A bright orange leaf flutters feather light to the forest floor The moon grows large displayed watching guard within a star-lit sky The wind grows cold starts nipping as breath vapor disappears into the air The scent grows bold and pungent the musk infuses every smell At last As summer fades giving way yielding to winter's dirge With fire And spice And boldness And flare "It's time now to harvest, and prepare" Autumn declares.
To look and find on the inside a well-hidden monster Is to realize my ability and proclivity to destroy. My fear of this truth is multiplied as I grasp the list of things I hold dear. The thing I can't see, (blind) things I do not know, (ignorance) and things I paint with apathy. all potential targets of the monster's maw I hope, to merely be aware is enough to hold the beast at bay.
I see with heavy eyes sagging expectations and things that might not be I smell the danger The smoke lifts off the razed landscape choking the spark from the Sun and forcing reason to flee I hear the cyclone roaring changing order to chaos along with the rules we all play as tormenting our memories of the past. at last, the facts laid bare my expectations flare as bright as an event horizon we eggshell walk across the uncertainty and Mother chaos welcomes us in. we grow and are devoured and are reborn not as a Phoenix but as a sapling emerging from the soot of the charred forest floor
An unexpected silence settles into a familiar rhythm. two souls halt for but the briefest of moments to gaze upon the crimson hues. As the bedrock warmth of paired souls embraced in a familiar pose pulses its content to the spirit of the moment The Spirit Closes her eyes and exhales an eternity in a breath The clock starts to tick again. they share a grin. and the strings between them glow a verdant hue The moment gone The world resumes
The heat sweeps over the reapers toothy grin The rest of this tragedy is melting thin The drips seep weeping thru a frozen landscape painted in what they call sin A tepid river gains its confidence ignores its conscience drills its responses and riddles the stone with a mountain of cringe Injected now, a syringe Rejected now, the fringe Respected now, a binge Connected now to sin The heat sweeps over the reapers toothy grin not indulgent... but akin an eddy of mist adrift Did it exist? Just a phantom phased through my fingertips.
This discontent in the pleasant
how do I raze it
from a place that operates autonomously from my will
The brilliance of the wildflower field
only seems to be charred when I gaze upon it.
as I look away or seal my eyes
I can imagine the colors others describe
but in a glance it flickers to gray
long before its beautiful
O how I miss the colors
of the wildflower fields
I remember a time a long time ago, I smiled by Quazytoke, literature
Literature
I remember a time a long time ago, I smiled
I remember a time
a long time ago
I smiled
The bitterly cold wind, like a thistle leaf, raked across my naked nose as I shoveled a driveway. I squinted sore eyes at the blinding white glare of a noon winter sun in the whitewashed yard of one of the many places I called home growing up. My cheap plastic shovel finally scraped clean the last bit of gravel after hours of the rhythmic dance that is manual snow clearing. Hour after hour of the mesmerizing scrape plop, scrape plop, scrape plop. With the banks on both sides long since towering over my full height, I was isolated from the sounds of an already quiet and peaceful countryside. Just t
The scars
and soreness
the shards of trust scattered
afloat a razor-thin wholeness
my ghost tears fall to the dirty floor with silence.
plump with hopes malice
this rut turns chasm
and fills with nothing
I am drowning in air
as the globe spins atop the titans back
Cold and shallow is my heart
But I wonder how it came to be
Life was so much better at the start
But all that's good now seems to flee
I had hoped that you would brighten up my day
But you just walked away
All seems lost now with no hope
I'm sliding down a slippery slope
Your apathy the catalyst
That pushed me in this void
And it's hard to resist
This urge to be destroyed
I'm past the point of insanity
But it doesn't get ride of your vanity
So I count the days till it's time
Till it's my time..
to raise a glass and celebrate
to not have to fake that everything is great
to have hope beyond the lies
to never again give myself as the compro
I used to feel alive, breathing was nourishment, pain was exciting, and passion sparked colorful sparks that scared me and hurt my eyes, but even then it was so exciting that I was rarely inclined to look away.
life was a Fire rising off a block of solid ice.
An avalanche, set into motion by an earthquake, only to be put to rest by a towering green oak. I could rarely steer, but sporadically I could point it in a general direction, even if it is just from one vice or an another.
but now
I am told that the pills help.
That they make me a better father. that they make me a better husband.
but from the inside, I am just sinking. A Slow metho
A bright orange leaf flutters feather light to the forest floor The moon grows large displayed watching guard within a star-lit sky The wind grows cold starts nipping as breath vapor disappears into the air The scent grows bold and pungent the musk infuses every smell At last As summer fades giving way yielding to winter's dirge With fire And spice And boldness And flare "It's time now to harvest, and prepare" Autumn declares.
To look and find on the inside a well-hidden monster Is to realize my ability and proclivity to destroy. My fear of this truth is multiplied as I grasp the list of things I hold dear. The thing I can't see, (blind) things I do not know, (ignorance) and things I paint with apathy. all potential targets of the monster's maw I hope, to merely be aware is enough to hold the beast at bay.
I see with heavy eyes sagging expectations and things that might not be I smell the danger The smoke lifts off the razed landscape choking the spark from the Sun and forcing reason to flee I hear the cyclone roaring changing order to chaos along with the rules we all play as tormenting our memories of the past. at last, the facts laid bare my expectations flare as bright as an event horizon we eggshell walk across the uncertainty and Mother chaos welcomes us in. we grow and are devoured and are reborn not as a Phoenix but as a sapling emerging from the soot of the charred forest floor
An unexpected silence settles into a familiar rhythm. two souls halt for but the briefest of moments to gaze upon the crimson hues. As the bedrock warmth of paired souls embraced in a familiar pose pulses its content to the spirit of the moment The Spirit Closes her eyes and exhales an eternity in a breath The clock starts to tick again. they share a grin. and the strings between them glow a verdant hue The moment gone The world resumes
The heat sweeps over the reapers toothy grin The rest of this tragedy is melting thin The drips seep weeping thru a frozen landscape painted in what they call sin A tepid river gains its confidence ignores its conscience drills its responses and riddles the stone with a mountain of cringe Injected now, a syringe Rejected now, the fringe Respected now, a binge Connected now to sin The heat sweeps over the reapers toothy grin not indulgent... but akin an eddy of mist adrift Did it exist? Just a phantom phased through my fingertips.
This discontent in the pleasant
how do I raze it
from a place that operates autonomously from my will
The brilliance of the wildflower field
only seems to be charred when I gaze upon it.
as I look away or seal my eyes
I can imagine the colors others describe
but in a glance it flickers to gray
long before its beautiful
O how I miss the colors
of the wildflower fields
I remember a time a long time ago, I smiled by Quazytoke, literature
Literature
I remember a time a long time ago, I smiled
I remember a time
a long time ago
I smiled
The bitterly cold wind, like a thistle leaf, raked across my naked nose as I shoveled a driveway. I squinted sore eyes at the blinding white glare of a noon winter sun in the whitewashed yard of one of the many places I called home growing up. My cheap plastic shovel finally scraped clean the last bit of gravel after hours of the rhythmic dance that is manual snow clearing. Hour after hour of the mesmerizing scrape plop, scrape plop, scrape plop. With the banks on both sides long since towering over my full height, I was isolated from the sounds of an already quiet and peaceful countryside. Just t
The scars
and soreness
the shards of trust scattered
afloat a razor-thin wholeness
my ghost tears fall to the dirty floor with silence.
plump with hopes malice
this rut turns chasm
and fills with nothing
I am drowning in air
as the globe spins atop the titans back
Cold and shallow is my heart
But I wonder how it came to be
Life was so much better at the start
But all that's good now seems to flee
I had hoped that you would brighten up my day
But you just walked away
All seems lost now with no hope
I'm sliding down a slippery slope
Your apathy the catalyst
That pushed me in this void
And it's hard to resist
This urge to be destroyed
I'm past the point of insanity
But it doesn't get ride of your vanity
So I count the days till it's time
Till it's my time..
to raise a glass and celebrate
to not have to fake that everything is great
to have hope beyond the lies
to never again give myself as the compro
I used to feel alive, breathing was nourishment, pain was exciting, and passion sparked colorful sparks that scared me and hurt my eyes, but even then it was so exciting that I was rarely inclined to look away.
life was a Fire rising off a block of solid ice.
An avalanche, set into motion by an earthquake, only to be put to rest by a towering green oak. I could rarely steer, but sporadically I could point it in a general direction, even if it is just from one vice or an another.
but now
I am told that the pills help.
That they make me a better father. that they make me a better husband.
but from the inside, I am just sinking. A Slow metho
I'm just a vacant writer.
A copy-cat who only regurgitates lines that are cliche and stale.
They crumble in my hands at the slightest bit of tension.
How can I claim originality when this message has been spoken before?
I'm left with a un-needed poem, and words that won't inspire anyone.
"We don't need another talent less writer.
One who simply doesn't break the mold and instead fits themselves to it.
Carving out your own is what a "real" writer does."
"Hey now don't let this sorrow hold back your hand.
You have to use every opportunity of sadness and let it consume your work.
The darkest moments will eventually shine the brightest."
Cold and shallow is my heart
But I wonder how it came to be
Life was so much better at the start
But all that's good now seems to flee
I had hoped that you would brighten up my day
But you just walked away
All seems lost now with no hope
I'm sliding down a slippery slope
Your apathy the catalyst
That pushed me in this void
And it's hard to resist
This urge to be destroyed
I'm past the point of insanity
But it doesn't get ride of your vanity
So I count the days till it's time
Till it's my time..
to raise a glass and celebrate
to not have to fake that everything is great
to have hope beyond the lies
to never again give myself as the compro
As I sit under a broken sky with a look-out view of New York City, writing poetry in this century of forgotten poetry, with my biblical book of Walt Whitman serving as a paperweight, I'm trying to figure out what it means to be an American, with the whole nation ready to ignite like a barrel full of gas fumes, with ire and divisions, addictions and debts; with all these natural liberties under siege by wall street police and militarized prudes, with cities of forced vagrancy and corporate war states and walls, walls, walls.
Whatever being American means, it doesn’t have much to do with a flag or a pledge —any damn fool can salute
Is what we see reality
Or a fantasy of what we think life is supposed to be
Is it all a game
The broken promises that leave us here crying in the rain
Am I a person
Am I unclean
Do I have what it takes
To remember your face
All my nightmares come from deep inside
They leave me broken with no place to hide
My body aches as my soul breaks
Suffering broken covered in scars
Trying to remember who you are
The broken bottles
The shattered lights left to remind me of each one of our fights
Our life's history
Is just a shrouded mystery of our fractured reality
Are you still with me
Am I still unclean
Do you have what it takes
To forgive me for my
The Origin of Suffering by Frank-Jaspers, literature
Literature
The Origin of Suffering
For now I cleanse my heart with tears
That Good and Evil fruits impart
Through Knowledge culled from human years,
The trees from which all sufferings start.
As God within me wakes my heart,
My heart awakens inside God;
A spark in infinite dark his art
Shall draw like lightning to the rod.
And burning human pride’s facade,
I’ll sear and singe, a martyred saint;
And with the martyr’s fervor, prod
And press until I’m sacrosanct;
In fearful furnaces distraint,
My soul will smolder as it nears
The white of lightning; and I’ll faint,
Saved only then by God’s own tears.
Sheesh.... I have been getting used to a new job and coming home basically tired and useless. consequently, Sorry for the late responses and all folks i appreciate them all and will catch up this weekend and hopefully get flesh out and post some of t...