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Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The
Kevin Nov 2020
Born into a world of deception,
Embraced in a life of abuse,
Tormented by a state of abandonment,
Betrayed by parents of youth.

Destroyed by words of profanities,
Tortured without excuse,
Alone in a house of misery:
Torn, battered, and confused.

Compelled to a life of insignificance
With their endeavors never seen,
Their family — a false reality,
Alone with only their dreams.

Assaulted with no explanation
By parents who destroy with their hands;
A child bruised and broken
Can only dream of oceans and sands.

Alone in a world with no one,
Their voice never heard nor seen,
Locked in a room of obscurities,
Waiting for death to set them free.

Violence speaks to this child
With no escape to be seen.
Alone in this house of tragedy:
Withdrawn, suicidal, and unseen.

© 2020, K. Saitta
AC Nov 2012
It's like that time the windows blew open,
And the gust carried snow in towards us,
Us huddled on the couch under that calico crocheted blanket,
And I looked at you, corners of my mouth pulled down,
And you,
You sighed, and shrugged,
Removed your arm from around my comfortable shoulders,
Struggled up and over to wrestle the pane
And lock the shutters,
And when you sat back down, you looked at me,
And all I had to do was smile.

It's like that time when we packed a picnic to the park,
And we only made it so far as the lake
Before our stomachs rumbled and your grumbling gave us an early lunch,
And then after, lay in the grass, pointing out
All the obscurities of our imaginations in the clouds.

It's like that time I came home,
So tired and worn out,
Hair askew with a smudge of dirt on my cheek,
And the lights were out, but you had lined the hall
To the bathroom with candles,
And as I made my way through their soft, whispering light
Towards the escaping tendrils of steam,
You jumped from the dark,
Stifling my shriek with a hug.

It's like that time I realized that I loved you,
It's like that time right now.
Moonbeam May 2018
This time I'm going to do the hermit thing right
Inner-work and self-love from morning to night  
Awareness of all my woes and insecurities  
Connecting with universal flows and obscurities
Going into my depths, no human interference
Focusing on my soul, not my appearance
Transmuting all my deep pain into sweet pleasure
While turning these dark coals into beautiful treasure
This focus and expansion is serving me well
Returning to my inner heaven, away from this hell
Andrew T Hannah Jun 2013
Deranged and misplaced in a world of deceit                                                                            Morals fade as hypocrisy defeats your belief                                                                                 Profound thoughts pleading for sanity die at the words of those around me                                                                       Deprived of sleep and affection in an apathetic state of depression                                                                       Drenched in hate and separated from truth I hid in my mind                                                              The darkest place I’ve ever been was my own mind                                                                                         Light abandoned in the background died down and I fell in the shadows
Obscurities in desolate caverns tortured my sanity                                                                             Drained of life my soul found comfort with demons I created in my heart                                                  Alone in nostalgia I created beliefs that made sense to a mad man and accepted them gladly             An immense loathing for happiness and a mind fixated on destroying all things pure                    The light was murdered never to be seen again gone forever and drowning in sin                             Filled with blood blacker than night and a mind too sadistic for the world                                                   My body was armour filled with a demon
Placidly screaming for freedom chaos followed me as night does the day                                                         The mind is gone and the body is a shell weaker than self-control I teased myself with                           I was a plaything for evil sitting in the depths of my own Hell                                                            Constructing complications that have never even seen life my mind was deceived                                           I took pleasure in hate and anarchy and perceived love to be a lie                                                               The outside seemed dejected and the inside was infected with insanity conjured from demons  My soul fled to recess formed by blades of hate
Chains forged in the lake of fire bound me to my own pathetic sub conscious                                           Lost in the dark, searching for intellectual reasoning I quit….                                                                    All was dull… Hate and Evil became boring... Love and compassion was long extinct                                           There was nothing left, my soul remained but as purposeless as the body it inhabited         Incoherent and abandoned, forsaken by none yet all in my judgment                                                       I was below mankind and became prey for the living dead                                                                        My soul altered into physical animosity The pleasures of the world were miserable                                                                                               Light avoided me and persons overlooked me                                                                                                   My body lay, rotting, praying for an escape but death would be an imprisonment of solitude                          The concept of Hell was ravishing and the indication of pain was tempting                                        Blood of my body paints the earth from crawling towards an end.. Would there be an end?  Surely none are as wretched as I… I say cremate the wretched.                                                                                                                   Praying for Hell from the Almighty God who knows all perspectives yet offers a choice
God creates us with a voice to be heard yet he knows the outcome                                                                                      Therefore wouldn’t be crafting souls to be hurt?
trf Dec 2016
Crackling. Rocking. Crackling. Creaking and oscillating, a century old **Mahogany Wood seceded to the paSsage of time.
Particles of sand, confounded by the Peninsula’s chaotic, blasting breeze now revealed a shade of burnt tar.
   Outside of the second floor Maissonette, sways the rocking chair once warmed by Grandpa.
A Tactless, impatient, rhythmic Requiem Bashes near the wiNdow pane as the sunset falls Under the frame.  
                                                        ­    Empty Folklore presides like the Residue of a once lambent effigy…                                               SwOosh. Hush!
           Cocktails were a Preamble to lunch like diabetes to Nephropathy.
Corrosive Rhetoric seeped in to expose the ego of a Sommelier.
     A smile would Parachute down when you needed it like Nicotine to remind that no Precedent had been set, just an Anomaly.
                     Cutthroat beginnings, this was no Analog man.
        In grade school his Cosmos found Zion and “The world to come”.
        This baby’s Cradle, abandoned High atop a mountain was blown by a Chinook towards the Atlantic.
                “I was found swallowed in a stained Table cloth by Balkan children on a treasure hunt, with no Guarantee and no resignatIon. "
                     The boTtle narrates these chronicles and a smile parachutes down when you need it like nicotine.
                                          Dionysus Crafted his accounts while most Garnered his spiels with Snide.                               As they witnessed dream remembrance; he thought his memory was Presumably accurate, and although his tales were triFling to the gathering audience, they became his Heliocentric history.
            Calling me a young Galleon and handing me a map, Grandpa scanned his hand across the vast land
       guaranteeing trEasure would be found if I had no resignation.
               This Asinine assertion to my teenage sister Symbolized the Barring of her unheeding imagination by time and then a smile parachuted down just when she needed it like nicotine.


_TRF
In the bathroom of a pizza parlor there was an elongated, framed b&w; picture of the periodical table of elements. I took a picture of it and my flash glared in the middle which I thought looked neat so I manipulated the image so it was skewed and a little blurry and the above elements were the only ones that I could actually see from the photo. Credit to Breaking Bad.
Pyrrha Oct 2018
Past thick briers and dense thickets
Beyond inconsolable oceans and insufferable lakes
Amidst the roar of obstreperous winds
Within the abyss of calamity
I've let you past my obscurities into the forest of my heart

In return you promised your own so our forests would grow
Instead you left the seeds of hatred that grew amongst my trees
You used me as an exploit for your own selfish endeavors
Our love was made of rot and mold
The passion expired and you were gone

You left me to swim my way back
To climb past my briers and thickets
To bear the violent winds
To climb out of the dark abyss
So that I may find myself once again in clutters of debris
Spread out across the shores of what remains of me
st64 Dec 2013
such a cool dude



1. on believing
There are those who scoff at the schoolboy, calling him frivolous and shallow. Yet it was the schoolboy who said "Faith is believing what you know ain't so."



2. on genius
Thousands of geniuses live and die undiscovered-- either by themselves or by others.



3. on bereavement
A man's house burns down. The smoking wreckage represents only a ruined home that was dear through years of use and pleasant associations. By and by, as the days and weeks go on, first he misses this, then that, then the other thing. And when he casts about for it he finds that it was in that house. Always it is an essential-- there was but one of its kind. It cannot be replaced. It was in that house. It is irrevocably lost.... It will be years before the tale of lost essentials is complete, and not till then can he truly know the magnitude of his disaster.



4. on mischief
I see that every man that went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his coat--and I see it warn't no perfumery either, not by a long sight.
I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things; and if I know the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet I do, there was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in there for a minute, but it was too various for me, I couldn't stand it.



4. on conscience
I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on -- s'pose you'd a done right and give Jim up; would you felt better than what you do now? No, says I, I'd feel bad-- I'd feel just the same way I do now.
Well, then, says I, what's the use you learning to do right, when it's troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same?



5. on superstition
I've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot tower and spread himself out so that he was just a kind of layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see it. Pap told me. But anyway, it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool.



6. on escape
I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me and I can't stand it. I been there before.



7. on hypocrisy and religion
We all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall.
The Shepherdson's done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching -- all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith, and good works, and free grace, and preforeordestination, and I don't know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.



8. on simplicity
Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, because I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me.



9. on humanity
Let us consider that we are all partially insane. It will explain us to each other; it will unriddle many riddles; it will make clear and simple many things which are involved in haunting and harassing difficulties and obscurities now.



10. on army
That's what an army is -- a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers.




                                                            ­                                       *by Mark Twain








S T - 16 dec 13
love the boldness of Twain.

not everybody's cuppa.. but hey, see me crying? nah :)






sub-entry: unicorn

a knock at the door
grey figure opens.. very, very tall

1.
slits of tall-eyes concierge perusing hooded-newcomer bearing gift
furtive-eyes in a head over-drilled with equations
the visitor waits and watches
intently catching the distant-tinkling of a child's laughter
peeps round the bend..
twinkling-eyed gramps giving gifts to grand-kids round the tall-tree

2.
silver-hair leads the way slowly up plush carpet-steps, all deep-red
not aware how regal-opulence glares at the hungry-livraison
of ornate wood-patterns etched into the sides of the box
a single hair-strand is the currency to secret-entry
the most unlikely-key stands in the doorway
upon the head of the child, it needs but one length
with tweezers, silver-head places in painstaking-tremors
there's a light-whirring deep inside and click, click, click..
the sides flay open like tiny-wings
and then, it's right there.. it's opening up its secrets
the old man, who waited all his life to see this.. almost has a glimpse
when something happens..

oh my, what is it ? ? ?     (gaping in disbelief)
it's........ the unicorn
oh! you may leave now, thank you
but a swift-stab leaves silver-head spluttering
holding onto his neck as his life-force spurts away, uncontrollable
                                        in violent-spasms
tall-eyes quick-senses an iota amiss within its radar-view
from the running-steps down the muted red-stairs, cy-dog barks
out the front-door, in pursuit of dodger-stealer who drops the flick-knife
into wide road, sudden-bus whacks him down
tall-eyes look down into the eyes of a dying man
(what have I done?  I needed only two minutes more to.....)
now, quick....get away, get away... !


3.
mythical twist as plot thickens
the box lies there, distant-sirens wail
eyes slit, instantly calculating
hot on heels of this reliable lean-machine
cops push the limit and close the corners
a volley of shots and he.. falls
box tumbling to the ground, rolling a bit.. then stops
red-lights flash remotely, like a dream caught in cold-syrup

with one shoulder now missing and half his head on the sidewalk
he hobbles with the gift to the bridge, his sensors pick up the bleat of the ferry
and he manages to...
...........................and throw it in the frozen-lake
its weight breaks the cracked-surface
                and sinks.. slowly.. down
                                  down
                     down
          down
down
                                               d o w n..

there, it rests in peace
till..


one year later, a young boy tests the safety of that frozen-water
stomping feet to keep warm and face clad in half-balaclava
a sight unlike any other meets his eyes.. and..
(when) he stoops to reach for it..
Janette Oct 2012
Unravel slow, lush
dew of flesh and fill
beyond the madness of desire
breathless, tangled
to become enraptured
in dreams hazel gleam

Crawl beneath skin
ripe, raw, dripping
trailing the arch of fragment with
divine tongues languid dagger
piercing luscious petals
'till bloom engulfs unyielding stem
singing hymnals of glory and ******
wiping away blasphemous obscurities

To birth nectar tears
brittle, full bodied
trickling paths to succulent lustre
conceived in parted thighs
spread open, and content
poised for immaculate rapture
of heated breaths, strung tight

Slick, prayed willing
for stretch and sting
to mark on fold and crevice
love's first gasp
spilled, infinite
blazed in merge
of clinging limbs
unwinding the woven...
Mike Finney Dec 2011
GLUTTONY


Go ahead and gorge yourself upon gallons of gaudy garments,
Gaining more weight got by galling garish goods I guess won’t
Ground

Let loose to the luscious luxuries of lackluster lemon and
Lots of lulling bedtime letters that will surely let at bay the
Ladies

Unravel your unctuous mind and unwrap the unstoppable urge
That undeniably lives under unruly layers of
Unproductive

Together bring the talk of taking another tackle to your taciturn tally,
Taller the score and take down the tormenting tickling
Tack

Over and over in obscure ovals until objective becomes apparent
Only leaving orbs of former obliqueness’ obliging to
Object

Never again nourish the need to negate the null to nonsense,
Leave behind the knots of then and live the neat of
Now

Yesterday was yellow in yielding to yearning and
Today is your yet to the question of no or
Yes











GREED



Gradualy every great thing grounded in your gaudy life will grain,
Falling from grander to
Greed

Run away you realize will render you ridiculously reeled
Be the regal recall of natures
Ranting

Even then elude the everlasting elasticity of your sins
Only to elect your own faults and
edict

Evermore entrapped in the entity of your greed which eels
Its way through your
Etiquettes

****** to depths of hell’s dungeons you will go down
If you never fix your
Deeds.







WRATH



Wound so tightly your will won’t save you when the
Day weans of light to
Wear

Repent all you require if you really must, no reprise
Will be your
Reward

Again and again you’ve all but alleged all of your agitations
And now do you
Abject

Too many you take to the top and through to the terrible
Tale of
Tartaras

How do you have your hallowed hot-headed hate now
Had by all you
hocked







SLOTH



Silently slithering fangs strike and pierce into your supple skin
The serpent of Hades himself forcing you to succumb to
your sloth

Legs let leave your longing to linger standing
The lull of the luscious leisure of laziness
Calling you

Over and over you omit the need to oblige
Object the obscurities and overcompensate the
obligation

Though it takes away tell of your toes, stunning your talk
Teathering you to a tree and leaving you to the
terrors

However hollow the halo, the hearth of hasty hearts, may be,
you cannot halt it before is has you in its hold
sleep








LUST


Linger in line a little longer until your litenous lust
lessens to lethargic
larceny

Undone and unset you undermind your unity
and uncite all uncertainty, understand to this
ulcer

Slung across a slat singing sultry in your stipple,
you slew to sound off your
sanity

Taught thoughtless logic tenderly apply topical treatment
to tape together the tatters, tonight a temporary
Tylenol








ENVY



Eject and exact illusions of elected goals eluding your reason
So eject them for
Ever

Never return, never negate the negligence of this nuisance,
Need it
Not

Vanquish your venomous vicarious visions so vivid
I assure you not very
Vivid

Yearn no more and yearn by years how yellow
Can yell the
Yetti








PRIDE



Perniciously palpable pigs of pride that so prate way their progress,
Putting all but prosperity in their own
Propensity

Ridiculously cold rendering the most righteous of realist,
Even relenting to the racketeering of a
Rider

I too see an iota of insolence in intemperate impostors
Of what internal instances tell us is
Intimidating

Down the street dally a day and discover how detrimental
Such a disease dilutes the delineation of our past
Delegation

Even if one ever eludes the elasticizes of this eccentric extortionist
Eventually another will emit it upon to you again
entirely
Kimberly Clemens Sep 2013
I'm sure the obscurities of the lenses clouding my vision
Are nothing more than a hologram of the world I never knew
But always thought existed in the window panes of my brain

The outside world my thoughts are too afraid to venture
For the warmth in the home of my realistic perception
Is the safe haven of who I am and what I know
And going outside my homestead into the dark forest of the things
That are undiscovered to my left but known all too well by my right  
Are what excels my lenses to constantly change when the room is the same tint of light

Transitions from one thing to the next don't necessarily need to have a change one can see
I feel the forest calling me as if I'm some bewitched prophecy
But the foreboding dank blackness that thickens my view
Has always stopped me from entering into the unknown of my own self

These hazy retractions of light may cast dark shadows
However right now my mind is a whirlwind of calamities that can only be tranquilized
By venturing into the unknown darkness inside of me

This time these obscured lenses draped over my glass orbs
Create a tint similar to what is within the forest
My transitions are nonexistent but all the more in constant motion behind closed curtains

So my first steps out of my safe haven are slow
The door creaks like an old mans rusted weathered body  
And I feel the pang of hysteria hit me as the outside air tests out my foreign skin

When I enter the blackened forest I begin running into what I have never known to my left but know so well in my right
The nightmare-conjuring mysteries of this realm are ready to be battled.
My epiphany of inspiration turned into this.
Despondent Mar 2014
In the midst of nothingness
Searching through darkness
Embracing loneliness
Comprehending vagueness
Befriending uncertainties
Playing with vulnerabilities
Absorbing obscurities
Appreciating difficulties
Drudging malfunctions
Living with illusions
Addicted to intrusions
Slave of temptations

Colors of dark grey and black fill the world in which I live
No other feeling could possibly be worse than this
Where once was a room filled with laughter & Cheer
Now stands loneliness, emptiness and despair.
Memories of you seem to creep around the corners of my mind
Endless haunting images of your face that won't decline
An overwhelming of emotion that my body can't contain
Fills my soul with unbearable grief, sorrow, and pain
Oh, How I long to hold you in my arms just once more
And tell you that things will be again, as they were before
But, as reality sinks in, I know that will never be
For the choices that I've made in my life have sealed our destiny
No one could ever fathom how wretchedly my heart aches
And how I greatly regret that you've had to pay for my mistakes
If I could go back in time, and change only one wrong that I've done
I'd go back to the Hour, to the second, on the day I lost you.
Violet Wade Jun 2012
Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,

And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,

Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,

Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.

A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the  bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.

But a poet,  a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt

To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.


And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,

Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile

Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet,  a poet will spend lifetimes trying

To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.

And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others  
That the poet will feel only rage,

And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,

For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.
Jacob Oates Oct 2013
I get tired of it

The guys who write "poems" just to try to pick up on women

Cliche ridden hunks of text depending upon abstractions to seem deep

Yes I know this work is subjective, yes I know I'm not one to judge

But I can smell the real thing brother, and it doesn't smell like you

You don't HAVE to do this ****, sitting up late juggling concepts too broad to pin down

You don't HAVE to sit down and pour it out before it erupts into a case of bad attitude.

You're far more interested in seeming deep, while the deep are far more interested in surviving

You want to front like you're a cool guy, like you've gotten in touch with all of the rally calls, and you're up on all the obscurities that anyone in the know should have a handle on

I don't give a **** what music you think is superior, or what author you feel your style most closely resembles, because you don't have a voice of your own

When you've got some **** to say, say it, own it, and put a real voice behind it, otherwise don't waste my time.
Sarah Mann Mar 2018
My laptop reads 13%
And oddly enough I relate to that
It’s a staple of our generation to relate to others obscure references.
With agreements such as “same” being used to reference themselves to a cup lying on the side of the road.
I don’t quite understand and yet I find myself relating to these obscurities rather frequently.
I’m stuck.  
Truly a dead end of the creative kind.
And sincerely it’s been literal months since I’ve created something I’m even mildly okay with.
Why? Is it because I’m depressed?
Is it because I am empty inside?
What can I find to blame my inactiveness on this time?
There are so many things I want to do.
I want to sing
I want to act
I want to fall in love
I want to make videos
I want to lose 30 pounds
I want to travel the world.
I want to come out to my family
I want to die but usually only at night, which is an improvement
I want be a lawyer, a doctor, a writer, a zoologist, an actor.
There are multitudes of things that I want, enough to fill up all of the oceans. Simultaneously
There is one that is noticeably more prominent than others and that is that
I want to be happy.
And yet here I am it’s 3 am and I’m nothing but empty
And even now, more than ever now, I need to have a voice.
I don’t want to be heard I need to be. But the words they just don’t come like they used to.
How am I supposed to pursue my dreams if I can’t even take a shower?
I’m falling. Again.
Life is messy. Life is a ******* **** show.
I’m trying to make the most of it. And honestly, it’s ******* difficult.
I want to write. I say that about every three hours and yet nothing.
More than anything, I want to live lives other than my own,
Not because of self-hatred but because of my desire to explore and to experience.
I want to fall in love with characters who help me to love myself.
I want to be more than a 16-year-old typing her life away hoping, praying to live other lives.
And just because I don’t know how to get there right now.
Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying.
I want to live for myself, I want to stop apologizing and go for what I want.
My laptop reads 2% and as it is powering off so am I.
I’m going to sleep in hopes of inspiration striking me while I’m floating between consciousness.
It’s unreasonable to ask for. But please.
I miss creating. I just want to live.
I just want to be happy.
Written a while ago, but relatable for how I'm feeling tonight.
Valora Brave May 2015
I was trying to describe you &
I could not escape the cliches
of doing you an injustice.
     to me you felt like light eyes
contrasting gray days
     to others you walked like a
dancing young child with years
untamed and wild
     to me you drifted, you were a
description - clear as the light that
contours your face & quickly I
was deceived by the obscurities
of your tenderness.
     I was trying to describe you,
but all I could feel was the
the colors you emitted and the tone that
played in your feet as you
danced across a campus made from
years of failures and successes.
     All I could taste was the
serenity of your voice and the tenderness
of your poise.
     I felt the colors you emitted
as I described you I told them

your laugh was simply *blue.
A poem about a blue eye woman
Taylor Sullivan Feb 2010
What are words, but mere images of time,
Leafy similes that tend to rhyme,
Melodies that fade away to memories,
Written abstractions, proof of obscurities?

What are words, except strange tries,
To express emotions made of ice,
Mere tribulations, left unjustified,
Vague articulations that tend to die?

What are words, when I cannot find,
Adjectives, verbs, nouns, and signs,
That reaches the innermost, essential soul,
Of my deepest feelings, our very goal?

What are words, that leave you speechless,
Stunning languages, sounds, scribbled messes,
Answers of diction, silly confabulations,
Stirring tools, to test descriptions?

What are words, which reach the limit,
Text, talk, vibrations that fit,
The pieces missing, the definition,
Lingering in every other exhibition?

What are words, what are morphemes,
Speeches, utterances, lengths of keys,
To the secret reassurance humans need,
Sensations of steady expressions in a mind?

What are words, boundaries of lines,
Vowels, consonants, verbal binds,
A stem, a phoneme, a lexeme, a note,
On which we all deliberately wrote?
Copyright 2008
Written 4/2008 through Baylor University
GC Kruger Jun 2011
With a still broken heart
inflicted still with promises
of an always that never came...
Our eyes meet,
distant over the months passed
stained by the memories
of once upon a time..
and still unfocused on
a reality refusing to exist.

You fix your eyes in me
you demand mine to react.
Instead my heart speaks
through my lips
my voice obscure,
failing to make a sound.
"I miss you."

As reflections and memories unfold,
swiftly once upon a time is retold.

I'd miss you, with sunflower in azure sky,
you'd miss me too, as waves came crashing by.
I'd need you, in a park with playful youth,
you'd need me more, a hectic city's sole truth.
I'd love you, through the static in my phone,
you'd love me most, in a packed room - alone.
Forever, I'd whisper, swaying you away
as music and fortune came into play.
Always, you'd promise, your hand in mine,
under the stars and their cunning shine.

You fix your eyes into me
still distant
but not too far away.
Your heart replies, voiceless too
and you walk away
with my fate,
music and our destiny.
Leaving me with nothing...
and lips I could not read.
Jess Hulley Jun 2019
She
she.
a personal pronoun.
The only concordant definition of a woman that exists in lightyears of our literature.
Today I glaciate our fluid chronology.
Freeze the sequential order in which past events have occurred and continue to occur
every
day.
Forgive me if I sound like David Attenborough but
Today there are 3 billion,
804 million,
160 thousand,
198 women that breathe the oxygen pulsating from our trees.
That wake with heartbeat because of a single seed.
Their atmosphere is polluted by a quiet kind of disease.
Where bodies develop like a delicate striptease.
We aim to please.
They probably say bless you to someone when they sneeze
But are still defined by obscurities or their sexuality.
prisoners of social construct that enforce her reality.
This is me.
This is you. And you too.

164 Thousand,
635 people died today.
Their burning passions extinguished like a pathetic cigarette in an ashtray
If they were still here
what do think they would say?
Jess you could only fit into a size 12 on a good day.
Jess I saw how much turkey you ate on boxing day.
At the buffet with all the gourmet ha!
you thought they looked away
Jess you have child bearing hips which means you will never dance ballet.
Jess the only way you'll lose weight is if you literally run away.
I mean You will never have a fiancé.
Or If you do
They will probably go by the name of 'Cheese Tray'
I'm sorry but
That is not what they would say
That one voice is very much alive.
it is very much mine.
Patriarchy is a force that I feel in my spine
Why is weight still the way that girls are defined

Why is weight a crippling consistency that is picking at my mind
Why does weight tangle reality like jewellery,
impossible to unwind

When meanwhile
16 year old climate strike leader Greta Thunberg has been nominated for a nobel peace prize
When meanwhile
Money donated to Notre Dame would be enough to clean the great pacific garbage patch by comparison of size
When meanwhile
250 people were murdered in Srilanka less than two weeks ago.
When meanwhile
We are in an age where the president cyberbullies his own people through the later Iphone
When meanwhile
Consumerism has been more newsworthy than crime
Why is our society so unbelievably blind
Why are we so concerned by the size of our THIGHS

496 million,
325 thousand,
200 women are illiterate today.
Until I was twelve, my teachers believed that I couldn't read.
I was a blip in an anomalous cluster of academic failure.
I can't speak Chinese though I learnt its script from three.
I am an Asian with Bright blue eyes and blonde hair
What does that say about me?

It's okay to not know who you are sometimes.
But do not unearth dirt that only you see.
Do not let that hole deepen to a grave in which you will fit.
Here lies the self-criticisms that stop personal growth
Here Lies my self-hatred more potent than god's oath.
Here lies a girl who hides from exposure like a glove.
Rest in Peace.
For I am a women now
And I embody self-love.
Spoken Word poetry
EJ Aghassi Dec 2013
I can't get out of bed

my mind is overlapping
overextensions of the body

alert
lethargic
dream state zombie

fire flickers frequently
on pretty rocks next to me
liquid I'm consuming
forgetful
free
and dooming

wind chimes
chiming
ringing
off vibes
singing

lost time
finding
rebuked
meanings

underbite
teeth clenched tight

but I'm smiling
bigger than ever

clever weather
sending me
hurling towards
obscurities

a crying running nose

lights blinding to near pain

shielding myself under feeble covers

till life breathes within me once again
Gucci for president 2014
-      She was a dreamer who lived in
an insomniac world. Nothing came easy…
      every time she tried to begin,
she would stumble and fall, but that
    didn’t stop her. Although she thought
differently...her will could withstand anything
    thrown in her way, just another challenge fought.
The past haunted her days, shadowing almost
      every move…every single breath. Time
always promised to make things better,
      but she knew better than to find
truth in those words. Truth lay somewhere
    far from where she had ever let herself dream,
too heavy from all the weight she carried.
    There was only one time she let herself lean…
letting her weight get the best of her, thinking
      she could find a way to dream peacefully forever,
but even then she failed to succeed.
      She lost the ability to hold her world together.
   Indifferent to the world, numb to all
emotion, she lost hope in being set free.
   The darkness surrounding so great; faith too small.
So she poured her pent up pain,
     into artful master pieces.
She sketched abstract obscurities
     that depicted her darkest of secrets.
She painted intangible thoughts and
   feelings she longed to be fulfilled with through
majestic words that put anyone who dared
   to read, in the footsteps of her soul. Broken and blue
she crafted old warn memories into the
     picturesque landscapes of her wildest dreams. She
elegantly danced with the monsters under her bed and
     gracefully with the skeletons in her closet… breaking free.
there is more to be added to this poetic thought, eventually leading to "She is…", but figured if I posted part one it would motivate my inspiration to continue working with these brewing ideas.
Mitch Nihilist Aug 2015
comfort was a long road that came to a dead
end abruptly. happiness and companionship
left suddenly with the clutch of solace. he
was left standing there in the rain, all senses
disdained. a seeing man now build to ease,
seeing the fellowship of someone that ties
knots in your throat; turns your obscurities
to seize.


                                  distraught



at this very moment the quest for clenches
to console surrounded him with the ignorance
his state of mind was unable to control.
seeking and searching began in the
bedsheets. he found loneliness and
regret; mistake after mistake, temporary impassion
chose what risks to take. drowning in seas of
duvets, suffocation on the stench of
frictioned flesh and smothered in the salinity
pasted on each others skin like the warpaint of
ephemeral happiness, he searched down an
unsearchable road and lost his direction in the
*******; forever ringing his ears with regret. each kiss
down his neck, each bite to his lip, each face-blanketing
exhale, he repents with the ignorance of finding the
will to live and love between the legs of someone who
feels the same way. the crimson crevices carved in his back
drip with remorse and sullen; hoping for once to life the
bedsheets and find an unawakened bundle of coiffure
and serenity and not calamities of regret and ****** suicide
Jenn Gardner Sep 2011
sometimes...
chaos forces us to examine the ghosts
we thought we had banished to the coldness of a casket,

buried deep within cranial cemeteries,
one last time before they disintegrated
into the obscurities of our souls.

souls which have embarked on the journey
of infinite slumber.

it was no coincidence that the date of their departure,
aligned with the evening on which the

last living butterfly was impaled upon a piece of cardboard.

no longer a free being,
but a newly framed monument to a time
where the dead did not dance with the living.
SelfOfTheDivine Nov 2015
As all is wrong, as all is known, you're on your own, your teeth are honed.
It's vengeance's hour, gives hate so dour, how it empow'rs, all to devour.
All remedies, obscurities, benignities, are turned to sin.
As you begin, fear setting in: for only one of you can win.

This lovely dance, this deathly dance, once-in-life chance, you fall in trance,
And call for death, draw your last breath, as all is set, start this duet!
Your final trial, you share a smile, a hateful smile, respectful smile.
Passion is riled, made this worthwhile, all that is left: blood, sweat and bile.

You both are free, you met your peer, now you will see, that death is near.
Without a sound, you leap around, and strike the ground, your screams resound.
All be confound'd, no way around, 'tis fate you found, you're destin'-bound.

One of you falls, and damns it all, more pain enrolls: they've met their goal.
Your life they stole, death takes its toll, you lose your soul: this dance is whole.
Oh, what a strife, with death was rife, grandest celebration of life!
Originally writen on 2nd of October, 1E 2011.

ABCC DEFF GHH IIJ, 16 16 16 16
Marina Gomez Jul 2011
Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy

Under watchful eyes
No room for lies
No time for pleasantries
Blast them into obscurities

Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy

Why bother with explaining
It's all too emotionally draining
Once again, it's just not fair
And I'm trying hard not to care

Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy

Just pretend and save face
I've already fallen from grace
Ready, here comes my smile
Even though I'm hurting all the while

Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy

Shh quiet, don't say a word
Sorry just forget what you heard
Don't listen, apparently I'm insane
Driven mad from all this pain

Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy

I sit back and wait
While the puppet master decides my fate
It's a performance with no cause
I'm dying to the sounds of applause

Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy

I could choose to lay it all out
And finally confront the doubt
But out loud, no I couldn't
I want to though I shouldn't

Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy

I'll cut the strings and avoid the gaze
And look beyond the deciteful haze
Surpass that growing abyss
And cannonize all of this

Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy
Byron May 2013
Who knew our spirits would be so easily broke? Who knew our past loves would come crawling up our legs to meet us for dinner? who knew the joys of rhythm and melody would stand and stare us down for hours and never lead with the first move. Who knew the catacombs of my fearing mind would desecrate the innards of my only wantings. Who knows why the big ones reel in after dusk. Why did things turn out in the season of so much anger? How can one overcome any proportion of ill intention to an honest living. Where are the street-grit-fighting-fearless godsends of our time. Where are the nights of comfort among the towering plagiarisms of sonic inequities. Why am I stone in my own mirror? And how often shall I have to shave off the transgressive anachronisms of the jesting majority-unjust. Will I ever see a cannon with a name other than "jesus the king" around the barracks of quen anne burrows? I am cold and engrossed with my feelings. I am the youth's catch-all phrase for re-new-all and desperate tendencies. I am the unconscious objection to that censure of my own old crowning. The way i was held like an infant again. I mustered and mangled and derived that only in my free gliding could i roll down the soft hills of my fervent dreams. I can smell and sense the rays of jubilation i reach when drifting in tangent with the innocuous verbiage of my unbridled soul. Bringing the bleak toned honesty I once and always devote my sincerity towards. and alas my mind begins burrowed in the melting tin of bleeding doves. Not to be confused with other obscurities We Speak Wandering. Pleasant by night,
Arianna Anderson Mar 2012
Traipsing around your own obscurities
A little triangle; you're own trinity
I put a blind eye up to your window of equivocalness
I wasn't positive if you were that in to me

It's not just little crush for you, it's an obsession
Engrossed, hiding behind your false complexion
Everything was familiarly desolating
Who would've known you were enticed by your own progression

Stuck in your game of disturbing affliction
Years and years of built up absorbed addiction
Framed or ashamed of your heartless indulgence
The lies you hide underneath your table, caught fire from excessive friction
Joseph Norris Apr 2015
Your eyes tell a story, down a path
leading to an eternal ocean
of past lives and loved lies
basting in the hopes and dreams
of permanent destruction

Devine perfection
perceived as crippled obscurities
fearful of who's identity is portrayed
keeping signs of divinity at bay
avoiding the love of the guides
covered in humanities tainted prides
Dan Cancglin Aug 2011
As we inter-loop,
we tend to find a small group.
Clinging to who will listen,
Just to seem like we glisten.
But what if you take yourself away,
Find peace of mind to convey.
You may find more in yourself
Then you will in themselves.
While most seem to follow trends
Take some time to make amends
With any obscurities in your head
And break through the unsaid.
Peace can be found in the smallest crack
Just open your eyes and fade out the black.
Once you found you.
Find someone who's not see through,
And live!

— The End —