, our enlivement,
our spark.

In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil admix.

From this natural brew, renewal.

The voyage is the resurrection
Life ever after.
Life even before.
Life for ever
lasting.

Our voyage is without destination.

Our voyage is our destination.
Our voyage is our resurrection.

Endless. Perpetual.
Eternal.

5:46 AM
written for the one who will recognize it immediately, as theirs...
Alexander S Mar 2010
I watch the candle burning
The flame flickering
Pushing my hand into its midst
I feel the curious strength of something
That doesn't quite seem to exist
Evanescing, casting shapeless silhouettes
So powerful
It deteriorates that which surrounds it
Simultaneously essential
And malevolently destructive

I like to feel the heat of the wax
Dripping on my finger tips
As I grip it tightly
Pain is only a byproduct of sensitivity
Of which we can never have
In too small a quantity
I'd rather feel the pain
Watching the beads roll down my arm
Than lose that strength
In compartmentalizing
And someday you'll find me
Not burnt, not melted, but
Dancing like a shadow on the wall
Aseh Dec 2012
You are drinking yourself red-eyed and crumpled
on an unmade bed meanwhile I
am hating the world’s promiscuity and signing
autographs that serve no alternate purpose
subsequent to their ink-blotted conceptions and silently
my heart scratches and claws and penetrates
bone, muscle, and choked fat
to get to you

How will we know
when we’re no longer
young enough
to inconsequentially
rot our bodies
from the inside
out?

If I could
I would search for a space
impenetrable
by ants molecules and medium-sized atoms
that exists between
my pale finger tips and
your freckled
bare back moving
slowly up and down

If I could
I would be somewhere where nothing
is the tarnished byproduct of anything
where no one will remind anyone not to
clog their throats or minds or eyes
when they
shiver and choke on scarlet inkblots
and chug gasoline
and wipe away dirt stains
and drink each other’s shame
and form cuts on the soles of their feet
after rushing barefoot through beds of sharp stones
to reach other
Enigma entity’s ethology entelechy as it relates to clairaudience clairvoyance
Everyone has a personal futurity fatidic or existential metaphysique
What we need is a universally acceptable form of id conclusion
Unfortunately we can’t even agree on the social stigmatisms of ego’s expression
We are relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity that succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integrateable forms
There is no functional deontology, even though its visage would seem to portend cogently fecund probity for all
We are not ethereally sublime, we are corporeally preternatural
Objective is individual; obligation to each other is not a mandate
Though many might find it inherently indispensible to some it impedes success
The depths of debauchery this debacle ensues are almost intrinsically endemic to our race
How am I going to get there becomes more important than ‘what are we fighting for’
So, if there’s no unity of purpose how do we decide who we are fighting for
Will it be good for all or lead to oligarchy and subjugation, the seemingly inescapable byproduct of capitalism, the inherent decadence of socialism
It’s times like this that make me love the constitutional fortitude of Americanism
Theoretically I have an inalienable right, hypothetically this leads to anarchy so I’m not allowed to mess with your rights
This is mandate
The republic for which we stand
Mendacious tales of unity, not merely the obstinate tenacities of I, but also the cogent fecundity in the infamous we-ness of us
indentured servant sail……..serendipity servant serenades
People come and go,
women especially,
but if you're lucky someday you'll met her,
the girl that rips your life in two,
into the time before you met her,
and the time after.

I always thought that I was immune,
impervious to that sickness known as love,
a childhood condition,
a fictitious construction,
but things don't always go your way.

We speak of love in varying degrees,
hushed tones or from the rooftop,
we often speak of fate and destiny,
soul-mates,
but if I've learned anything from life,
it's that love in this context is common.

A common love,
a common interest,
fear of dying alone,
no,
anything done out of fear isn't worth my breath,
and real love isn't born out of mutual admiration,
it isn't a byproduct of infatuation,
born of the imaginings of the human mind.

Love is often one sided,
often unexpected,
and always messy,
it takes work and conviction,
more stamina than I can muster,
more depth of field than a single lens.

Love is working until the day you die,
love is raising children,
holding their hand as they take their first steps,
love is enduring until the end,
the end that will come,
holding her as her body succumbs to disease,
choking back tears as you taste the fear in her eyes,
and following her down the rabbit hole,
the light at the end of the tunnel,
death only a beginning.

Love is an aching pain in the pit of your chest,
love is a struggle,
fighting claw and tooth for some peace of mind,
love is dramatic,
love is stupid,
love is overwrought,
love is an unspoken oath,
love is a trust hard earned,
not easily broken,
a chain tied around your throat,
reminding you to keep your composure,
and keep her close.

Love exists not for you,
it exists for her,
a bond built between two,
and the children that will someday come,
unborn promises,
aloft on gilded wing,
sail set ablaze by the human heart.

I love you girl,
the way you smile,
reflection of the sun in your eye,
the way you cry at every curve in the path,
the way you fall in and out of love at the drop of a feather,
the way you bear self inflicted scars,
the way you can't make sense of the thunderclouds in your head,
your fear of turbulent weather,
the way your body language betrays you,
a thin veneer of sunshine,
I love that you aren't perfect,
I love that we met as children,
understanding in our adolescence,
and looking forward as adults.

**** it!

I love you girl,
I love you as my best friend,
the shell of my shyness torn asunder,
I love you as a sister,
ever present,
I love you as a symbol of brighter days,
filling me with nostalgia,
I love you as a lover,
a beauty best appreciated under setting sun,
I love you as an idealistic fool,
weeping for the futility of it all,
I love you as a fellow dreamer,
believing that one day,
and perhaps given a bit of luck,
I'll love you as a wife,
forever my partner in crime.

The soul of an angel,
and the heart of a saint,
recipient of my fear,
admiration,
and hope for the future.

Hell is a place I will not go,
if only for a friend,
the friend I've found in you.

"Destiny is the bridge you build,
to the one you love.
"
A.P. Beckstead (2013) - The quote is from "My Sassy Girl (2006)"
bobby burns Feb 2013
i've always wanted to apply for CSSSA,
but i'm too scared the rejection letter
will be the future shades of senior year
when i finally hear back from the mailman
who took my essays a year ago,
all bundled up in pre-approved envelopes,
stamped, addressed, received, thrown aside.
-
but that's not for two years,
so i don't know why i'm worried.
-
i've always wanted to do something,
not make something of myself,
even though the verb is the same in
spanish, with a reflexive difference.
-
in regard to this, a wise twenty-something (contradictory)
once told me to let myself feel instead of worrying so much:
"to put it less eloquently, feelings are like ****. FEEL 'EM."
-
apparently i haven't felt in eight months.
-
so maybe in compensation,
i will apply to CSSSA,
though the deadline is the 28th,
and the assigned portfolio demands
an utter lack of procrastination--
not my strong suit, you could say,
as a month of homework is still
sleeping in my bed.
-
****, it's all due tuesday.
-
also, while walking home
i saw a norse god namesake
on a balcony-asgard, wreathed
in the byproduct of his last smoke,
and somehow, despite my inability
to feel, that just made me so sad.
-
JA Doetsch Sep 2012
They're a normal family
As normal as they can be

The father is a veteran of WWII
He runs a tight ship
but one can tell by
looking into his eyes
(the one that works)
that he loves his wife and children

The mother isn't a homemaker
because she's forced to
she actually loves the challenge
of keeping a household in order
it gives her something
to take pride in

The daughter is sweet sixteen
bright as the stars in the night sky
She wants to be a concert pianist
drawing in crowds of thousands
to listen to sweet melodic
sensations

The son is naught but an infant
slowly learning the benefit
of moving in order to get places
his eyes constantly wander
in wonder at his surroundings
innocence in its true form


They are a normal family

But they're not.

Look closely at the father

You can see the mangled remnants of his chest
Where he fell on top of a grenade
He is, indeed, a veteran of WWII.  
His name is on the large memorial in Washington D.C.
Just another young man willing to sacrifice
for something he believed in

His wife died in 1926 from complications during pregnancy
She never got to see her daughter's face
as the doctors carried her from the room
The mother's pale face and unliving eyes
staring at a nondescript hospital ceiling

The daughter's crushed skull is the byproduct
of a drunk driver who is still haunted by
the vision of teenage dreams sliced
apart by windshield glass in 1985
He drinks alone at home now

The child has a gunshot wound through his neck
a stray bullet from a gang fight that found flesh and blood,
just as the man who pulled the trigger intended it to
every time the infant giggles, one can hear the gurgle shortly after

This family exists somewhere outside our consciousness
They don't go on vacations to Disney World
You won't see them at the corner grocery store
They don't Celebrate the Holidays
They don't have
    a favorite sports team
    a favorite pair of shoes
    a favorite band
  
What they have is eachother
four random souls that found one another
lost in the ether
living their afterlife
the best they can
i am from the west coast of california and the east coast of maharastra,
from the suburban houses of tracy and the village bungalows of jandu singha, from golden gate drive and marine drive.

i am from the united states public education system and the indian caste system. i am from the land of opportunities and the byproduct of two different american dreams.

i am from places i didn't choose and places i will never completely be able to leave. i am from the coordinates tattooed on my right arm, the hills with the prettiest sunsets in the whole world, from the love of a man with rigid principles and a woman who broke all the rules. i am from a culture that says i shouldn't but a mindset that says i will.
Phil Lindsey Aug 2015
The beginning of a story
Read with me, if you desire
At dawn a huge explosion
Filled the void with fire,
Cooled and hardened into rock,
Orbits now another star,
A life sustaining prison
Caterpillars in a jar.

A thousand, thousand, thousand years,
Then a thousand, thousand more
Passed as though an eye blink
Before a creature crawled to shore.
What miracle was engineered?
Creating ocean from a fire,
Creating algae in the ocean,
And life from muck and mire?

Was the engineer benevolent?
With a careful laid out plan?
Or is the earth a failed experiment
Where the byproduct is Man?
And if Man was unintended
What results were meant to be?
Would earth have been a better place
With just oceans, land and trees?

Maybe chemical reactions,
On this random, rolling stone
Were responsible for all its life
Chemicals alone.
Astronomic odds against it,
But the odds of Heaven are high as well.
I cannot comprehend it.
That story someone else must tell.
Phil Lindsey June, 2015
I intended this to be much longer.  Maybe it will be someday.  :-)
Jeremy Betts May 2022
Everyone's dealin' with their own personal demon but I'm only ever bein' seen as a monster
Always judged accordingly, ironically by one family friendly imposter after another
Every other sinner the world over is allowed their own irrational feelings to be front and center
For them love is always the answer to offer, reassuring they need look no further
But I gotta "**** it up" and "move on" from this gutter faster which I take as to make sure my 50 caliber finisher is fully loaded with one in the chamber
And if the **** thing doesn't misfire on the first pull of this here trigger I figure I'll be a single bullet Russian roulette winner hero figure or would that make me a loser?
Am I an incurable cancer? I think I know the answer but I'm not sure and I'm sure not a doctor
However, it's only a matter of time before everything I touch turns into a disaster
Could it be that I'm just a carrier? An infectious delivery driver with t-rex arms making steering clear that much harder
What is pretty ******' clear is my presence here makes no one's life better, just spoiling the atmosphere, so I back pedal out of the picture
Then you label me a quitter the moment you notice I'm no longer there to be your *******
I guess I'll take that title if it'll make it easier or help you to feel better about what went down here, just please don't allow yourself to stay bitter forever
But rather allow time to erase my lingering stench of failure from the air altogether
It's only fair that I make way for you and anyone here to enjoy life without the fear of me being anywhere near
Your bright future wasn't mine to take and alter so I'll round up every bit of pain I caused that made your heart heavier and your life harder than it needed to be ever
Then take it with me to be a sacrificial offer next to me on the alter like a lamb to slaughter
Tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of your forever with no black cloud loomin' over

I gotta ask...

Who do I apologize to once the deed is done and I pull out of the race, refusing to run
Instead, turning the starting gun on myself to become a ghostly astral projection
It should be everyone but it'll be close to no one due to a punctured lung and crushed windpipe from being hung from inside the hole I dug starting back when I was young
No human being person type thing had a single **** to spare, not a one
Wouldn't even let a rerun apology or empty sympathy roll off the tongue, and forget empathy, ain't capable of none
Couldn't hear or didn't care before I was gone so I'm a shoe in to continue on holdin' the same position I've been in from my beginnin', now doesn't that sound like fun?
I've gone and done the forbidden so any opinion of me will only worsen as they lose sight of who I was as a person
Forgettin' my mind was a maximum security prison, the only way out presentin' itself to me was a coffin
But you're only focusin' solely on one particular fraction of an action
Ignorin' why that particular path was even taken in the first place, don't be mistaken, it wasn't a knee **** reaction
A quick observation and the pain would have been plain as the nose on your face but I caught no eyes lookin'
Just heads turnin' away the exact moment I notice 'em watchin'
Silently each formed their own conclusion and brought with 'em some ******* opinion from their twisted vision of me, all to feed the illusion
The one that claims I took the easy way out without explorin' any other option
You say you know me, you call me friend but have proven not to be in the end
But by all means, go ahead and continue to pretend you're the better person

How could you have known...

First of all, exhaustion was half the reason I was even in that head space
I could only envision this exact endin' ever takin' place as I fell from grace
I gave up tryin' to replace the dark with light cause try as I might it was all in vain, and in my haste I didn't notice the byproduct of a chronic toxic waste
Every attempt to place one foot in front of the other was riddled with set backs and laced with failure and I could never seem to rid myself of the foul taste of my own biohazard base
I'll be just another cold case with more than a trace of evidence but the answers in the proof aren't important enough to chase, never the time nor the place
Given up on before I even started the race so no warm embrace at the finish, no congratulatory smile from a familiar face
No one there to return my dinghy smile that's held in place with cheap elementary school Elmers glue paste
Why was the tare down so quick to take place with hardly an ounce of effort but the rebuild progressed at a snails pace?
There were many who watched all this take place in real time but avoided eye contact whenever face to face and I'm convinced that would have continued to be the case
I know I'm a disgrace now but wasn't until now so what excuses are you going to pull from your briefcase of two face ******* and put in place explaining why you turned your back on me in the first place, back at my birthplace?

Surprise surprise...

...a silence washes over the crowd. What happened to how proud you were with your intentionally loud gossip predicting what round I'd go down?
Were you only joshin'? Just clownin' around? Didn't think you could ever or would never be bound to something so profound?
Well here we are, you called it, the words bound freely from your mouth but now that things have gone south you're no longer able to enjoy the sound so you just turn it down
Or were you one of those hanging around saying I'd never do it but if you ever bothered to look into it you'd find the proof of the opposite truth can be found
But no, it's gotta be that I'm just desperate for all the attention it would bring to my part of town
Whatever, doesn't matter now, you could have never comprehended the reason why while shooting for cloud nine I got stuck six clouds down and wasn't able to post up for a rebound
It's only understood by people who've had the same problem with ups and downs and picking themselves up to finish the round after being so down and out that sea level was seen as higher ground
I know the way my last act went down is frowned upon and the deformation process was bound to take place once I was no longer part of the crowd
But look, you want to know why I choked down a handful of pill bottles for my second time 'round?
My problems were gaining on me quickly, I was steadily losing ground
They had to be drowned or at the very least inhumanely put down
I was no longer fun to be around, a bad joke turned evil clown
My darkness broke free from the compound where it was bound
And now wherever you see me it too can be found
Every day a new battleground
Every sundown a new showdown
A new possibility to possibly be hellbound
Just please set me gently when you put me down
And I'll try to do the same when I let you down.

©2022
M Solav Jul 2019
I am a beat, I am a clock,
I am a rhythm of some sort;
I’m a carrier on a mission;
The byproduct of an invention;
A battery that is being charged
And depleted low and large.

I am a ball, I am a cell,
I am the will of higher selves;
I’m a layer of the kernel,
Flying on seat "57L";
I’m a letter that was sent to mail,
Set outbound when rings the bell.

I am a curve, I am twirl,
I am sustained motion still unfurled;
I’m necessity in the system;
Of absorption I am the emblem;
I’m a branch of fractal downward;
Of struggles past I ain't no award.

I am a beast, I am a fork,
I am a breach through inert soil;
I’m a head of the hydra snake;
Consolation in all of mistakes;
I’m the blood of the wounded,
The brain of memories faded.

I am a blink, I am a cause,
I am the storm after the pause;
I’m the pity for the angered;
Whose duties have been tempered.
I'm the eye that's about to drool
And the tooth that's bound to fool.

I am silver when I am gold,
Yes I am pale when I grow bold,
Like an etching on a clean surface
I'll be sanded just to be varnished;
I'm the most certain of prediction,
Foreseeable beyond provision.

I am ludicrous, I am lukewarm,
I am commitment amidst cold wars;
I’m the frontier around the form
And the earth that drowns the worm;
Of victory I am some defeat,
Accomplishment left incomplete.

I am a meter, I am a yard,
I am pain that causes no harm;
I'm the scepter of the peasant,
The suffering in the pleasant;
I'm everything that's ever been said,
All that's forgotten once it's been read.

I am a sin, yes I am sought,
I am a child yet to be mourned;
I’m resistance to the inevitable,
Recurrence of the unstable;
I’m the distance of departures,
The first minutes of final hours.

I am a beat, I am a clock,
I am a rhythm of some sort;
I’m a carrier on a mission,
The byproduct of an invention;
A battery that is being charged
And depleted low and large.
Written in June 2019 - on a plane.
Edited in January 2021.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
www.msolav.com

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact [email protected] for usage requests. Thank you.
__________
September Nov 2012
You are the child of
Wine and the Giza Pyramids—
Slanted intoxication.

You are the sibling of
Your grand;
Golden as he sings melodies
made of cheap whiskey.

You are the uncle of
The reborn generation,
"I accept everyone except those who do not,"
They said.
Pretentious, yes.

But worry not, for
This is not a talk show
You are not sitting in a plush chair,
An audience at your eyes.
You are not the father.
You are only the production. You are not the maker.
Jenny Jan 2014
"**** the *******!", they said.
Okay, but let me at least take you to dinner first.

___________________­

Now wait just one second.

This skin you're in - it's mine, is it not?
I am fairly certain that these sighs belong to me, that this warmth is a byproduct of my night terrors.
Now just who told you that you could wear my skin?

Hey! Hello! You There, With The Eyes!
I am not something to be pulled off a floor and draped haphazardly across such a treacherous clavicle!

(Well, I mean, as a general rule. There was that one time.)

As I Was Saying!
It look me a lot of time to get stretched this thin, okay? What makes you think you can just crawl headfirst into my own exquisite casing? I know you're under there, you sneak. My own personal ringworm. Let's ring around those rosy cheeks of yours, exhausted by my less natural coloring. Clap your hands, why don't ya? Distract yourself with a melody and I'll come up for air to finish off that last verse.

MY hair sticks up more on the left side. MY forearms are prone to alien speed-bumps. MY very own flesh (and blood!) smells faintly of orange peels. Got it?

Listen closely, you.
Not only are you not welcome here -
You may not be excused.
Mellow Ds Feb 2011
I'm centralized ******* the eyes behind your face.
Your envy shines through your scars and lies fill your space.
The spot where you once stood is now occupied only by shadow;
Shattered shell, now simply useless, when you used to be fallow.
Speaking haunted words to impress, when they simply aren't your best,
Writing a  metaphorical mess to disguise the blood in your chest.
Rationalizing rage to reiterate your immunity to emotion,
When in truth, your feelings shroud you, like the earth consumed in ocean.
You've exhausted all your time preparing shipmates to drop bombs,
When you should have just put on a red shirt so they would remain calm.
Your day's gone, along with the girl you used to lay on, it's the
Same song, except the ******* sound engineer kept the delay on.
Your gears are running into each other and eroding off slowly,
Until the day your seconds stop ticking and prove that your lowly
Life can only be changed with a changed outlook on your self-worth.
When you let go of someone who never existed, you'll experience rebirth.

Masochism is enveloping you, sadism a byproduct,
Like the desperate excuses you force out of your itching tear ducts.
Gears stuck on 7, the motor's about to blow out.
Don't think now that this person you know is on the holdout.
It's so loud, the screaming amplified by your written words,
And though it hurts, you're coveting that which you don't deserve:
Quit creating your own mirages by expecting to find an oasis.
Until you realize there's only desert, you'll wither away and remain faceless.

Deception is a clever trick, but you're not so great of an actor
(Ironically enough), you have become your own detractor.
Eat fungus to reach the stars, when they're burning lightyears away and
All you're feeling is the warmth of your dopamine receptors at play.
Lying selfishly, forgetting how distinguished you once were,
Not only pushing your love away, but losing objective worth.
Letting a gorgeous figure become a disguise for broken homes.
With shattered moans, you drug-induce tattered bones.
The sadness grows, but only to those who see the truth:
Your admittance is a sign of the desperation leaking through.
A child wrapped in the body of some apathetic youth,
Not yet strong enough to turn away from the peeking moon
Instead of howling loudly, in sheer exhaustion and confusion.
You see, your image of me, like the oasis, is an illusion!
We've switched sides of the coin, you became what you hated.
But, from where did all your anger come? I thought emotions were overrated.

Human weakness is enveloping you, bitterness a byproduct,
Like the desperate excuses you force out of your itching tear ducts.
Fear stuck on max volume, the speaker's about to blow out.
Don't think now that this person you know is on the holdout.
It's so loud, the envy behind your spoken words,
And for what it's worth, you're insulting who once made you bless your birth.
Quit creating your own mirages by expecting to find an oasis.
Until you realize there's only sand left, you'll die thirsty and remain faceless.
(c) Ryan Bowdish 2010-2011

— The End —