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Atrisia Sep 2015
I am sooooo tired,
exhausted..
My mind needs to be shut down,
my head hurts.
Words want to be said but my prides me wounded, my selfworth is burning low
there is a lump in my throat.
I'm haunted by to evanescent nature of my past joy.
Daunted but how far my seems to be.
Yesterday, last week, last month, last year and today have me in the center, wearing the same things, feeling the same,
worried I'm at my end, but a while older

my life seems to be rejecting me; or maybe I it..
I want to be free to exist but everything seems to come with a cost.
There are critics everywhere
even my thoughts have thoughts objecting to them before i receive them and make certain i don't need them.. So I'm running around in circles not knowing why i never got around to things my mind first thought whiles ago,

my will has become meek
my worth shrunk to camouflage with dust specks
I'm exhausted from playing this part,
misguided by the values of what's recently been made 'right'
distracted completely from the life i want to live.
And i don't have a clue which switch ***** it back to normal,
or which life i will leave for those which have grown accustomed to this timid version of me...
After all people aren't always happy when they say. "...you have changed..."
Alanna High Dec 2014
This is what it feels like to be furniture.
Doors open and close.
I am here,
Silent, eyes open, unmoving
Only the steady rise and fall
Separates me
From the inanimate crap cluttering our house.

This is what it feels like to be furniture.
You see the back of my head
I try to keep myself steady
I hear you turn around
And walk away.
You have better things to do
Than ask why I’m not speaking to you again.

This is what it feels like to be furniture. *
You mention absently that
We need new couches,
You don’t want to continue trying,
And that the toilet needs to be fixed.
I can’t be bothered to fight with you,
After all, the couch isn't objecting to you throwing it away.
You say I love not, ‘cause I do not play
  Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
  You blame me, too, because I can’t devise
  Some sport to please those babies in your eyes;—
By love’s religion, I must here confess it,
  The most I love, when I the least express it.
  Small griefs find tongues; full casks are never found
  To give, if any, yet but little sound.
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
  That chiding streams betray small depth below.
  So when love speechless is, she doth express
  A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such,
  Who speak but little, ‘cause I love so much.
mark john junor Nov 2013
the dark ice cream man
floats up and down the empty streets
his truck weakly cranking out a warped sounding song
that leaves a trail of dogs objecting
the truck has the word pestilence painted on it
instead of ice cream
his dark form hunched over the steering wheel
his cheshire grin has aspects of his delirium
imprinted on its clean toothy shine
he only comes out at three am
and glides the cool pavement in search
of Delilah's phone number
she promised him that she would be his one true
and he meant to hold her to it
he would do anything to have her all to himself

Delilah walks barefoot along the train track
with one ear nailed acutely to the train whistle approaching
the other ear in her pocket
where she hums a **** version of
the battle hymn of the republic
all good girls love horses and shotgun weddings
she wants her shotgun wedding on the saddle
with the ice cream mans brother
who she thinks is just too nifty to be anything but heavenly
she always pictured him with angel wings
carrying a sword and riding a pale horse named death

there are echoes in the concrete parkland
the neatly trimmed grass glistens wetly in the darkness
a dew touched tree stands on a narrow hill
its leaves thrashed slowly by a whisper of wind
the sound of running feet
laughter
its an illusion
she is an illusion
i make matchstick men
watch them march in precision lines
i am a matchstick man
watch me scribble in precision lines

the ice cream man now sleeping
away the humid hot afternoon
stashed away in the back of his pestilence truck
while Delilah learns how to knit and make candles
that ice cream mans brother sells at flea markets
we all settle for what we think we want
and in the end we all get what we deserve
Delilah marries the brother and they live happily
while ice cream man spends his mid-life crisis as a
politician who leads a double life
making ice cream sandwichs out of his basement
and i am discovered 'neith the truck making
matchstick men out of twigs
from the tree of life
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2012
South West


The breed could walk between both worlds of the white and the Native American even in these
Modern times he was a warrior and there were flashes of his shadow that fell against the sandstone
Walls of these cliffs but here among the portals of two worlds was his territory of necessity and practical
In these shadowed canyons once Geronimo Kit Carson and other giants strode there were times in the
Long midnight hours that you could hear their brusque voices in the stirring wind that could scream as
Loud as any mountain lion not creating fear but birthing fearlessness the bleating of sheep will never be
Heard where the unknown darkness lies to face the beast you must lay aside the desire of keeping
Company with human kind a foreign lodger at the edge of the abyss this was the case of this night the
Breed made camp at a breach in the hard rock wall that made a small cave the stillness outward only
Triggered inward stirrings the make shift fire was placed in the same place that others had used for the
Same purpose the blackened stone had a glowing quality an eye for seeing deeply inward and at great
Distance as the breed pierced with searching eyes this hard surface took on a measure of liquidness
Teaming with sights mysterious as the sea there through this quasar of time and space thoughts began
To invade his mind this cave was a fixed point where a searcher and seeker could roll out the meridian
Of time like a scroll on this barren harsh land and the cave only deepened and made a more ready place
It was like the perfect furnishing empty and austere where a herald of timeless tidings should stand to
Announce his proclamations was it not the Raven that was noted as the holder of secrets for the Native
Peoples what better place to begin a narrative than here on this white sepulcher as the fire has indelibly
Given Likeness to the raven as it spreads its wings within the fire it flutters its wings as the fire flickers
The Vision of men on horses rode and wheeled their mounts rode into glories allegory they plunged into
Darkness as wonder played on their proud tall shoulders Grover Cleveland comes out of a blur into focus
This indwelled darkened sky what does it mean it is a nation remembering its birth pains whites blacks
reds yellow and brown into the ceaseless flow bustling wind cut a dance in and out the noise of riot and
Song the smudged finger prints of many have touched the pages of history in these shadowed lofty
Heights Miss Liberty has had her gown made the fabric is peace and liberty she walks these high walls
The over shadowing parapets alone on the precipice but her burning lamp aglow never failing since
It was long ago ignited there the rays of purist gold does glow out upon the sea of freedom he who
Spills blood outside castle walls determines dominions that will plague or bless under the plunders hand
It will show where the heart is benevolent or capricious of cruel knights of courts of blackened souls
Reside in these seats of power as the Vikings with ribbed ships that floated on Icelandic waters that
Sprayed doom on horrific seas true peril hidden within her wetted folds the breed burst from the cave
Seeking comfort in the dark harbor of night many images were burned into his mind on this fertile night
Of a truth the Raven has shared many a secret thoughts they lay on him like the glistening red  
Blood that drenched Black Beards coat one who played with crowns of kings until his own head
He lost for rubies red and emeralds green did many a shipman lie in heaps dead red cannon fire
Floated across the deep like red saffron rare were any that escaped his cutlass his taste for treasure
And the screams of the dying his pleasure the breed faced many strange tales when he set himself
Up as one who would not only read signs of creatures but he would delve into mystical regions of future
And past but not all can be reveled in one nights setting… he did not reenter the cave for an
Indiscriminate period of time he was propelled into his own changing world his entire family would
Be dissolved in this life other dark lessons would he learn but his yearning to know and share would
Call him back to this familiar ground new visions would attest to the change in the country and it was
Not the change one would want a different landscape laid heavy on the entertainment industry the old
Days of heroes in white hats now replaced with multiplicity of characters without moral content just one
Hook or another good looks had to be at the center little children numerous was better grown daughters
With all the right assets it was mirroring where the culture had fallen too don’t give us values just
Distractions make it fast and mindless that was the best formula our society had suffered scenes likened
Unto Apocalypse now for a sweet but short time we all refer to God and possibly see ourselves as we
Once were then with a short fast few days we forget our true greatness let our liberties slip again
At the first cry of political correctness that comes from the multitude of seekers for American justice
And freedom a better way to live then they see the great weakness and opportunity to make America
A hybrid of their former country and instead of objecting we raise the flag of misguided tolerance and
Score another victory for obscene enemies of all mankind then the saddest folly of all watching the rich
Speak and act with such unabashed pride as they whirl through the night and day being followed by
Reality television cameras as the whole world teeters on the brink of destruction that will consume
Everyone and everything I think the one who heads it all up says I will over looks you if I see the blood
Not your stupid material possessions that are fading with the natural world that is to be consumed the
Outer holds many allusions it is the inner being that better have the goods when the world catches fire
In this cave there is clarity of vision of two worlds fathers and mothers who have gone on unprepared
Have only one desire for their families that remain wake up quit being intertwined deeper and deeper
In a web that is made for one purpose to **** and keep your soul unaware of its true danger truth will
Make you free but you have to listen for this to be so the cave now empty but its revelations are here
Being continued blessing or curse lies in the actions you take or don’t take
GaryFairy Dec 2013
protection
protecting themselves from a dark
projection
projecting themselves in a different
reflection
reflecting their own wish for
perfection
perfecting themselves for some final
inspection
inspecting the collection and making a
disconnection
disconnecting themselves with ever
correction
correcting the world with their own
rejection
rejecting reality becomes the
infection
infecting the world with their own
objection
objecting to every alternative
selection
selecting the story of the
resurrection
Shuvangi Khadka Aug 2015
When my doctor diagnosed me as a schizophrenic,
My mother broke into tears, like it was worse thing anyone
Could be, I wanted to tell her to stop, it was starting to feel
Too unreal, I have been living in this mind for so long,
That I have turned against this world, which
Looks at me like I’m a burden to carry, I talk to air
Sometimes, it’s not insanity, not everything you can’t see is
Insanity, I sometimes see my grandmother, and I tell her
I miss her that I’m sorry I wasn’t there when she counted
Her last breath, you might feel it to be weird, but it’s not worse
Than this guilt gnawing at me, my mind is a canvas painted
By thousands of painters, and the pictures here don’t make sense,
But art doesn’t need to make sense.
I feel like a graveyard sometimes, haunted by the souls
That will never leave me, I feel like a morgue sometimes,
Walking around with my own corpse, that bleeds sometimes,
I am not abnormal or special or weird,
I see constellation in people, and I see a ray in you
When you smile, my hand stutters objecting to human
Touch, and I don’t call out for hugs, but this body could use some
Warmth, my imagination doesn’t run ahead, it goes round
And round,
Living in this body, is like inhabiting with a foe,
Which slowly takes over you, and you have no shield,
These meds help you sleep dreamless at night, but
They won’t protect you, nothing will be here to
Clutch on when demons that resides in you arrive,
So all you do is crawl on your bed, trying to take
As less space as possible, not letting the fear
Cover every part of you, you think you’re still here,
But you’re not, and thats exactly how it feels like
Living in a schizophrenic mind.
Jade Steen Sep 2013
Suppression
It's been naturally selected over and over and over
Here we are
Can anyone explain why?

Is it just a glitch?
A human gets so mangled they should be dead, but the body can't find a reason to stop
Natural selection had no part
You're already dead
This is just the brain buying time until the body wears down
You're dead weight, humanity can't use someone with memories only
Deformed
Corrupted
Misguided
Abused
You've been molded by all that hurts the species
Rot
Die
But in the meantime
Just forget about it

Go through years numb
Years of paranoia
There can never be an explanation because
What if I'm missing a piece
Or the whole story's right in front of me
There's no sense, no rhyme, just passing time
So I obsess
There must be more

But there could be so much more
When he took me home sick
He picked me up because Mom wasn't home
My brother must have been at school
So, was it just us?
He could strangle Mom and say Brother's ****** in the head
But never a bad word to me

There's the time in kindergarten
I stayed in from recess
And a boy in my class came out of the bathroom
Entirely naked
Teacher was there
What did she say about it?
Why was I staying in the room?

How twisted can the facts get?
Am I just denying you?
Forgetting all you did
And searching for the culprit in suspicious memories of the past
*******, I'll be the one sending someone to life in prison for what my brain wanted to believe

Because you
Well, in the park last week
I was sitting on a bench waiting to see you
As I've done frequently the past year and a half
Which is sick and unsettling
Why do I want to see you?
Am I still seeking all that self destruction you nurtured?
No.
I wanted to tell you a shamefully obvious fact
You ***** me

Seeing as you're chicken wire, stuffed with media and sent out to parade
You wouldn't believe me
There was no dark alley, no knife to my throat, little objection you ever truly heard
Though I don't think we can deny, I never had a good time
I'll reveal to you now
I was being stuffed in a plastic bottle
That's twisted and crinkled
Elephant skin plastic buckling into my face
Aching my body
My self affirmed tears lost in water remnants

Here's where all reality is lost
Here's where my obsession starts
Did I crawl to your vicious manipulative being
Because it was all too familiar?
You're old, you see me as a slaughtered *** cow
Bleeding on the ground my body no longer objecting
You offered promise of corruption
Chaos
Everything that could have been a comforting resemblance to

Suppressed memories

So **** me.
I have no ******* clue.
I never will.

That would be fine
Except now I love
And I am loved
I am so loved

This mind, though
It doesn't know how to love
It knows of ***
It knows *** used to be the closest thing to closeness
Chemicals dropping me into the comfort of careless arms

Now, *** is all part of the closeness
When words are failing
We're suspended in exclamation
I look into your eyes
And if it didn't blind you
I'd grab them
Loving to a point of passionate exasperation
That's when *** comes into play

My mind loves it then
But it loves it all the time
Or
The prospect of it
The undebatable joy I convince myself will follow

But I chewed and clawed and smeared ***
It was a drug
An abuse
An outlet
A torture

Now, I hardly feel passionate or enflamed
I space out
A habit from when I reluctantly passed my body off 2,3,4 times within hours
I can only think of you
Are you enjoying yourself?
Am I attractive enough?
Are you getting bored of me?

But you, I know, only think of me
You care so much
In every aspect
Especially ***, you're so balanced and pure
It drives me up the wall how much I envy it

Although, it's made *** worse
Now i worry about you worrying about me having a good time
Guilt fills up my stomach
Because
I can't enjoy it, not the way you do, I see in your eyes how much it means
And you can tell in my eyes, I'm not too moved
I wish I could act
I try a bit
But that's terrible, I know you'd hate that

******* I should just ******* talk to you. Sorry. It all makes me feel very sick
And
You get so upset I hate it. I hate being the cause of that, I hate having the ability to prevent that and the weakness to still throw all my worries on you.

I'm so stupid.
I love you.
EgoFeeder Jun 2013
Rebellious minds wander through enlightenment
With new found insight into a deeper understanding
An illuminated sense of self - disguised in complexity
Stroking our ego's with a persuasive fascination
Gutless contrarians thriving off schematic exceptions
Objecting to proposals is all that seems formidable
Double edged intellect embracing it's own prevarication
Claiming supremacy as the better half of the equation

One more plagiarized thought to dwell on
Re-occurrence of Ideals in plain lucidity
Come crawling forth from the genetic sea
To stain our mind with a rhetorical monotony
Monolithic horizons expanding out of view
A facade of a paradise - lost in a new weary age
These frail structures collapse and rebuild
reclaiming everything that we once had known
This body is to narrow to start the concrete picturesque poetry

As a marvelous bright sparkling spring into the pitch black marvel stone
My poems are shallow water running out of time climbing backwards

Shanti dances, Shakti watches, I ride the glossy magenta mountain byke Elementally through the potentially ***** city, gulping two little
              flying                            spoons          ­            wwhhpp          mhm                                  ­    
                       of
Brilliant        IO Ag
                   Helth guarantieed on the nulth spelling positive not
Obtrusive politely declined           skipped          suggestive
Visually objective little pencil box down bellow
                                             friend    _ this is blank !

Absolutely! Absoulutely! A ****** stream of no perservatives no ***

Objecting flowery flunder opiates                           Words grow from
Barriers between insufficient gestures                  from human
Jazzy left ear leaving laments of sounds incapability to stay
Endlessly entwined and glued together as your soul loves
Tender tactile cats touch on your desperate desert sju++
                  Ave Gratias Plena Ava Gardner Avon Avion
  My throat is not of a managment made suits suiting suitcases
I'm Tired Of Fraternities Or True Females  Always  Ends  Well
Edna Sweetlove Nov 2014
I just got a letter from my old Uncle Bert
and I'd like to share its tragic contents
with you here today;
but I'll edit out the ***** bits
just in case you are shocked
that an old man could still
have thoughts along those lines
or so as you don't throw up on your cornflakes
when you read them over breakfast.

"Dear Edna (he wrote to me)
It's not all that bad in the twilight nursing home
if you can bear the stale smells and moanings
of the other ****** inhabitants
and their bad breath fumes
plus the mashed food which all is pulped up
into something not unadjacent to catfood
for the sake of the toothless ones
who **** it up via a plastic tube
provided for that purpose.

"At least I take a bath once a fortnight
even though I don't like sharing it
with that Pakistani fellow Mr Ali
who always reeks of curry
and lets off stinky air from his back end
in our bath causing brownish bubbles
with a touch of follow-through vengeance.

"That reminds me of what happened
only last week when the ministry
sent some ****** health inspector round
who might have been a homosexualist
from his mincing walk I thought
and he came into our ward
you could see his beaky nose wrinkle
in distaste which was tactless we thought.

"He asked what the toiletty smell was
not knowing it's what we have to put up with day in day out
(and I know say you can't really afford
to pay extra for a clean private room for me
and not many of the others families bother either
its not as though they're the ones who suffer is it,
so let me suffer here after all I'm only your uncle
and you aren't in my last will and testament
as I never liked your mother much
fat stuck-up ***** from what I remember).

"The male nurse on duty that day
(he's the one we call Old *******
because he's so ******* bossy
and full of his ******* self)
asked all of us who had let the side down
and wet himself (or herself, it's a mixed ward
which I dont approve of as I don't want
to see anything disgusting anymore).

"Well no one owned up so Old *******
went round sniffing at everyone's rears
until he came to Mrs Jones squatting in the corner
and the he said why the **** hadn't she owned up
that she had done one in her pants today
and Mrs Jones said it had happened yesterday
or it may even have been the day before that
she couldn't really remember.

"You know, Edna, I still love miss my dear Linda
I even wish she was here
in this hellhole of a place
waiting for death's release
and not mouldering in her grave
but at least she avoids the squidgy mashed up food
which goes in one end and out the other
barely stopping for a rest halfway down."


You know, I couldn't stop laughing
for a full five minutes after I read this
as I knew, just knew, the old *******
had cut me out of his will -
well, let him rot is what I say
and that ******* about objecting
to sharing a bath with Mr Ali:
Bert's problem has always been
that he's allergic to soap and water
how well I remember the miasma
following him around his old house
before we had the **** certified.
This is is 1st in my series about my Uncle Bert who is rotting away in a twilight home near Clacton-on-Sea.
Darren Koobs Apr 2011
I stood on the porch tonight and stared into the heavens
The mild darkness and cricket melodies
Took me captive and I couldn’t move or think
The fingers of a midnight breeze tickled my edges
The night was like wine and unlike times before
I drank without objecting, without fear
Of what it would do to me
I should have resisted because before I was aware
I hunted for the Infinite, tried to perceive God
I attempted to span the universe with a thought
But even those twinkles of light are each
More massive than imagination
And I was left to question the sanity of this creation
How do you find a thing your mind can’t define
What can my spirit do when its perceptions
Are limited to five mortal senses
There must be more to life than just existence!
And just as my oceans were getting beyond restless
The midnight breeze and cricket melodies
Beckoned me by name and stilled my waters
And in their voices God said to me
“Child, when you look for me
I will always discover you.”
jǫrð Oct 2023
Your mother would be proud of you
That's what you told me

When I asked her, her opinion, she turned and said to me

One day he will be jailed, or my four will become three

When I pointed out your white lies
And each great or small misdeed

Objecting, you'd cry,  "I'll make
"Something" from my misery."

I cried, and I tried to tell you before it happened
What comes from this foolish pride

& You cocked your head, laughing back
While spitting in my eyes
The History: My ex boyfriend who painted me as heinous disgusting person was arrested in February. He is in jail for 3 years. I pity him, but I also tried to warn him. Another one bites the dust.
Afrah Sameer Jan 2015
For let the wind whistle,
or let the grass shift;
let you be malicious or omniscient:
upon a flicker of thou brow,
you would never be obliterated.
My heart was sworn to shackles,
chained;now thrashing
pained;now objecting
tortured;yet silent
It was a conquering world:
soiled and weary; with one ruler
it was ruthless; for LOVE brings upon war,
It looked down on all ; love did
Alibi-Romeo and Juliet
Lottie Jan 2015
The desire to live as one pleases
Is not based around staying in line
Nor is it established through
Objecting to all rules you are set.

Conforming can lead you to happiness
As easily as breaking the rules
What fails to be noticed are choices
That let you decide how to live
Brent Kincaid May 2018
I’m all for freedom of speech for everyone
Without pardoning you for things you’ve done.
Here’s something you don’t get to say to me
You don’t get to tell me I may not disagree!
You who plan constant genocide and invasion
Make pacifists like myself rise to the occasion.
We refuse to authorize you buying a warship.
You act as if that word is very like worship!

Too many scary cowards setting precedences.
In your overstuffed, gadget-filled residences.
You’re issuing orders to send youths to die.
Since you’re not going, why bother to ask why?
Some bribe-taking elite snobs in costly suits
Tell you to send kids overseas in combat boots.
If you rebuke them they bring out the dramatics.
Their reason is their bookkeeper’s mathematics.

In the USA, we waged war after disastrous war
And few of us asked why, and what is it for?
We invaded people’s lands and destroyed it
And there never was a reason to deploy it
An international revenue generating machine
****** thousands on both sides, nice and clean.
Then demand we buy coffee, seven bucks a cup,
If we think of objecting, you want us to shut up.

After all, it’s just one more war, wrapped up to go.
What’s a two or three million dead people or so?
The point it, there’s a bottom line to adhere to
So what it affects or kills someone near you?
Don’t be unpatriotic and ***** with fate.
Genocide is lucrative and an  American trait.
Just look what we did to the natives here.
Read that story. What we’re doing is clear.
Raphael Cheong Jan 2015
I am the flipper
Rejection of shots
And I don't hurt when I dig deep
And I go underground

I am
'Good with words'
yet words seldom ever seem to fall out
Of my flippant mouth

I am nothing that I wish to be
Borderline rambunctious
And my thoughts constantly spill over
When I spout in a crowd

Flipper is flippantly
Objecting
Objectify me now
I am the silent breather that never sends chills down your spine
Yet you wonder if my calling
Has gone overtime

Flipper speak
Flipper be gone
Flipper take shelter
Flipper don't make a sound

Flipper give you best smiles
Flipper win all their hearts
Flipper give them charisma
Flipper keep all your darts

Flipper tires from trying now
Rusting with time
Have I let my guard down
Or am I at last
Feeling fine?

Call it anxiety
Call if whatever you wish
C'mon call it an excuse
Isn't it brilliant to use?

Flipper: better or worse?
Flipper sets off a fuse
Flipper takes over mind
Flipper takes over news

Hush now stories are dry
For you let Flipper in
Build your walls up so high
Just to keep our your sin

Yet
Humans do lie
Courage comes from within
Sometimes it pays to hurt when you let your heart win
Thomas Harper Oct 2014
...and then PETA showed up and wanted to know whether there were sufficient air holes for the lamb to breathe and how the separating of the lamb from its mom went and whether or not the box was organic and free of all chemicals known to cause allergic reactions among lambkind.

The prince pulled out his legally concealed pistol and shot the PETA representative.

The ACLU, not arguing with the prince's right to carry the legally concealed weapon, but objecting to his failure to alert the PETA representative before shooting him, offered to take on the case of PETA v Prince for free, as long as PETA would agree not to protest the Jack In The Box deliveries that would be a thrice daily occurrence while the ACLU readied itself for trial.

The prince, misunderstanding ACLU's motivation and fearing the eventual loss of his right to legally concealed weapons, looked a little harder and deeper at the box and, voila, miracle of miracles, began to see apocalyptic scibblings regarding the fast-approaching war of Armageddon and the importance of a "well-armed militia" in the winning of that unavoidable conflict.

Recognizing the chance to shore up the faithful -- and put to shame the rest -- the Christian Coalition adopted the prince's message and gave it more teeth.  They stoked the flames of hellfire, added more levels to the depths of hades, and notched up the sufferings to those found guilty by their Lord, the Good Shepherd.

The ACLU responded, adding the Christian Coalition to the complaint.

The battle lines were drawn.  The ACLU and PETA stood on one side and the Christian -Coalition and the NRA stood on the other.

People argued and screamed and fought and condemned.

Then, a little boy of five, wiser than his years and saddened by the preemption of his favorite cartoons in favor of live coverage of the proceedings noticed something nobody else had.  Neither side any longer had a picture of the lamb.  So he drew his own.
Billy White Mar 2016
you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as
the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy
searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings

we reunite with the blankness
of pristine white passages
to break free from inertia


I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second
the embrace, the longing of wordless writers
and their unacknowledged cruelties

grieving over all this birthing
objecting to their own last words
the fresh blood of teething &
the prodding of our sores
Amanda Stoddard Apr 2014
I have turned into everything I've ever avoided.
I danced in the moonlit darkness of my father
and soaked in the rays of my mothers tragedy.
Vitamin D is only injected into my bloodstream
by judging eyes and objecting vocals.

I never wanted you to tap dance
around my ribcage or fornicate with my insecurity.
I never wanted you to feel like my eyes
washed over you with judgement day protocol..
I wanted you to be free inside of me
so I could take away every fear and instance
that makes you feel insane
and unchain it from every misinterpretation
hung around your neck.
I wanted to be the one you could save,
so that I could be the one to save you too.

My problems are not found in you
and somehow I found refuge
in my dark tainted past
but i'm tired of that being my excuse
it's my sad reality but I don't want it.
You shouldn't have to break, to fix me.
You shouldn't have to melt
to fit into the cracks you are so busy avoiding.

I have turned into my father,
unpredictable and manic.
I have turn into my mother,
paranoid and problematic.
I don't know exactly who I am,
but i'm sure this isn't it.

I will not be a shining example
of the apple that doesn't fall far from the tree.
I will not be the *** that calls the kettle black...
I am my own destruction but I will rebuild me,
because you shouldn't have to.
vhcgjhf Jul 2015
you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as
the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy
searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings

we reunite with the blankness
of pristine white passages
to break free from inertia


I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second
the embrace, the longing of wordless writers
and their unacknowledged cruelties

grieving over all this birthing
objecting to their own last words
the fresh blood of teething &
the prodding of our sores
Lady Elle Jun 2013
so done.
trying not to let it get to me.
but how can it not?

"wait", i whisper to myself
you have your arms.
you have your legs.
you have a bit of family left and some friends to match.
you're not dying.
you're sheltered.
you're fed.

....why is it so hard to recognize the good?
because the bad is much more overwhelming.

it's helping, but not enough.
i still want to scream.
i still want to cry.

i have manifested every single that that has happened to me.
i've prayed for it, and it's been completely answered...now for me to only slap God a good one in the face by objecting.
what is the matter with me?
God, where do i begin?

i'm lost.
i'm terrified.
i'm alone.

wandering amongst the dead particles of life we call earth.
where do i go?
what do i do?

continue to breathe, i suppose.
Arlene Corwin Jun 2016
The Art of Criticism

The art of criticism
Should consist
Of accurate, rich language-ism;
Gentleness and witticism,
Care and love implicit
In a simple, clear expression.

Love of th’art it’s writing ‘bout,
Love, respect inside and out
For author, auth’ress, sculptor, sculptress,
Painter, paint-ress, instrumentalist and –ess.
Poet, poetess whose full respect he/she/they merit.

When I read clichés inherent  
Such as, “Awesome” “Great” and “Wonderful”,
Thoughtless, glib and under-worked;
When I read “Like”, “Thumbs up, “Thumbs down
I frown.  

This plea from Ms. Poetic Me,
Sincere, considered, justified
Is plain ol’ objectivity,
Objecting to a lazy critic.

A good critique
Is not a trick
Played out in adjectives and verbs.
A worthy critic is superb,
Does not disturb
Because he values art and artist.

The Art of Criticism 6.30.2016
Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin
I've been thinking about this for a long time now.  Each and every time I get a 'Like' when what I've worked on has taken hours, months and sometimes years (considering revisions et al) I feel semi-ignored by a critic too lazy to clarify and expand.  That's why, as the reader will see at the bottom of the poem, it goes into my collection Definitely Didactic.
His list is long— as he pauses on life
and Mount Wellington's shadows shift.
Those stealing life's song out of young shoots
breathe the longest
while his beloved dies young.

Scars bleed droplets, not gushing
like Cataract Gorge
when scratched, or touched afresh;
not given space—
how he was stung is remembered.

He tries to be the sunrise
over Bruny Island,
but redback spiders imbibe shadows
lying dormant
assessing risk, ready to strike.

Wounds murmur in the Tamar River
objecting, having heard it all,
wearing down joy's clouded lightness.
Rasping scrubwrens warn
while falsity sharpens its spike.

Flattery's forked tongue is honeyed
as leatherwood, but synthetic—
He resists its bait, casting it past the Derwent;
his skin crawling at false charm.
He retains his grounded sense of self.

Time doesn't wipe it all clean to heal—
it calcifies into chilled stone
like Cradle Mountain's fissured misted face
with sticks of pine trees burnt
while eucalypt gums regenerate, partially blind.

His garden grows wild now
through rambling cracks
as grasses from a cemetery head-piece
sport defiant blooms
of an unaccepted genus.

Memory is a compass
pointing due north
past Port Arthur's harried walls
and Antarctic gales
as tales of unfinished lives see, and wait—
The physical and psychic entities undertook to split each other from the deck of the tetracontero Eurídice, the disparities were uneven with the swirling undulations, without objecting extortions that were spatially independent of different causes of deviations. Everything was gray but lively and full of suburbs that praised the elations of the memorial, and everything alluded to the dream clovers that approached levels of feasibility between material form and space that became antipode when invaded by fewer quantities and accumulations. , believing that they could be dissimilarities of forms of speculation or its counter-architecture of Entasis verging on mechanics of concentric psychism. The Hexagonal Birthright; in its new physical form it traced itself closer to each other amidst bulbous and explosive nebulae, which displayed the agreement of matter and form by means of the Zivug or copula from a completely emanating obligatory law. Raeder and Petrobus were attracted by the law that would make of all inanimate things the new creation that would surpass the imagination and predominance of Mashiach that would finally descend from the Iridescent cloud to invest him and create the emanating body of him as the greatest necessary force of the Creator.

In any case, you must understand that even though the desire to receive represents a compulsory law in the opposite creature that is the essence itself in it, and it is the Kli adapting itself to achieve the goal of substitution of Creation, however, this completely separates it from the Emanating. The reason for this is that there is a disparity of form to the point of existing in total opposition between the creature and the Emanant granted in Vernarth, this is due to the fact that the Emanant is pure bestowal, without any trace of reception; and the creature is pure reception, without any trace of bestowal, thus there is no opposition in a greater way than this. Therefore we infer that this opposition of form is necessarily the one that separates itself from the Creator. A Titanic salvation would make the oceans move that would rise up to one meter the global sea level, snatching coercive in those countenances that exaggerated their actions on all the voids that would derive from the hole in his pectoral, even so of what it deprived him of in the light with the candles of Delos, and of the passers-by of Cappadocia who would concentrate in the rear of the Himation, this being dim and deprived of light in which the Ohr was already more light than all the Lights of the Apsid Manes that crossed the perimeter.

Thus, from the Seven Baptisteries of the Apokálypsis, the titanic separations of its cracks would make Othónes or screens, which would make the quantum shock light of Hashem as it adjoins Vernarth, interspersed with the cypress trees that burned with blazing lights of the Ohr Hozer or reflective light between them, thus they carried the Hebrew garments like a Stampita Gaeta; From where Vernarth, in his past lives, a turbid little picture that came loaded with the silt of Mount Orlando in Gaeta fell from the under bench, it came dancing through the tenement that brought the prosaic wind with a beautiful Sephiroth, which pushed them back with those timid luminances that they were snatched by the Kelim or series of vessels from their Falangists when they enlisted with the florid Larnax of Alexander the Great.

Beyond the Advent Wreath and its four luminaries, it was fought in the Fifth Candle, like the Fifth Chalice of Elijah, entering them not very far away with all his desires to welcome them and consider that under my initial "V", they would find the synchronization of the Fifth Cirio and the Fifth Chalice, which is my "V" in the fifth dimension of the Fifth courtyard and in the shady Fifth of Helleniká! As established in the geophysics of Delphi, close to the elevation that will occur with the meeting at 583 elevations whose essential number will be 16 and six plus one is Seven, and the Profitis Elías is 565 adding sixteen, and its number essential is one plus six equals seven. This numerical command will unify them in reality when their talents would be flooded in the unification of both and composed vaporizations of the Hydor or blessed flow source of the Mashiach, thus creating all the wonder that would explain the allegory for those who want to follow after leaving. the Purgatory of Kathartírio, or the very tributary that would emanate from the frontispiece of its appreciation with the albiceleste presence of subjection of the azurí, creating hanging scales of transfers with the Exile of Ignominies. Higher up a Seraphim was flying, inviting him to a cake, leaving his hands everything he had to attend to immediately so that he could not decline it, but the Mashiach already in front of him pouted to accept the Bizkóto, and that he was also close from him, a few meters from his right, Saint John the Apostle insinuating him with decisive gestures that he will satisfy his restlessness by tasting the Bizkóto of the Lands of Patmos.

All the curious went out to walk through the hills, to generate the favors of the breezes that began to travel the vicinity of the Megaron, which now no longer made themselves unknown with imaginary unbelievers coming from the Siblis towards a present that always devoured them. Their reception position was designated for each one in the same habits that invited them to gather around the Matakis, very close to the twelve shadows that hungrily flaunted, in the essential or preliminary of what they intended to appropriate a primordial one. What else could be said if the same portions of matter extended over them, conceptualized making the memorable ones go through, and collisions that would restrict everything to a totally new beginning, very freed from the exclusivities of dressing soon with the Himation full of clairvoyance, which as a first reason was He would present in different bowls that flew alone through the zephyr of Patmos, like the elements of the Eurydice to be installed in the Matakis or entrance tablecloth of all the souls that would accompany him from the Kathartírio or Purgatory and faithful Falangist's Hoplites, providentially making signs to meet in the Profitis Ilias gorge once again to restructure the Syntagma. Undoubtedly, the mass of the Shock of the Masach or Screen of the luster of his new soul that was being presented by the Seraphim of the Mashiach by Bizkóto himself as a source of pleading humility, so that it could then be transmuted with the divine evaporated water of Hydor that would transform it. in the Alef, or sequential of the number Seven that would emanate synchronously with the heightening of the frame pinnacle of Delphi 583 and then that of the Profitis with the essential of 565, to be instituted in the ranks of the Alef as seven primordial in the plurality of these pinnacles, and of the wafers that the Mashiach instituted with the Seraphim of the indicated beginning of the procession of the Himation or Máza imátiou. Bios was the placement beyond the one who can never be seen behind the infamous lattices, which only extinguish in Lives that are our own, those that are worthy of us, of Bios, of the "V" Beyond death, and of the Verses of liberation, Transformation, and pacification, to channel her towards Vernarth through the skies of Greece.
Deus Himation

— The End —