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Rated: 18+ · Book · Spiritual · #1149750
10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind
Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance like the others. You earn pretty medallions gallantly while other players buy, sell and trade at market to get ahead without moving an inch. Slow burn…hey? You’d rather keep your dignity, or try to figure out their game. That’s where you really get lost. Game full of misdirects leads right back to start over and over. You could have stayed on your quest. Now, you have this.

Redacted, censored, gaslighted…must be doing something right, my old boss would say. I’m not a sociopath, he tells himself. Equal parts, then? Mom should have had me tested. Because, life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit ugly.Tap on them. It’s part of the quest…see where I’ve been; see who I am:


         
                   
                                       
                   
                   
        
         


Right. I redact myself. The beautiful mess you made. Who are you?
If I’ve been denied the right of knowledge, I’ve earned the right to judge.
         |
Without knowledge, who’s to judge?
         |
No gavel; no voice.

"...politely reedy but ambitiously eclectic—moving effortlessly from hen-picking and bottleneck slides to a full deck of chucka-chucka rhythm figures."

I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost
         |
I'm sorry you got caught in the middle.

*Neurodivergent poet.
*Don’t judge/hate. I love.
*Honesty without mincing words.
*Dump your prejudice outside my door. Hope you leave it on the way out.
*Nothing to fear but people who surround themselves with rules, can’t be touched.
*Real dialogue accepted.

My words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The true experience/acknowledgment of my writing yet to come...long after I’ve left WDC, am dead, or both.

Truly been a blessing, but I've been pushing it — envelope, push world and all inhabitants away, push buttons to find boundaries, having no clue or told where they lie, where I've lived in your dark. Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me the way I need to be viewed. (if I knew what that was. Cryptic, I know. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid the strange, virtual walls that tempt me to try).
*The parenthetical lawyer up?



Foot free, I’m all over the place.
 
"Note: Poetry: life’s little interruptions amassing int..."
 

Best Poetry Collection 2X, nominated three years. What does it mean? I was enjoying myself, head bagged. A happy idiot. Something messed with that. I won’t be a coward; not starting feuds or wars over ideals and beliefs. We all know that’s a pile of crap packaged with dreams of pretty things to sell the next boob that walks by. *Clown*

Been more than I could imagine or expect. My achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall. But, I get it. You're sick of me. It's how I feel about myself when I dig deeper, push boundaries. Don’t care my words that aim for honesty, either brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit a target. Get a back off shoulder shot for asking your motivations to write…won’t get me to bend over backwards to appease, again.

There’s no prize to eye, not properly incentivized. So, does it mean when dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do the best with what you got? Yeah, rigged. Yeah, other tables — other ‘games’. But, something in my gut I’ll never be rid.



My Pluggers:
You are an icon here.*BigSmile*
You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.{/blue}*Heart*

It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋"
Your poetic muse is on fire! *Fire* Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal. *Cool*

 
Published four times with one a literary journal, including… *PointRight*   "The Tender Core (Sedona)" 
I don’t submit because it’s too much work. Truly alone, know no one cares to show they believe/support me. Lip service feeds delusion. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Try not be cynical, work hard at openness and consideration — work, sooo…gut thing.

*Toilet* *RibbonW* Merit Badge in Taboo Words [Click For More Info] Brian, Congratulations! You won 1st Place in Taboo Words with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1027659]. I absolutely loved this! *^*Heart*^* Rachel Merit Badge in Poetry [Click For More Info] Thanks you for supporting the [Link To Item #power] with an order to the [Link To Item #powergifts] ! We appreciate it. *^*Heartv*^* Keep writing the beautiful poetry. [Link to Book Entry #1027659] is an awesome poem! *^*Starv*^* ~Lornda

 
Love my process constructing and sharing visions in words collected (no small task considering personal and physical limitations, see below).


August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼

BOOK
SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days  (18+)
All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know.
#1300042 by He’s Brian K Compton


No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼

 
What I used to say: 'Maybe, I just don't get it. Watch me fumble with my version of reality, expose ignorance as truth. You don't have to get me, either. But, wish someone would explain me to myself.' Now I say: *Cool* *FacePalm* Now: I was such a whore.
 


*Laugh*This is old….
What? Oh, this? A rhetorical, self-motivational speech I'm working on.
Don't just read the parts to construct your theory, as if to confirm (construed out of context) your opinion, mentally-stunted Neanderthal. Therapist wants me to be less negative toward myself. I see it as attacking, rather than being defensive. Fear I will chomp too many bullets unintentionally sent toward the unsuspecting.
If you can be triggered for stupid reasons, then I?
…just looked like me rolling around on the floor with myself.*RollEyes*
             



What Was NEW

Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily.

Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego.

#amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #freyaridings #lyrics #music #video #YouTube

Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY?
 

Mud 4 My Eye: Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door ▼

The Best Poetry Collection on Writing.Com ▼
February 12, 2020 at 9:46pm
February 12, 2020 at 9:46pm
#975393


I Could Get A Girl Like That
In Another Dimension

I'm living in two dimensions seeing you across
this wide room.
The 80s pulsing in my renewed veins make me know
I'm still a man.

In one dimension, I approach, broad shoulders
weave the heavy, dark scene strobed.
In another dimension, through whiskey mirror,
eye disinterest in pale reflection.

In this current reflection, a man who knows
a discontented woman.
In this dimension, a man still worthy enough,
despite the divide.

Time warps a man just as a young woman's mind,
by a fool eons past.
He would smash virtue; who, like a boy, only knew
how to drive to that goal.

In this dimension, the older man reflects
on opportunities wasted.
In this reflection, could take his time, drive
the length of her field.

But, in the final quarter, 80s nostalgia divides
my brain in hypothetical delusion.
I walk past, tip a cap to reveal the same blue eyes.
Harmless to her, she returns a smile.




For:
"The Soundtrack of Your Life" 

Languages ▼

Idle Thoughts ▼

Mess We're In ▼

LoveBound ▼

Last Night ▼

Swim Without You ▼

The Other Side Of Reflection ▼

Paper Heart ▼

World Rolls Away ▼

Black Receiver ▼

Safe Harbor ▼

Here And Now ▼

Time Loop ▼

Under The Skin (Eternal) ▼
February 12, 2020 at 9:17pm
February 12, 2020 at 9:17pm
#975391


Languages

This obtuse, underground language
You forced me speak; irksome,
I know --
Like the minds of children,
Unable to express to the busied parent,
In crisis, un-counseled
Un-able to form sen-ten-ces
Your ears disavow.
Not ready,
Never prepared to give answers --
A language you haven't mastered.
So, you set me down,
Crying.
Regret yet having me?

These languages;
One learned, the other unreasoned,
Linger beneath tongues
Tied, idiocentric.
I hide in the wall closet,
Build forts with good blankets
In your home
Mortgaged; tied
To offspring like me
Who won't grow up fast enough,
Move out.

Inspired by mood of 'In The Waiting Line' by Zero 7. I just hear this song and poems like this are produced. I wrote many more last month. Great song for January.


For:
"The Soundtrack of Your Life" 
February 12, 2020 at 9:09am
February 12, 2020 at 9:09am
#975344
Ricky Gervais:
Now Streaming...

Truth is refreshing. Truth is fleeting.
We live in fantasy, dream like Hollywood,
always believing (if we mean well)
with no actions, just words,
our invisible tapestry of rhetoric
cannot tear;
if no one can find a thread to pull.

You yanked. We could feel it —
The soft underbelly of fleeting actors
holding glued costumes and hypocrisy.
We knew, here’s a man undeterred
who should fear. Undeterred,
has cojones.

Truth is out there; woven thin,
invisible to nude eyes. We believe in it,
sometimes touch. But, too fragile,
don’t handle it like you.
It cannot be grasped by the likes of us; and,
will we hear from you again?
Did you know you built a right
platform for liberals hanging?
When do the executioners come?

It’s Hollywood.
With enough time and money
they’ll write a happy ending, don
super suits.
You had a role in it.
Now, cue Tom Hanks to play you
in the lead, soon streaming on ISIS.




Alone With My Lioness

Clearing the white drive,
hymns unsung from
my pink core —
black exhaust. I hope
the last exhaled about the house cat
envious of his revered lioness,
who alone does not know
his devotion, as she lies obscured
amid tall, dried grass and stick.

The heavy blade wielded, now idle,
props beneath my weight.

From the clean drive —
songs unrevealed linger in my heavy lungs,
black with regret.
I haven't told you about her yet,
lingering about this brilliant event.
Blinds dry eyes that yearn view
a blue vault, only to see
a long street,
as the snowplow comes.




Cars And Trucks

I’m not gay in your world, but
gay enough. I am not black either; however,
black wherever I roam without you.
I am not an immigrant, but a stranger
in an even stranger land watching their cries
like infants — helpless, little babies I refused be
since I grew up, took my medicine. Gut full
of the stuff soothes what rumbles within.

If I am not right,
or left, I am wrong and alone, watching
beer-guzzling hunters haul bloody trophies
on trucks like freedom. With mud on oversized tires,
be-dazzled grilles with tow hooks pull
tiny, two-wheel drive cars from ditches
in winter blizzards. The babies drive off
with meager thanks and expressions of shame.

I go home to the goth girl; attracted
to friends who daily reject her, shaves
her head, pumps that brain with Korean anime,
K-Pop, rants about repression, plight
of LBGTQ-plus — 13-year-old professed bisexual
(still pending), with lips more prepared for metal
piercing than tender kisses of lost innocence.

Her brother: tall, brilliant, master of piano and
brass instruments, top scorer of state and ACT testing
(Math, English, Science) befouls a basement couch
in the dark. Head strapped, controller aimed
at green distraction, too tired to remember
hand in missed assignments,
tracked on PowerSchool by two doughy parents
who'll be damned one of these babies
doesn't make the grade, land on feet to struggle
with something akin to virtual reality — our foggy existence.

Then find time to wonder…politics? What's this about?
Are you trying to get me to feel something, Mr. Trump?
Fabric of an already torn nuclear family tugged —
a tapestry too thin. Must we scrap it, create another?
And just how are we supposed to do that, when babies
bury shiny cars in ditches? Will the muddy trucks come?
My sensible SUV can't save us.



Prose and Dead Men

My tiger-striped flannel and matching yellow cap,
if slid askew, would remind living family
of the old man sitting on the tailgate
of his blue Ford, sheltered amid
flocked customers and other vegetable growers.
Cracking wise in the corner parking lot
of the local farmer’s market, his hat true --
angled in the ‘locked’ position.
A habit, I suppose, from serving in military.
Nicknamed Big John, missed death as a sentry in Guam
by just one hour. Relieved of post before
another throat slit, a nameless brother in arms.

I would not learn until I was dressed like the man.
These scribbled musings in secret journals
illuminate a dark mind. Hollow words spun,
like his cap, in my corner booth for hours
at mic’ed readings where no one peruses
the printed commitments amid pregnant pauses.
My endless voice scratchings echo an arena choked,
with tears in my eyes not for him but
some liberal heart bleeding, actualize
the purpose of prose.




Camden

What's in a name? You'd think
by any other she would smell as sweet.

Burst into my world like an unplanned thing,
I had no name for her until I saw tender, frightened,
so un-in-love with the light this trembling creature
revealed unto me,
Madeline Margaret.

I was her owner; until we mutually agreed while
playing horsey, she held my fate in her tight reigns,
some unmarked day, on the living room rug, where
chafed knees began to frail.

She was my owner; rebuffing any outward thought,
steady herself, quell angst against a world much more
punitive than a father now yielding to mother, who
one day delivered, “There's been a change.”

No, she's not Madeline Margaret anymore; but,
some pierced, hooded creature trolling about (still
my plaything), buried deep within that trembling,
tender-calling, bleeding heart. Just, 'Camden' now.
I was not to be introduced.

The story will have an ending, one day. But,
who will I see staring across a restaurant scene at me,
with love? The same contempt? For the man who
released trills from a choked throat, when
she became my owner?


© Copyright 2024 He’s Brian K Compton (UN: ripglaedr3 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
He’s Brian K Compton has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3/day/2-12-2020