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Dan Filcek Apr 2015
consciousness conceived as complex matrices
patterns contained within patterns.
magnetic anomaly brainwave synchronization
unrecognized vortex activity locations.
correlation amplification phenomena resonance.
measurable parameter brain wave activity
highly sensitive field fluctuations.
transducer low frequency geomagnetic pulsations
electromagnetic patterns: their associated chemical changes.
Weak intensity complex magnetic fields
generated earth hum technology affect
flux-gate sample collapsing fields
amplifier filter stages couples into analog digital converter.
experiments correlating local geophysical anomalies
earth's magnetic field changes consciousness.
single electromagnetic coupling mechanism
including spin-mediated neurons.
upsurge solar activity alters brain rhythms, hormonal levels
healing nature mystic experiences
anomalous cognition ******-physical phenomena.
internal model reality - subjective consciousness
addition computational capacity
existential status may need exotic physics
quantum entanglement and new forms of physical interaction
magnetic sensory cells induced meditative states
direct correlation shifts magnetic flux.
No active effort required.
Magnetic mineral aligned crystal chains
embedded biological membranes.
atomic sublattices of ferrimagnetic material
plausible theoretical mechanisms
mechanosensitive membrane ion gates
specific synergetic properties for transduction.
cuboctahedral morphology properties
jitterbugging vector equilibrium matrix basis tensegrity.
basic geometrical biological building blocks.
mystical red rock temples
Tracing disjunctive dislocations
Mother Earth speaks
Questions remain.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source - https://jcer.com/index.php/jcj/article/viewFile/318/343 - The Sedona Effect
GfS Jun 2015
I was like every other scientist
for love to me was just
a neural reaction to a certain
stimulus presented to an individual,
just a hormonal response of a person
to a certain situation laid out to them
Like a configuration of ****** muscle
tissue of one results to an increase
of serotonin, dopamine, and for some,
oxytocin of another
At times, one would affiliate this
****** muscle configuration
to that of pentahydroxyhexanal (sugar)
and that was discombobulating

I could not understand how
a smile becomes sweet

and yet at that moment
when I saw you smile
I immediately understood
that science
science cannot explain this

This feeling I have when I see you
Dolores L Day May 2014
"Let's rob a ******' bank."
we agreed.
"Let's rob a ******' bank!"
indeed.

You know that's against my rules
But the thought of doing it with you makes it acceptable.

**** these feelings.
**** that dream.

We didn't rob a ******* bank
but we danced
and you whispered
and I shivered
then woke up.

The brush of lips replay in my head
over
and over
and over
again.

Why do I fall for my friends?
I fall so hard yet in the end
I get nothing in return
but the weight of gravity
and the floor of reality
showing it was all pretend.

I know there's nothing wrong with me.
You just don't feel that way.
... maybe you do-
Maybe I'm just not cool
enough.

But I'd rob a bank with you.
When you dream of your friends.
Descovia Aug 2019
The immensity of any mountain

Holds me to no consternation.

I will continue to climb

Until I reach the pinnacle!

You make me feel invincible

Vedo la pace quando ti guardo.
( I see peace when I look at you. )

Credo nella tua pace per portare miracoli
(I believe in your peace, to bring miracles.)


Fatherhood

Questionable paths of multidimensional natures. Brought me lucid signs from the heavens, chaos,  and deciphered codes, perplexing mysteries to human eyes! To this new ray of light contained in this "life". Known as "Isaiah".

Beyond any amount of roaming doubts, I have spiritually reclaimed these portions of myself! Learning more from the acts and encounters with these  ritualistic, rhythmic, mesmerizing, colorful...mindless illusions called "DREAMS"

For being a "father."  To very this day

I must say,  I am on a wave. Floating with just the "gist" of things!

Barely, gaining an actual understanding

From the great 13 "the ways" of what it actually means.

My son as of now. You have 7 years in this lifetime on earth until your birthday returns!  11/27/15  I remain faithful in my beliefs, you will grow stronger than me and change something about this world!  For the details are covered in mind fog of my shadows following me, but it will be revealed to the light as movement flows with everything. Time will continue to conspire against us. You will find a way. To be our salvation. I am proud to be your father. I believe in you ISAIAH.

I S A I A H
Inspiring
Selfless
Ambitious
Inventive
Admirable
Healer

Nobody­ can prepare enough for a versatile role such as this.

The position as a mother.
The position as a father.


In the 9 months of her pregnancy I've doubted myself. Lost myself. Broke myself. Built and redesigned my "most-needed-self"  in functions through activities while in this phase of a "verbally-projecting insecurities." There were multiple factors that drove me on edge.

Not only the hormonal twists and turns spare me no justice. The weather always affected my cravings, for outrageous foods along with my mood.

I have had my highs and lows, solo-soaring in my head. This emotionally, over charged flight, ascending all from below to go above extreme heights!
Obviously, there is more to this!  Remaining as one of the central caretakers,  emotional support guide, or an active disciplinarian.  (When it comes for it...)  

If you don't have any love for yourself on any level.
If you don't value yourself like you should.
If you FEAR sacrifice.

Then surely, this is not the sport for you!

Love! Appreciate! Honor! Value! Believe! BELIEVE!  BELIEVE in our children of the FUTURE! Fatherhood have been teaching as well as providing insightful concepts equipped with understanding the depth our child's needs, knowledge and passion. Do not turn your head away at the chance to learn, while you are given a lesson on a daily, to grow with your loved ones while they mature into a man or woman because they will not forever remain as a baby.

Shouting it to the winds. Let the skies, immortalize my voice until the clouds fade!

Climbing mountains, moving mountains and triumph over the impossible continuously! For you without any constellation. You are the exact reason of how and why I feel that NOTHING limits me!

You are my sword and my enhanced armor of confidence!
No demon or obstacle limits me with fear.
I'll stand by your side right or wrong.

YOUR love, keeps me to stand and stay strong!
What does it mean to be a father???

The root of meaning...

Goes deeper than what I can summarize
To you mindfully or consciously...

For  I am still learning....
from you all....
#Italian
#AfricanAmericanCulture
#Lovewriting
Rockie May 2015
Get over it.
You're being hormonal.
Excuse me? *Hormonal?

It's not just being hormonal.
It's called being misunderstood
Pretty much the entirety of the time.
Stop it!
Don't talk back at me.

I'm just explaining my point.
You adults do it all the time!
I've had enough.
Go to your room.

Fine!
There is beneath us the progenitor and we call it “Mother”. Above us is the progenitor and we call it “Net” for it takes us and tosses us into the known and the unknown.

Our home star is not as bright as yours. We prefer your temperate lands when we visit, where the vegetation is lush and green. Those of us who remain inhabit your deserts and open spaces.

We are your brothers and sisters. Our development has been to grow in awareness and the development of our power. You have the potential to develop as we have, but your instincts are of a social group who need dominant members. You develop your material reality and your physical world. Your anchor is fixed and you grip the familiar and reject the unknown. There is a comfortable point where you feel the fullness, that is the anchor. In order to maintain this as a static point you develop belief systems to support it. This is your weakness, you are innocent children.

We grew and developed along another pathway, our anchor is not  rigid. We use Net for our anchor and so are able to change our perceptual reality. We move in ways that you do not understand and in any direction. We draw the fibers of Net around us and jump and fly. You see us only from your anchor point so that you see us change shape, appear and disappear.

Our voices and languages are barely accessible to you. You hear deep sounds and high pitched chirruping and whistling. Very few among you have remnants of language incorporating any of these. Those remaining are as clicks and whistles. We prefer direct communication.

We are masters of illusion. Our survival has depended on it and it is our instinct.
Our power developed so that when we pull around us the fibers of Net we create a shield and throw an illusion before those who depend on vision. It is one of our protections and also our hunting technique. We are hidden from your material probes and instruments of increased sight in this way.

Although we have been close neighbours for aeons, you have hardly seen us, except for the Few. Your interpretations have created problems for you. Your reliance on the anchor is so great that some among you do go to great lengths to maintain it. There are those among you who will silence the Few rather than lose the fixed anchor.

You are infants only, a seeding coming to fruition, and you play with dangerous toys. Your anchor is geocentric. You are in danger as is any youngster who plays with fire. If we showed you ourselves openly your rulers would not be gentle in their curiosity. We have technology and use material tools but we have had less to restrict us. We held back your development as much as we were able to enable you to develop power of the mind and independent thought.

Your grasp of Net is strong but you are rigid and anchored. You have learned to stand up and hold on. Now is the time to let go and walk, let go and run, let go and fly.

Around what you name “body” and believe to be “All” is more that you do not perceive with your restricted vision sense. You are aware of this. If you will learn acceptance and filter less from your senses, you will find the beauty of the universe of energy around you and available. A small perceptual shift would show you how you appear to those of us outside your narrow sphere.

Your body has filaments, which when translated to sight, appear as small moving threads which shine with rainbows. They move and ripple inside an energy body of light. This is your true body. It has abilities and senses that are dormant as you do not access them. They are accessible but as your anchor renders you blind to this you do not use them without intense effort or instinctively in extremity. The filaments are drawn together and pass through the anchor. Depending upon your ability to select filaments of the Net, your habitual plane and reality is selected and determined.
Those among you with abilities in your energy senses you ostracise and even ******. You succumb to misinformation to treat them as fools or freaks. This may be instinctive but it is a control mechanism to perpetuate the anchor and maintain the hive of your artificial society. So due to this, you have even less sense of true reality as it could be to you, by breeding out and suppressing your gifts. We have attempted to rectify this with limited effect in successive seedings.

You may notice that our words to you have reference to sight. Your terminology is geared to vision. You rely on visual information  so much that you have neglected physical senses of taste and smell, hearing, touch and proximity. Compared with our perceptions you are as blind as a mole is compared to to your visual abilities.

Your construction of reality is so anchored that your dangerous inclination to gather around you artifacts gives to you a sense of permanence. You are anchoring yourselves in time, yet to you it is dead because your senses are dead. There is an opportunity for your predators to use this to enforce your perception of, and control you within, your anchor's limitations. In this way, producing written or pictorial and symbolic records in permanent form is beneficial only so far as understanding continues to exist of the conditions under which these records were left. By changing current understanding and language to suit their purposes, your enforcers are able to manipulate your branch of humanity on a large scale.

You seal yourselves into the rejuvenation plane of the Mother progenitor where you feed and breed. It is so pleasurable to you to stay within this cocoon of reality that you fail to open your cast and therefore fail to fly into the spaces of Net outside where your true inheritance lies. The end result of this is greed and unrest. Your greed is paramount to you as you seek ever more pleasurable gratification. You enslave one another, buy and sell time and forget what you are. You are allowing the destruction of your home world. Without the home world you will have no place of rejuvenation, and worse neither will the myriads of others who share this progenitor.

There is a song from each mother progenitor within Net. It is a combined song and made up of the host progenitor together with silent voices of each and every life form. Together from each home world, the inhabitants send out a pulse. This is not a song from one species of a world but rather it is a song from all species, in fact every particle of every organism that lives.

To our developed senses the song of a world is brighter than the star it orbits. They are filaments of Net. The varied forms of life all send out their unique song. Many of us interact, harmonise, visit, commune and combine. You feel isolation only because you fail to harmonise and join your own song.

In your past and present we have felt the song of your world. Those of us belonging are part of that song. It is the song of being from the many. It does not end at the perimeters which you imagine. You have a problem in that, for the majority, you do not join your voices to the song. Mainly it is in dreaming, in childhood and in old age that we hear you.

We attempted to observe and commune and found many of you receptive to us. We have taught to you methods of development and given you gifts and tools. You have kept and preserved some of this knowledge only for a select few. Fears and distrust among others has caused destruction of a great proportion of the gifts that we have given to you. We found many lines of breeding where potential for development was possible. Your greed and your predator class destroyed many of them due to the competitive desire to have power over others.

In past seedings upon your progenitor and in the oldest times of your present incarnation, we have been known well and respected. Acknowledged for our seniority and loved as cousins. You did call us gods to distinguish our abilities. Then what did you do? Your control mechanisms changed the meanings of your language, whole languages were lost in wars over territory. You developed power structures and religions. Powerful rulers accumulated and isolated your shared knowledge.

You reduced your development by selective education in the Way. Territorial disputes and greed over resources divided you. You ceased to listen to the Mother. Instead of harmonious living which you had managed in agreement with each other already, you were divided by hormonal impulses, insecurity, violence and greed. The natural openness of the female within it's central domain became enclosed, imprisoned and the natural desire of the male to outwardly discover and interact was turned inwards until it became a sedentary desire for dominance within the female domain. You lost the harmonics of the song. Your religions underestimate the power of borrowed tools. Your ruling classes made deals that they didn't understand, with predators they didn't recognise, in order to save themselves.

We stood on ground over ground and were called Immortals. We gave you wisdom and were called Kings. We moved and played among you and were called Jinn. We moved among the small folk and were called Faerie. We appeared in light and were called Angels. We wandered in places where you too did once wander and were called Ghosts and Demons. Those who spoke to us and attempted to impart to your hive our knowledge, you raised as prophets or slandered and ridiculed. You stole their words to make them your own words of power, changing them to your own ends or you murdered the messengers because you feared the changes that increased understanding brings.

You incorporated the experiences of your murdered victims into a celebration of your own power structures, twisted and out of synchronisation with the song. There are some among you who are in communion with the Great Spirit of life. We seek to heal your song, your complete home world song for the benefit of the myriad sentient beings who rejuvenate here, including yourselves. We seek to set you free to wander the threads of Net. It is within your reach but not in the ways that you  are taught.

Your world is about to change and you must change with it as you are a small part of it. Holding the threads into your own anchor point will break them. You have reached inertia, entropy. The movement has to come, it is inevitable. Imagine one of your large machines of cogs and wheels and bars. Your insistence upon a rigid anchor is like a bar within the machine that doesn't move. A point of inertia in a moving system will be removed. This has happened over and over among your kind and our kind in many places and worlds. You do not remember when worlds underwent cataclysm, forgetful of trauma you have followed a similar path.

We travel along pathways of energy, both upon worlds and in the Net. Moving bodies follow these paths. We follow comets and small bodies able to move freely within Net. Net permeates your mother progenitor.

Survivors mapped the movements of Net after the slate was wiped clean and you were reseeded. There is a secret that your rulers are aware of and you are not. The secret is that there are no rulers within Net. You all have the freedom and capability to access true harmony of the song. You allow a faction, to call themselves an elite class. You fear this as a hidden power, a predator. It's aim is to amass Time: a power based on material wealth. They take this power easily as they have taken and twisted truth and history. The gifts are shared among you equally and these few know this. Resources are plentiful and yet you succumb to their restrictions. A predator cannot survive without it's prey. We are not your predators although we move among you. Your predator is within and feeds upon your fear.

You are not in the tribes now, you have no shaman, no guide to take you in and out of the gate and this role cannot be allocated to parasitic Blind Time Hoarders. These whip up your passions and lead you into war and destruction to further their material wealth. It leads you away from the song, as these think to enhance their own survival which it may do but never can as they understand it. They seek to steal your dreams and make them their own, they are helpless without you. They care nothing for the song because they are aware of successive seedings.

Net is a dream reality, changing, immeasurable, boundless, filled with infinite possibilities and you are creators. Blind time hoarders drive you by combining the minds and dreams and belief systems of many to focus onto what they themselves desire, in order to bring it to fruition. They employ dream stealers to prevent your development. They believe that their own song can exist independently and they guide you only to anchor yourselves into your own prison.

All is a dream, all is ephemeral, changing, dynamic. There is no death after death, no damnation on any particular plane. Reality is how you construct your song. Your rulers create inertia for you the many and profit for themselves using you as the tools of your own entrapment. There is no death and no damnation, they are constructs of your reality made by material anchor points and you are controlled by fear of the inevitable. It is a statecraft to use belief systems to control perceptions of reality in order to fix the anchor point to a rigid point of convenience. In this way you are farmed, you are a crop in each seeding. Who seeds you? You seed yourselves. Sentient beings are all naturally regenerated by the mechanisms of Net when conditions exist that are compatible, world after world, in each growth cycle of every celestial body. In the regeneration, holding to your rigid anchor point, you seed into your prison after each cataclysm, each breaking of the inertia.

If you would be open to the mechanisms of the place you inhabit with it's creative forces, it's sentience and it's dynamics you will learn to fly the progenitor Net's pathways and return home for rejuvenation to your progenitor Mother of the tribes.
I wrote this a few years ago. It's a bit long
Pea Feb 2015
Sweaty face bright purple and greasy
I used to hide my body between the pages
But he told me to not read any more

Itchy head heated enough to make tea
My eyes are now how the trees say my name
My eyes are now the leeches I put in empty tampons

Sweaty neck I only want some traces of lips
Sweaty palms I only want some other fingers
Sweaty thighs I only want to walk well

******* sad wrapped in plastic
Cranky child trapped in old wrinkling skin
It may well be irrational excuses

Womb nervous and not worthy
Cerebral excuses, hormonal excuses
Highly sensitive person excuses

Delayed maturity excuses
Premenstrual syndrome excuses
Premature menopause excuses

Abusive motherhood at 5
Traumatic childhood at 18
What happens in between stays in between
Josie Patterson Jan 2014
Honey I shrunk the women
I shrunk the confidence
I shrunk the spirit
I shrunk the waist size
I slink away with my gains
Things I gained from the physical and spiritual loss of our women
with each plate a terror
each bite a struggle
And each drink a small respite from the hell that is consumption
More than 50% of our society feeling afraid at the table
Do not dare to eat anything bigger than your fist
Your stomach will not hold it
You’ve trained it to hate food as much as you do
As we enter the throws of adolescence
And our ******* grow
and our thighs swell
Filling the space around us with anatomical care
It appears as though our body is trying to hide parts of itself
Covering up the sharp edges
So we don’t cut ourselves
But that doesn’t stop us
We struggle for decades, Years
Because though a minute on the lips
Is forever on the hips
These negative body images we teach girls to strive for
Last longer than forever
and are much worse than a bite of food
abstaining from the simple sensory joy
that comes with a piece of chocolate
Or a plate of fettuccini
simply because if you did
“No one would want to see me”
But when I look at a plate of food
I do not see a challenge
I am lucky
I see potatoes stuffed with a healthy body image
Noodles topped with good self esteem
And broccoli steamed in my confidence
I am a minority
Because when most girls look at a plate of food
Even subconsciously they see
Salad with a dressing made of clothes that don’t fit
chicken with ******* that are much too large
And Macaroni n’ oh please Let my stretch marks disappear
Before I have to go to the pool
I feel an ache in my chest
But my pain derived from empathy
Is nothing
Nothing
Compared to the aching stomachs, sunken eyes
and sharp cheekbones
Of the victims of our worlds view of women
We are taught to be
Curvy, But not fat
Skinny, But not anorexic
Entertaining, but not over-emotional
unattainably perfect, but not fake
and our whole world is becoming one big contradiction
One plate of food
One advertisement
one beauty product
One girl
At a time
And we can try to place blame
We do try to place blame
We try to blame men
Or the government
Or the media
Because in the end they all had a part to play
But this took centuries of existing in our society
Millennia of festering patriarchy
Largely male dominated history
The dehumanization of the female
Springing from the hyper-sexualization of her body
The largely stigmatized natural functions of the menstrual cycle
The somehow simultaneously glorified and yet also disgusting ******
The lack of female leaders in our world because they will either be painted as a *****
Over emotional
Hormonal
Distractingly attractive
Or not **** enough to be in the public eye
And the process of women shrinking to allow men more room to grow
Olivia Kent Aug 2014
Feeling a little hormonal?
If your blood sugars run out of sync,
See Dr Jimmy C,
He’ll have a good think.
Maybe,
You’re maybe feeling rather chubby,
Dr C may diagnose,
An issue that could be right in front of your nose.
He’ll request a check of your bloods,
He will send you to see the vampires,
To check if your thyroid is playing games.
Perhaps you’re just a little hairy,
Spoils your pretty face sweet Mary.
Dr C.
He may be able,
To sort you out and keep you stable.
© Livvi
One of the medics I work for asked me to do a poem for him as a present as I leave my job for pastures new, next week. This was the result of his request!
Coop Lee Apr 2014
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                                                        @  ­          @
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                                         ­       @                            @
                                 ­           @     @     @     @     @     @

                america, americultus, americate, dubiously *******.
::: our gold-flecked bodies.
blackbirdian danceparty, i'll go.
washed-up beach bottles and all our feet amongst them curling time.
teens dream in orchid; they wait for stars and dark and los hombres of good dust.
they wait on eyes, and on embers, on belly belly.
jellyfish flashlight shrine.
we eat acid and strawberries and butter in the cemetery,
and feed foxes lizards face first :::
                us lost ghouls on school-nights.

                flash tag jazz, and yellow bicycles.
::: that hot eternal light.
that candy colored smoke don't smoke; go south on her body.
then thoughts form thoughts form action, form twangs all tuned to air.
& we, as notes, we notes harp like light
to dust.
our glistering hormonal thrusts beneath sheath of liquid love. her eyes,
with those multi-speckled strands
infinitesimally drunk :::
                seed from my ****.

                pearled halo: smoke above my head.
::: waves and machines and weekends. filtered by the long ****
of existence.
boys wait in rooms of hotels for more drugs, and the girls bringing them.
like caterpillars on silky thin treadways,
with nothing but the flavor of our passions to ignite the way. we
exacerbate the boundaries of our intentions. we
curl under sheets, bending sheets of light and sound. we
flakey emaciated flakes. [sequence suffered time in motion] we
                dirt. it’s what we are; dirt.

                we are druggernauts, tasting ourselves along the iridescent brim.
::: we crawl up cross-glowing hillsides toward portals and faraway
bleep-blorps of hot god-head calibration.
we sticky-crackle go burn. [nature puzzles]
the brain shifts back; twenty-one grams they say the soul weighs.
they say things.
cherry blossom tree tips in the dark.
tele-portal surfing with an intergalactic pizza priest, and his satchel of secret sauce.
he heaves in the corner; rebirth :::
                tendrils pulled tight, everybody **** chung…
previously published in the Whole Beast Rag
http://www.wholebeastrag.org/othello-wolf/
Matthew Goff Nov 2016
Pink walls outline the hormonal oceans
To peel back the secrets of wet
flesh against swimming pool corners
through waves of swelling libido
that crack the senses against the reefs of water-love
--
invitations on the silk sheets of evening
anxious to fold itself into letters of perfumed language
which absorb the night of its juices
leaving an imagination soaking wet

© Matthew Goff
LD Goodwin May 2016
{Act One-Darkness}
<>
There are no stars tonight,
only the cold lifeless dark.
No hearts on fire,
nor passion plays.
Only the faerie dance of fire flies,
and the myth of love.

{Act Two-Searching}
<>
Are we just bags of hormones
either fortunately or unfortunately
imbued with the chemicals of life?
Will there be a day that we will be singled out
for our levels of hormones?
Will a new prejudice arise?
Oh... she's 68.3% hormonal,
he's 97% hormoneless.....
Will there be hormone police,
checking your levels before you buy a gun,
or have a baby,
or get married?
(I should have reversed the order of those lines.)
Are we just bags of hormones?
Can we blame the lack of, or the abundance of,
the chemistry in our bodies,
infecting the knee **** reactions of our power hungry egos?
Menopausal, testosteroned, endorphined, dopamined,
all influencing the limbic system.
Soon, very soon a storm is coming.
A storm complete with tattooed bar codes
describing our perspective hormonal levels.
In the year 2025,
separated by island walls.  
Are we just bags of hormones?

{Act Three-Light}
<>
You can't love me,
you don't love yourself.
If and until you completely love yourself,
you can not completely love another.
The level of love that you have for me,
can only be the level of love for yourself.
You can't love me
........not yet.
Josh Cooper Oct 2017
Her depression is a whisper: 'You aint good enough Beckie'

Its a look in the mirror, 'n' all she sees is nature's worst mistake

So she's found caged from time-travelling to her greener planets

Coz her depression is an album of torn pictures of Cupid's ******

Wakes up one morning 'n'  just bundles herself in the corner

Its a feeling of a cold liquid trail on her cheeks 'Oh, i am crying', for no reason

Its her untraveled lonesome whisper that kisses her apart

And she gets to hear the clock tick and lazily sing on the wall;

...sings of the goodbyes she said without reasons at all...

So sometimes she just wants to pull her heart outta her rib cage and...

throw it away simply coz she can do without it

Coz her depression is a silent hormonal war
naxiai Nov 2019
hormonal surges
make me, force me, pain me -
they hold me by the back of my head
and spit nasty words at me
but all of that is routine.

the worst thing of all is -
they remind me
of how much i need you
they sneer at me
for crying when i have to sleep alone
they laugh at me
when i want to hear your voice just once
they yell at me
when i search for your scent on one of my old t-shirts

hormonal surges
bleeding from between my legs -
all of that is routine.
but how deeply i miss you -
that is something that makes me hang my
head in shame.
Morrison Leary Jan 2017
Upon every arrival of every celestial birth,
There is only one common normality.
A susceptibility to an infinitesimal design,
A kink in the chain, the war of our mind.
This psychosomatic condition is no stranger,
A rendition of life’s existence.
Confinement exacerbated by poor health in the gut line,
Hormonal imbalances manipulated by addictive influences.
Paradigms shifting in front of awakening eyes,
Psychedelic truths hidden within the tides of time,
Confusion and conflict preventing expansion of evolutionary consciousness,
A cyclic pattern, the sadness in all our lives.
This idea is immortal and internal in the human genome,
The greatest subterfuge,
Amnesia
Psychedelics are a key to a doorway that opens up endless possibilities.
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
   to the seminal instance
   whence spermatozoa
   (from profuse *******) beget

the miraculous propensity
   to procreate despite the steep odds
   female fertility fosters potential impregnation
   fusing the hereditary debt

of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
   fueling fancy free footloose fornication
   prior to seminal fertilization union
   sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with

   diametrically opposed exultant sensations
   (biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
   et cetera) seismic shocks inject  
when deliberate intent arises to disregard

   applying prophylactics choice
   plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
   bastes the "cooking" egg omelette  

which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
   first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
   of webbed world de jure upon
   consummating that most miraculous deed

necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
   from messy menstrual cycle
   she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
   in the euphoric family, she instinctually
   abides prenatal signals that heed

without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
   pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
   ineluctably, kinesthetically
   lectured by elder, especially cast

in thee reel life drama, that nine months
   til offspring utters initial whimper
   elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing

   to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
   when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably

   (perhaps colicky infant)
   gets first dibs to suckle,
   which round the clock nursing
   consumes moments many vast.
Hands Sep 2012
"I love you."
My fingers froze:
dark eyes on a list
as long nails clacked
on gray keys which
stuck with age and use.
I dreamed of love,
sweet hordes of
doves escorting me
to my desire of
love, love, love.
Such dreaming flags
floated in my mind,
wishing to be a hot ***,
body made of rag,
a delicious mess
of hearty gags.
I wanted promiscuity,
in all its forms,
shed of all its innuendo
and flimsy disguises.
I wanted hard action,
man on man,
cheap rides and
cheaper thrills.
I wanted to be a little
pornographic princess,
a tiny-dicked seductress,
big ***** conductress
of all his passions.
My flag flew up as a
hormonal reaction,
attraction,
smooth bodied and
tight lipped action
running up and down
my jaded cadaver.
He wanted a **** *****,
a promiscuous witch,
casting love spells and
**** glances to make him
itch.
He entered my love nest,
the back seat of a car,
to destroy my frame,
to rid me of my childishness.
My folly melted away
in sexyhot sways
of my hips as
my lips would say
lust filled nothings
that would be filled by
empty sighs and
****** filled
"I love you's."
My fingers froze:
as brown turned to white,
my body turned to snow
and rained down around
his swollen flagpole.
He was incompetent,
inept at the deed
and unable to satisfy,
but it was my ego that needed
this gratification, not my
libido.
I laid in the aftermath of the attack,
calm,
demure,
sad but
ultimately relieved
Finally,
I am ravaged.
I have soiled my nation
and salted my own fields,
laying waste to my youth,
my innocence.
I wanted to be conquered
and so did I receive,
being taken and
yet somewhat untaken.
I remember his voice,
that dumb accent.
I remember his preconceptions
of what this was supposed to be.
"I love you."
My fingers froze:
as lungs filled with air,
and brain filled with contempt,
my jaded body grew
to desire--
God, I really wish I had a cigarette.
I remember how he thought
I cared,
how he though that
anybody did.
I remember how,
I thought I had, too.
"I love you."**
No, you don't.
a poem written what seems a million years ago. losing my virginity in poetic form.
Tanvi Bird Sep 2014
I remember being a hormonal teenager, screaming at my mother, "I HATE YOU!"

The first time she let it go. Man, how that woman infuriated me. She was stubborn for no logical reason.

The next time I screamed it, she screamed back at me, "NO YOU DON'T!"

"YES I DO!"

"No you don't, you just think you do," she looked smug.

" I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!!!!," I ran up the stairs fearing what she would do next.

"T- COME BACK DOWN HERE! TELL ME YOU DON'T HATE ME!"

"I HATE YOU!" Slam.

It is a rather funny story. The only girl raised among three boys, I was subject to torture from my three brothers and my mother. Nothing was fair. There were bad times in my childhood, and good times. Even though I was very talkative as a young person, I never would express my deepest feelings or pains to anyone. I kept silent about the things I had gone through, not even my own mother did I trust with my valuable information. They took me for granted, a bit. Once, when I couldn't take it any more I woke up in the middle of the night, and I stood on a roof, and seriously contemplated suicide for 20 minutes before heading back to sleep. I didn't have anything or anyone then, but I knew there was a world out there that was amazing. I had never experienced happiness from the outside world, and I was determined to experience it first.

I didn't know why I didn't have anyone to confide in. Why things had happened to me that I couldn't tell anyone. For the most part, I was known for speaking before thinking, and speaking a lot. But when it came to painful things, I never told a soul. I thought about it often, and still think about it today-- why don't I get it off my chest. But I still know why. No good can come from it. Only selfish temporary gain.

There were times as a teenager I cut my wrists or took speed or did stupid things to fit in. I wanted change, and I wanted it immediately. I wanted my life to be perfect. I never once doubted that something good wouldn't happen to me worth living for. I guess that is why I didn't cut deep enough, and why I never jumped off that roof. Although I was alone, I knew one day I wouldn't be.

It is strange to think almost ten years later, loved by many-- I still feel alone. I guess that is what they refer to as that complex we have as humans- partly that existentialist theory.

One day, I made a list of things I want to do before I die. I know I will never have guts to jump off a bridge no matter how many times I think about it-- because I always feel like there there is some hope left out there. I told myself, I am going to make this crazy list of things to do, and only after doing all these crazy things will I **** myself- if I determine that it is worth doing. I can always add new things to the list, or cross things off the list once I completed them-- but I can't take anything off the list until I've done it. What a fun game. I am deathly afraid of heights. I hate roller coasters. I am afraid of the dark, and I believe in ghosts. I am claustrophobic and afraid of being buried alive. On my list I have written among other things-- kiss a guy under the stars, make out in a graveyard, have pre-marital ***, try ****, smoke a cigar, get crazy drunk, go sky diving, learn to surf, learn belly dancing, get a black belt, ride the world's craziest roller coaster, learn a tribal dance in Africa, fast for a month with Jain monks, visit three countries from every continent, eat snake soup, eat crocodile meat (because I am scared of anything that can eat me!), visit the wall of China, graffiti, have a three some with two very hot guys, completely learn to let go for 24 hours and do anything I think about with no inhibitions, learn 2 new languages. I've already crossed off some of the things on this list!

It is a very fun list of things to do-- and some of these things I don't know if I could ever do-- like a three some, or eating snake soup! But, until I do everything on this list, I won't think about suicide. I figure if any of the above kills me-- that is up to fate, but at least I determined my own fate and took a risk before I died. Maybe I am a coward. Maybe I am pathetic and too scared to **** myself. You are right! It might be my Christian upbringing that says suicide is a mortal sin that will banish my soul forever. As I got older, I decided that the soul never dies-- so even if I end my body-- what if my soul passes off into another life with more suffering? It is better to use this body I have in this world and make the best use of it. No one else loves me the way I love myself. Not even my own mother can. I think that is why we are all self-centered and even think of committing suicide. We can't live inside our own head, and we want someone else to take our pain away. But we just have to learn to face life!
betterdays Oct 2016
dragging forth a smile
i stand before the storm
of teenage angst
set down on worn carpet

we are in the eye
at rest, becalmed

but just for now

soon the winds
will blow and crack
and the seas
will roil and seethe

and from the mouth
all things vile will
spout and spew

and I and my albatross
will rue, having awakened

but I will smile
even as the albatross
whimpers and hides

for my smile
is my defence
against
this incoming
kingtide

of hormonal  soap  opera
that is  this class
of seveteen teenage
pains in my ****
this farce of bed hopping
and sloppy breakups
followed by anguish
and x rated make ups

all played out before me
like reality tv

and I and the albatross
smile and stand
thinking ....
one more semester
then
I am gone from this land.....

My albatross and I ... can take to the sea
One more semester...then a years sabbatical...
Chris Lazzaro Feb 2019
Wandering under
woodland leaves,
my mind confined
to winding suture lines.
Paths of pink nerve tissue
cherry blossom trees,
dendrite branches wave
in a heavy breeze.
Myline bark, an axon stump,
rooted contents of my skull
continuously growing,
a tangled plexus of
neural connections.
Twisting, turning,
a knotted blockage.
Pathways, rippled in roots,
a crossing synaptic stoppage.
A suffocating strangle,
choking corpus callosum
decaying mangle.
Branches atrophy,
shrivel and scar.
Root terminals suffer
hormonal harm.
Forest trails quick fainting
when lost in overthinking.
Natalie R Jun 2014
Feelings are broken,
they mend,
and they they're broken again.
It ***** so you've gotta be a man and **** it up,
well with a ****** if you've got one. Breaking.
It hurts.
Hurricanes from hell destroying every inch of your body starting from the heart, the "center" of all the emotional ******* we call feelings.
That breaking is as if your 3Ds died after you beat Pokemon x.
That **** didn't save and is worth a few tears on that $55 topshop sweater all hormonal girls love.
That breaking is as if you stubbed your toe and you just got your nails done, it's as if u got a B+ not an A.
Well you get my point.
But that mending though,
that uplifting sensation you feel after you've hit rock bottom.
Emotional mending is like taking your bra off after a long day at school,
or work,
or whatever your occupation.
Now that's a simile.
Feelings are emotions,
Emotions are feelings.
It's all the same.
it always gets better,
then worse again.
Kurt Carman Oct 2018
I'm paying tribute to one of the finest Poets I know, Tony Hoagland. He recently passed away from Pancreatic Cancer at 64 years young. This is one my  absolute favorites and I believe you'll love it also.*

Romantic Moment


After the nature documentary we walk down,
into the plaza of art galleries and high end clothing stores

where the mock orange is fragrant in the summer night
and the smooth adobe walls glow fleshlike in the dark.

It is just our second date, and we sit down on a rock,
holding hands, not looking at each other,

and if I were a bull penguin right now I would lean over
and ***** softly into the mouth of my beloved

and if I were a peacock I’d flex my gluteal muscles to
***** and spread the quills of my cinemax tail.

If she were a female walkingstick bug she might
insert her hypodermic proboscis delicately into my neck

and inject me with a rich hormonal sedative
before attaching her egg sac to my thoracic undercarriage,

and if I were a young chimpanzee I would break off a nearby treelimb
and smash all the windows in the plaza jewelry stores.

And if she was a Brazilian leopardfrog she would wrap her impressive
tongue three times around my right thigh and

pummel me lightly against the surface of our pond
and I would know her feelings were sincere.

Instead we sit awhile in silence, until
she remarks that in the relative context of tortoises and iguanas,

human males seem to be actually rather expressive.
And I say that female crocodiles really don’t receive

enough credit for their gentleness.
Then she suggests that it is time for us to go

to get some ice cream cones and eat them.
RIP Poet
Anita Daniel Dec 2017
Everytime I think of relationships my soul dents
We are stuck in societies where boys' glistening hormonal hunger are mistaken for love

Where is the passion?
These days men have gone through underground classes about how to lure women into believing that it is all about love meanwhile their plan is to only get in between women's legs so that their ego is enhanced
He tells you how beautiful you are and gives you a full description of how you make his heart beat fast and his palms sweat
He tells you that only you complete him fully
And asks to meet up with him not even on a proper date like in the days of our parents
You go to his place and the setting screams : Pleasure!
He whispers all sweet nothings into your ears that excites your body and you believe that he truly loves you
Before you know he has gotten what he wanted and wants to get rid of you as soon as possible
The next few days he ignores you and texts you the next time he "misses" you
He types a long paragraph narrating how busy he has been and you fall for it again because of the effort he took to type a long *** raudy paragraph

Where is the passion?
Men no longer send you notes that circulated around the class when you were in 7th grade that read : " You look beautiful as the sky" " Yellow makes your eyes pop" " Mom taught me how to make lemonade I thought you'd love some" "I love you, yes or no"
They no longer secretly protect you from the bullies that always made fun of you in high school down the hall
They no longer want to know what your favorite book is and why
They do not pick flowers from Mrs A's garden to present to you
They don't make jokes about relevant matters
All they know is ****** jokes that downgrade your value as a woman
Men don't want to hear all about your day and the conversations you've had with your girls or the argument you had with your mother
They are all about your paradise
When they look at you they uncover and undress you in their minds
They measure the size of your ***** and behind

Where is the passion?
That boy from next door who always came over to study with you because he knows you need help with maths
That boy that your parents always saw as your elder brother who protects you from evil creatures
That boy that your dad would allow to take you to the movies because he is well behaved and has only blown a kiss to you
That young man who respects you and your values and is concerned with how you will achieve all your dreams

Where are all these boys who are now handsome men
Show yourself for we are exhausted of all these boys that are dressed in men's cloaks...

Young lady I urge you to rise up
Open your eyes and stand your ground
You are worth more than cliché pickup lines from the internet
You are a well crafted diamond
Have high standards that not just any man can approach you
Do not be loose
Your are the carrier of life
Make it clear that you do not entertain hormonal boys
You desire a man that will build an empire with you and raise your family with you in due time when you have achieved most of your dreams and his too
You are that backbone of this earth
Know your worth and do away with mediocre.
passion over lust.
Britt Oct 2012
cyclic lingering

disconnected rambling

the same words rearanged

breathes shortening

impotent bargaining

the same pattern misbehaves

Ive always walked this way

hormonal litter cursed by anatomy

hyesteria



weepy futility

uncharacteristic of one so bold

the words of tongues

drag mud through wounds

a voided heart : not so





deep breaths

stand strong in misery

mindfulness, like a drug

disconnect and call it religion

pacing pacing pacing

thoughts;



I bleed for the words of others

For both praise and scheming lies

I wish to leave this haunted soul

but I

But I

but I ...what?

need to run?

to hide?

to hold my ground?

we'll see as it comes

a controlling women's worst nightmare
Carla Marie Feb 2012
It seems that after
Thousands
Of words
Hundreds of thousands
Of expressions
My fount has
Finally
Dried up
Maybe it’s hormonal…
(cuz this happens)
Or
Maybe I’m depressed… and
Need some ice-cream
(cuz ice-cream always makes things better)
But
I just don’t feel like writing anything at all…
No thing inspires me
To expound upon it
Can’t even seem to write
A bad poem
Unless I count this one
And I don’t
But I do admit
It is bad
So I will re-start
This bad non-poem
And not talk about
Hormones or depression or ice-cream
(even tho ice-cream always makes things better)
I’ll not expound upon
How I am un-inspired
To ever again
Wax poetic…
But will instead merely query~
Has my fount
Truly
Dried up?
I actually sort of enjoyed this...

— The End —