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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3/day/6-9-2022
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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 ▼
June 9, 2022 at 11:10am
June 9, 2022 at 11:10am
#1033653
Therapeutic Analytic Poem

I get this image of stubborn cows
they gently nudge, at first, to move
from pasture.
They kill them for meat.
They could raise a gun to me.
Humane? It requires a clean shot.
Where are the gunmen, because a cow knows nothing,
except not wanting to go?

If you’re a human cow, you slowly suspect
guns filled with concisely instructed words
implement each cow-like journey
to the processing plant.
Terminated, no promised heaven to dream beyond.
Once dead, neatly divided and packaged.
Who would deny this traditional process
of gaslighting a cow to stop grazing,
come home and let the end be humane,
equitable as possible.

Mom needs butchered meat, so the boys can eat,
grow up and be strong as cows. Never intending
to be shooed from yard and street —
but human, and better.

We are better than stubborn animals,
don’t obey our farmers,
with bullets of dread. it can get messy,
roaming about ‘free’. Cows used are stud, milked,
grilled in portions as steak.
Slice me, grind for your hamburger to fry.

All of this we must eat like destiny.


from 6.1.22 on iPhone while dehumanized at work.
6.9.22bedited, altered, blogged
June 9, 2022 at 9:40am
June 9, 2022 at 9:40am
#1033646
My clothing, hung to dry for any prying eye…

I’m investigating every emotion felt,
ascribing words that don’t quite match.
hope a paint-brushed portrait of words
I long reveal to an audience, to any
that would assemble, considers
love guided by illusion, or delusion,
discovers how a spark initially intends.

Sorry, if dry etchings don’t drip brilliant,
never-envisioned-before color,
the kind you fantastically assign.
after stark, sobered perception,
each nude word clothed codes
in fleeting memory for you, hanging
hope on time nail, hooked by stable wire.

a piece of me and you on flat drab,
adorned forever, loosens little in shadow
of a narrow, hollow hall, cluttered,
where half-dressed we excuse our passing.

soft words want harden as timeless paint,
indelible, never fading or peeling,
sealed in some super gloss before falling
into abyss I fear to navigate, retrieve
essence of whatever it is you and I
envisioned together, forever.

I must step back, catch breath, breathe,
inhale each consideration reconsidered
in redraft after next to final, final edit.

be still, view. slow this new scene, once
quick-paced, now measured. tiny intervals
redacted scenery, scrubbed wildflowers,
replanted, recolored, recast. swaying sights
lush with life anew, gentle in soothing breezes.
I squeeze your neglected arm, haul you out.
time still beats for an obsessive revisionist.

sorry, my throbbing muffles conceivable sound.
Hear me now, or hear me never. It’s hung.


6.6.22/6.9.22

We must commit to finish what we started, so we have time to live.

36 lines, free verse (if we must count like accountants)
*Notice use of capitalization from apology to assertion.


© 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.

Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3/day/6-9-2022