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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 18 year


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
April 30, 2020 at 7:48pm
April 30, 2020 at 7:48pm
#982430
Tell me your truths
and where mine should apply
I've used them as patches
on these dry eyes

Share your secrets
and what I should divulge
mine trapped in Tupperware
sealing a dull head

You seem to know it all
Your easy demeanor instructs
how I should behave
repose in your presence

Any last words before parting?
You have better things instead?
Drop your knowledge like bombs
Demolish the already dead

What sport in that?
I have a few more coins
to toss in this parking meter
My car idles at your walk

I write poems that make no sense
It's a cathartic, rambling word soup
I snicker as you struggle discern
meaningless words like allegory

Tables turned

4.1.20 origin
4.30.20 revised and expanded
April 30, 2020 at 7:43pm
April 30, 2020 at 7:43pm
#982429
Tanka -Calico

your calico heaves
from bed, gray, arthritic form,
no proud tail to swish,
with clear blue eyes buttoned tight
sunbathes on the floor


Tanka -Mastodon

stoic mastodon
chiseled gray in dirt, extinct.
long, curved tusks battled
buried with its long trumpet
a proboscis stilled



I don’t typically write these. These were constructed a few days back.
April 28, 2020 at 10:34pm
April 28, 2020 at 10:34pm
#982292
straight-en-ing u-sed nails

whenever he hammered two-by-fours, dad reused nails
pulled from old wood. it became my job to flatten the curved spines
of rusted, metal gents with slightly tilted hats
                   i couldn't quite correct.
         but as their chiropractor,
each postured between thumb
and forefinger, plying          
any flat surface:                    
the work bench, driveway,
garage wall or nearby tree.
my instrument took aim, became
more true. i learned not to flail
like a god of thunder, but
         strike harder than a gentle
tap, tap, tap-ping --
awkwardly roll, pin, strike.
roll, pin, strike! hopeful
they wouldn't squirm. hopeful
i could produce enough before
he caught up, note,
what's the hold up?
take away my pride,          
left to devour                    
my oozing                    
blood.                    

a left-handed maestro with up-tempo flair
whacked away unflinchingly, deftly smoothing
the rust-crusted,
stubborn little
pegs obeying.
dad directly

rap, rap, rap-ped
each into the
yellow hearts
of repurposed
wood, stood a
right frame in
under half of
a day: erected
the tool shed,
our doghouse,
properly lay
a bed frame
for mom's
tiger lilies,
while i
sucked
a raw
thu
m
b.


4.28.20
6.21.20 edit
8.13.20 edit
Brian K. Compton

honorable mention for 'Shadows and Light' when smushed to fit 40 line max. requirement.
Now, straightened out to length of:
51 lines.

I got the idea from 'flatten the curve' and went in on this with a non-pandemic direction, since I have a better handle on memories from childhood than imagination about how communities are trying to social distance and not overwhelm hospitals.

Maybe, I'll take another stab at flatten the curve another day.
April 26, 2020 at 1:35pm
April 26, 2020 at 1:35pm
#982103
gypsy tree

in my youth
hidden on the hill
where my father would hunt deer
wild game
and me
on the tree hidden
slow, undulating wings.
hundreds, if not thousands of Gypsy moths
revealed
reminding of black and yellow fungi
clasping tree corpses
on a nearby logging trail.
but, age cannot rediscover that tree
hoping to glimpse
a timeless revision
hewn from an old stump.
a decaying mind
harvested by vexing gypsies
that grew in me
flew from my room
truth eaten
spare a few words eulogizing.


fleeting, fleeting, we're all fleeting and holding onto this ride before it stops.

4.26.20

still working on. only one type of punctuation for now
April 25, 2020 at 4:01pm
April 25, 2020 at 4:01pm
#982039
No immortality, no dignity in crawling
Across your sand, bedraggled,
Clutching coin to toss in your receptacle,
Hard-earned byproduct of toil like waste.


4.11.20
April 25, 2020 at 3:51pm
April 25, 2020 at 3:51pm
#982035
After 3 A.M.

I don't want to rise this early
Cats' stirred will want breakfast
A prisoner to these covers
I would rather not ruffle
but lie awake, try not think
of all unsaid
A mind burdened could
dutifully make coffee instead
But the machine would deliver
a light sleeper too soon
for her own journey today

So I contemplate moments
of happiness, turn off dread
The moon gentle glows
just beneath my head
where the pines rise
from a broken frame
where the black has led
escape from another dawn
The glass reflects too much within

I roll from this bed
seek solace in the coldest room
shrouded with footrest garb
draping burdened shoulders
The corner hutch reveals
cola to mix with rum
Lubricate dark haste in sin?
To this screen instead
bent fingers crawl, ache
characters dance in dim light
I'm not getting any more sleep
after 3 a.m.


I've stopped trying to make sense of it all.
Medicate

4.12.20
5.1.20 revised, completed
April 25, 2020 at 3:42pm
April 25, 2020 at 3:42pm
#982033
These Dying Seasons

When they release redacted files
do they preserve a pristine copy?
Is our past so corruptible, as
ink upon paper by scribes who die
with knowledge that could free
our souls from guilt and shame,
stashed away by forefathers,
propped by Machiavellian visions
for a sour world sucked
like gumdrops by candy-loving
occupants with fillings deep
to the nerves, stored in cheeks
like wintering rodents housed
in an aging oak dropping dead
branches on acidic earth, killing
a once lush, green lawn. The mower
uses less gas in these dying seasons.

Redact away,
if a poet won't self-censor.

4.13.20

The reason why it's almost all one sentence? You can't guess?
April 19, 2020 at 3:26pm
April 19, 2020 at 3:26pm
#981510

if you have to ask why we haven't come together,
the only answer is ignorance

there is a universe right outside our doors,
hearts trapped inside yearn to fly

i can see your name forming above my eyes,
planets and stars shining

inside my lonely cabin I have no wings
to send me near, by your side

asteroids, flung shrapnel, pierce tender skin
air I breathe is too thin

if you hear me calling,
i need your eyes
if you see me falling,
know I tried fly
heart yearns ascend your heaven
where we could unify,
stuck in strongholds captured,
begging forgiveness of mankind

when I breathe in this black air,
pink lungs fill clear, inhale your light

if you have to question why so dark here,
the only truth is ignorance

a universe pulsing right outside my door
and I’m a wingless soul who cannot fly

until I can feel you by my side.


*Heart* Heart stay strong
I need them to see you beating
when they come.


4.19.20
Brian K. Compton
April 18, 2020 at 10:36pm
April 18, 2020 at 10:36pm
#981448
*Fire*          *Fire*

Twister roars, air fuels
me in
shaded forest high.
Desire for you hides in
green.

Lungs ablaze, inhale
sky
aflame. No visions seen
with you. Love is
razed.

*Fire*          *Fire*


Form: Sedoka
The Sedoka poem consists of two stanzas of 3 lines each.The syllable structure is 5,7,7 5,7,7. The poem should address the same subject from different perspectives. The poem does not rhyme.
April 18, 2020 at 10:51am
April 18, 2020 at 10:51am
#981398
cold

He ignorantly shoved you
in the pool today
the day you miscarried
as we watched
shuddered from the cold
only you could feel


a rewrite of a 2008 offering included in a poetry collection of misfits that are sometimes publicly available here (sorry if set to private, as yet)

"Invalid Entry
April 13, 2020 at 8:54am
April 13, 2020 at 8:54am
#980954
I'll retitle later...

These Dying Seasons

When they release redacted files
do they preserve a pristine copy?
Is our past so corruptible, as
ink upon paper by scribes who die
with knowledge that could free
our souls from guilt and shame,
stashed away by forefathers,
propped by Machiavellian visions
for a sour world sucked
like gumdrops by candy-loving
occupants with fillings deep
to the nerves, stored in cheeks
like wintering rodents housed
in an aging oak dropping dead
branches on acidic earth, killing
a once lush, green lawn? The mower
uses less gas in these dying seasons.

Redact away,
if a poet won't self-censor.
April 11, 2020 at 11:58pm
April 11, 2020 at 11:58pm
#980837
It’s only temporary

driving by the car lot
you see sales lost,
potential to go out of business
what I see
cars that won’t start
if someone doesn’t rev those engines
to keep batteries charged
before the next test drive

passing desolate hotels
you worry hospitality is ending,
dying tourism, local economy
bedbugs have no flesh to bite,
to support a temporary life,
offspring, for me.

multitudes of walkers we mull
down roads seldom traversed
by foot traffic, you count
potential casualties
for me, fat cells clinging
to long undisturbed hearts burn

gazing upon skeletons
on idle construction sites,
you fear bankruptcy and foreclosure
but I don’t see progress stopping here,
envision men in hard hats,
women in every garb
resuscitating a beleaguered people
back to life before fall starts

too strong for regression,
no time for depression,
seasons unchanging, a planet breathing
with or without a few more dollars to spend.


I'll edit some more later to fine tune message of hope
April 11, 2020 at 11:42pm
April 11, 2020 at 11:42pm
#980834
Signature for use by anyone nominated for a Quill Award in 2020

Let This Be The Last Regret

I button my collared shirt on the edge of your sunrise bed
in my vision
in my soul captured
with a racing heart.
I spy a horizon out your glass where prospects are rays
angling for anything in this room
we once shared in darkness,
glowing before the orb could radiate us,
wondering what next.
Dare we swim the sublime shine?

Do you think me more than pressed slacks removed,
folded, on side table near
neatly arranged pillows,
discarded one night --
beyond comfort of your high thread counts?

The smell from iron skillet in kitchen blazing
could encourage a weak heart to bite an offering.
Fragrance of your heavy perfume, rising
from discarded garments, blocks
these tender senses stirring, packing up
an ending scene, wondering --
where I parked, and how drunk
to forget, and why need your flesh
so close on a fuzzy night?
Risked my love just a little too much.

The last shoe found, heeled for its walk to your door,
imagine held for your one regret still assessing
security, acquisition, of perfect acceptance,
while slotting those beads like Braille upon my neck,
when your small pet brushes my pant leg.


4.11.20, last edit
April 11, 2020 at 10:09pm
April 11, 2020 at 10:09pm
#980827
*Fire*          *Fire*

World on fire, air fuels
me in shaded
forest high.
Desire for you hides in
green.

Lungs enflame, inhale

sky
ablaze. No visions seen
with you.
World on fire.

*Fire*          *Fire*


Form: Sedoka

The Sedoka poem consists of two stanzas of 3 lines each.The syllable structure is 5,7,7 5,7,7. The poem should address the same subject from different perspectives. The poem does not rhyme.
April 9, 2020 at 1:13pm
April 9, 2020 at 1:13pm
#980617
Poem that doesn't know what it wants to be when he grows up…
lonely like you

I swim in these tiny
Concentric circles nearing
Your idle feet soaking
In shallow water
I deserve a nibble
As do you
Our hearts aching
For the moment --
I gleam beneath surface
Collecting a solar charge --
Love shimmers
Like a quick, gold gift
Too smooth to claim
Curious for sodden toes
Gripping soft sand --
The tiniest mermaid
Swaying even with hydrilla
Like a heeled animal
Coexists as you atrophy
Wishing we could play



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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3/month/4-1-2020