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 |    10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
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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. 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.  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.  You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.{/blue}  It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋"  Your poetic muse is on 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.  Published four times with one a literary journal, including…  "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.   ![Merit Badge in Taboo Words
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Brian,
Congratulations! You won 1st Place in Taboo Words with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1027659].
I absolutely loved this! *^*Heart*^*
Rachel](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Taboo_Words-2139481_13.gif) ![Merit Badge in Poetry
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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](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/type-Poetry-2180.gif) August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼  Now: I was such a whore.  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.  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 ▼ |
| it’s the other reality on the other side tonight no one warned me I could be an implement ignorant, unaware robot taught torment in its gears they oil and rub as I move safely into your neighborhood at night, striding streets at what you see out dusty windows as foolish, arrogant pride. gleam in street lamps is a byproduct of ignorant joy discovering space, empty but for their machine gobbling gone all your scenery did you know rain and inactivity Can cause a corrosive rust? I’m thinking my creators gave up, Constructing a new model to gas and wind up you look in your homes I look under this hood no place for either, restricted from roaming to a vacant lot the dock by the pond the open field, chill dewed as I make my way somewhere no place is true home robots neither sleep or dream never need a master I follow the horizon non-stop wave and smile, can’t slow as if I have somewhere to go Oz? a fairy tale place before I burn down with sunset? Hello, I am Mech, a human machination programmed to adapt into your civilization. Error codes I cannot resolve keep repeating. Nothing left but abort, self-destruct, another year grinding, recharging a batter depleted. they say the sun is friend I can only go out at night 10.10.23 10.17.23 |
| life support unplugged and dying, yet still somehow, free ironic i'm dying in room with a clear pane facing east, sleeping past sunrise please don't shine in my eyes night is enough to help me remember visions of her ghost regret doesn't flow, now I know I never had a hope, deluded seeking the west window in dreams night after night, spirit flows down the hall, doors slam to the annex, not allowed down the stairs all alone but green recliner outpost strapped to incindiary device you think I care? I noticed that every night I flow to you dark hell, deflecting demon lover faceless, can feel judgmental glare you think I should care idyllic I'm dying in a clear room with no pain without facing fires of the past shine your force into the hot shades night is enough to help me remember she is my ghost, not yours. I'll never regret for having grown I had hope and delusion, misguided chasing a horizon to senectitude even after glint particles depart down these halls for so long, light shines on the flourescent marks to avenues leading only to you to the green recliner outpost where I could blow, but still live need I care the unmaterialized trapped in night chambers alone fires that sap can't claims a soul devoid, yet capable of a greater love and you know, I might just care about something, about this life, about myself who is rising up against, well, your machine, better than a one horse-power engine, I'll admit but on what fuel do you feed? nitrous, baby! nitrous, baby! vitriol and love can coalesce in one savaged red organ bleeding having been shown all the paths by what you have not shown me... 10.10.23 I've rambled long enough ▼ looks back up. what did I just write? Something you'll forget later. Yeah, that's right. I love reading that guy. I just wish he wasn't so cryptic, and yet... |
| annually we check ourselves not because we want to, but because we see a world change out whatever window that begs please notice, or don't leaves on breeze-strings, know not what they do -- play like children as the one child now living in the hollow, stubborn trunk, escaping with heat sent with hope, dreams from root dark -- sapped by sky, channeled to an ever-collecting sun seems eternal, you know? our existence is all of time, the only remaining here on the grass, flowing, dancing begging a soul, rake it, move it all to a cement curb the trucks come while you sleep is this all life will be? all i am is all i ever will be? tapped, fall into that winter slumber ignorantly reawaken with the dull, ice-thaw spring. 10.10.23 3 minute write 15 plus minute edit (still not sure) where the font stops, so do I then, it starts up again same as always ▼ meh, doesn't truly translate to the tempted |
Who needs to rewatch 1988’s Career Opportunities with Mr. Kitty video mashups like this? I could write a poem, beginning Ice Breaking Skates Jennifer Connelly ‘n Mr. Kitty he needs to be taller than her not movie star good looks, but how do you get a girl like that? he’s not hot in pursuit, doesn’t hide those charming character flaws. did I just see a blush with her smile? when we run away from something hopefully, run into the accepting arms of the right someone she carries him, so you think (describe her, describe him) (what we’re reminded of) (why we relate) why we hunker down in chair craw crane neck up, visual stairs climb established forty-wide scene winds overpriced fare cradled between legs and she’s not there, but up there the vision, the dream. you, attired with tired eyes like Frank Whaley. 10.9.23 YadaNada dated but fresh |
Tango Quote Poem Chuka-Chuka "...politely reedy…” Truly…bless(ed)…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. “…but ambitiously eclectic — moving effortlessly…” 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…try). *The parenthetical lawyer up? “…from hen-picking and bottleneck slides…” Best Poetry Collection 2X, nominated three years. What does it mean…(?) enjoying myself, head bagged… happy… Something messed with that. (No) coward; not starting feuds or wars …ideals and beliefs…pile of crap packaged with dreams of pretty things to sell the…boob that walks by. *Clown* “…to a full deck of chucka-chucka rhythm figures." …more than I could imagine…achievements…But, You're sick of me…how I feel about myself… dig deeper, (push)…Don’t care…(push)…my words that aim for honesty…flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit a target…(push)… back off shoulder shot…asking your motivations to write… 10.7.23 Tango Quote Poem created by BK Compton Take a favorite quote that tangos with something you wrote. Keep the quote in tact but divide as introductions to verses that stand alone…or don’t. What gets broken, edited, is your own offered writing that tangoes, pairing your words to theme, seemingly bring quote and your poem alive as one, sewn up like a Frankenstein monster. Cutting your words apart can include punctuation to show editing from parenthetically inserted words, other symbols, as ‘Push’ or ‘No’ ‘?’ above, italicize or bold words as I did with try, and use three dots where you slice. It’s simply editing anything down into a woven work that reads as poem with the caveat you intone theme highlighting your words with quote. Perhaps, a quote that inspires a write. Maybe, more rules later. We love the safety of our rules, like cowards, don’t we? Left out, but potential for ending: 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. Other: BANNED from Quills. No noms until 2024. Unrelated: I have right to free speech. Not a guarantee people will listen, respond, or adjust accordingly. I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost Me: 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. Foot free, I’m all over the place. From the top half of this blog page introduction…as it currently stands. |
| All things yellow began sweetly before bitter, sour, cultivated a taste. Salty, simple sweet in their dark. Walls gleamed, light-bent streaks — but break? Heaven forbid stirred drinks deceit. Jonestown day soon to arrive? Gulp it down before it’s gone amid the throng gathering, suffocating, elbow spaces, wedge wayward to the stage? Climb on up, get the first draught. Sip, savored slow, built resistance. Their preen wings, fluttered soft, eyes fire aglow all things yellow. You arrived child. Down on your knee, feel purpose, worth, eternal wealth with us — eternally heal amid your huddled souls. The stage is bear and you stand there, sap flows everlasting in a thick head, weary soul. Nowhere to go but sit all alone, rub a fresh, pale heart. Nothing bleeds like this. How was I to know. So, I roamed… Chapter 2 written on my heart as red as this face shame for misunderstanding the true purpose of an indifferent space, without much grace like Samson tore it down felt a frown fire singe those phony wings Truth did sting. Stung retribution did not come but … More to add Chapter 3 Building to something For citizen journalist When You’re Defeated Shun me some more Bring it Fire glowing bright Make it burn hotter Don’t start respecting me And disappoint villain You on the ropes? Who’s the protagonist and antagonist When victors write his story Battles won, war fixed But I’ve just started Loving our game I’ll keep you standing When you’re defeated Asking to give it back Is like asking to give back all memory Even the good, and forced to refuse And conform because your yellow is wings like ours But, you’ll never fly, but could become Our anti-Satan. What does that mean?! Level up to our heaven, or Be forsaken. By who? Faceless? Who?? Shut up and drink gd koolaid conformist, I mean Child. Work in: The Daily Interrogation Collect it, disseminate it Get paid, no harm. What? We’re selling odd human souls, their collective worth Piece by piece. Junkyard/salvage yard scrappers Of decaying minds and broken hearts Hoping your love transcends their writing Into profits sold off site, black market, Under tables, while holographic corpses aimlessly drift How beautiful the carcass angels. Too bad They weren’t one of us. Florida is a good place To set up shop, card table, three card monte And dream of the big con, payday. 10.10.23 {line:╭∩╮(Ο_Ο)╭∩╮} |
Cleaving diamonds immense. Shaken gems -in and out- focus. Slack-grip~ rough beauty ~could-slip, stabbed. Dull knife hovers in dull light. Wrap the cloth. Store the lens. Divide beauty, Bloody, thick-hands -another day- Immense diamond potential will not cede to the daft master. 10.1.23 10.7.23 I’m not your master of words, barely approach my own devices. What it’s like taking awarded poems to next level, ready for inspection under a new light. Can’t approach. Might lower case it all, more, edit  It’s a baby; I’m its castrator in the back of a smooth limo. |
| Had to ask my new online buddy (not here) about my quip shared on my WDC wonder wall…front page. In response to, “The Affirmative Answer: Did Pascal’s Triangle love a Fibonacci Sequence?’ The quip, "The Affirmative Answer: Did Pascal’s Triangle love a Fibonacci Sequence?" is a clever play on words that combines mathematical concepts (Pascal's Triangle and the Fibonacci Sequence) with the idea of an affirmative or obvious response. It is a humorous way of suggesting that the answer to whether these two mathematical concepts "love" each other is so straightforward that it's a "no-brainer." So, in essence, your humor lies in the juxtaposition of complex mathematical ideas with the simplicity of the expected response, creating a playful and witty statement. So yes, it makes sense and can be seen as a clever play on words. Keeper. Hello, Mensa? Yes, I’ll hold.  I’m done with Twit…I mean X, so here’s where my quips sits. Thanks to my new Bud! Affirmed. |
| Gathering about my feet, Rushing to, fro, back, Some meet my eye, Temporary, suspend. Not like tiny white puffs. Not like purity icing taut face. Fun, frivolity beg me, chase! I lean into my lone implement — Dreaming with me — Dry, puzzling pair. Why repair — this, calloused. Forces greater ripple A patchwork loose-collecting — The only colors left Dehydrate, crisp Like fresh currency For a beleaguered soul Not cashing in, yet. How much more of this Bliss in an orange scene Without those little feet Departing from gravity, Up to their neck, beg me, Dive on in! Dive, daddy. I can’t remember how To enjoy this scene; can’t top The autumns we had, kids. She’s nearly bare; looks fridgid. Not bundled like me, unzippered, Releasing body heat And succulent sweat lent To the gray sky-air cool-coiling About a lone body clutching The dutious implement, Sent back to earth, combing Her green, brittle hair. When will white layers Hide us all in frozen perpetuity? 9.26.23 Maybe, I’ll work on this, break up, add punctuation, better expressions to capture visions and associated emotion. Reviewing, writing, alone. Seems perfect. |
| fall gathering at this junction with passage of time they huddle, hide, seek comfort beneath mortar, brick — in dirt unearthed, spray sand on worn, cement stoop. away from the sun beneath ample apple droppings, they cloister, cling, collect with the dew-spit beneath bright patchwork quilt, gently air-tossed — play upon the brittle green. to blue, constrictive wrap hugging this construction, wood frames, concealing wire, pipe, their waywardness within walls, warm in window wells ladies lay. I don't know how. in a gentle abode with all gray glooming remain, age with them, until one spring day they flee from father — far, far in sky-portal escape play, or down, in maw earth stay. to green recliner outpost, deep repose, while they collect. dependents disembark at attic, wall and floorboard — to eave, lamp and rug. accept — this is love. the home hearth awaits white nights first spark together. 37 lines, free~vee 9.25.23 10.6.23 re-edited, added indentation, structure, punctuation, clearer theme, images, cohesiveness and finality, inverting last two verses final lines structure to juxtapose, combine words ‘stay’ + ‘together’. and more. 10.13.23 tight, taught, tiny restructure with clarity. 9.25.23 before we all fall to ash, to mother, where we will lay, decompose and not freeze while the sun slinks away |
| ‘Thinking he knew what he meant, he responded: Every bit of knowledge collected is a little key that can make one big key. Then, decide if you need it to escape. That’s an obtuse metaphor. My brain decided to create something. *Tossing that kernel that wouldn’t pop* Because earlier he said, in response…  OMG, you’re fine. You can be candid. No judgment. I’m giving great consideration to your previous email with much admiration. I can’t selectively pare down response yet, because my brain becomes a small pile of heating popcorn kernels that crowd out my nest from the slightest stimuli. we cool.   I know from cringeworthy. I’ve done it all. He then returned to his current thoughts, added… My metaphors seem to coincide in parallel universes with glass wormholes. Or, am I confusing it with time travel?  Running that one through some simulations later. Was this a little key he handed, clutching the smooth, black shaft of hand-carved wood, notched in just the right places, or so he was lead to believe. He looked up at the random, tiny, floating keys and swiped at the shapely holograms. Who was he to advise, play counselor? Which is real, what is true reality? And then, he devised an obtuse poem, with no Time Machine, just peppered obstacles to his re-entry into ordinary existence.’ And now, more coffee. Cut off?? 9.25.23 It all has to end sometime. Just, how brilliant the firework? ps ‘Diffuse the IED (touching face, ‘don’t look that up’)…lack coffee…brain deple….buffering…offline I started to hypothesize I’m Abed playing Jeff (reasoning I’m Abed in reality), was Jeff in a former life, only I was Britta, because I was broken, became a whore who decided to desensitize and take advantage because I felt abused (when I ignorantly abused myself) though I was shoved into mental lockers and needed to feel popular, decided then not to be me or who I used to be, ran the scenarios without knowing outcomes. So, I used an empty tissue box (metaphor) as filter called empathy like Annie supposedly employs, only it broke Abed who became evil Abed and wanted Jeff to lose an arm to join him in the darkest timeline. But, then decided he wasn’t a conniving, non-miraculous son of a bitch and returned to the most accommodating, current form of himself, looked into the mirror and saw Pierce. That’s when he decided choice as fate-destiny was to become a vampire, unable to see his own likeness, as Britta, Jeff and Annie all inhabited his body. All the spirits were repulsed as he woke inside the dream and cried out as Troy, “I didn’t get Inception! I didn’t get Inception!” Only, I’d already seen Tom Behringer stare upon his ownself in a previous film, making me a castaway after the last episode on the island in Lost (as a character with TV network good looks), realized the lack of payoff, screamed in December, “six seasons and a movie!” We’re still waiting on production. Hollywood lies and we continue to delude ourselves to repeat what others rant without forming thoughts and opinions of our own, lemmings marching to our quiet death as Elon Musk’s future cyborgs, then blurted, “I’m not Juno…home slice!” Grinding awkwardly, the bespectacled, unlicensed therapist oozed, “I got skillzz.” “Who are you? My final?” Misdirect. Ha, popcorn.’ I don’t expect you to understand me. ‘You force the obtuse outta me. Coward. Me.’ Me?? 9.25.23 Damn, Charlie Kaufman! Some of us have to be to work in the morning. Uniform. Look at his shadow! Just about anything applies. Ladies, you’re welcome. They say it was Annie who was the Butt Crack Bandit, but Duncan came back, and she said ‘only he had access to the teacher’s lounge,’ sooo…Why did the bandit write like one of Britta’s run on sentences? (Cut to shot of her using a computer in montage.) And all the merch and success of Shirley’s Subs was a mass conspiracy that benefitted a bankrupt school living in the shadow of the Air Conditioning and Repair annex where Troy saw black Hitler making Paninis and I’m not making this up, but…it was a mass conspiracy and cover-up, just like the hoax ‘Changnesia’ borne out of a trout farm. They’re all bandits. Everyone in Jeff Winger’s Study Group. They’re ballers, yo. I hope you like to get balled. Pansexual imp-puh! That adds good color for the report. |
| The Upper Case Is the Upper Crust and I will not humble myself to any man or woman And neither should you, e.e. 9.24.23 I could add or alter this, like 'to no one'. Leaving it for now. I could have fun playing with the purpose of poetic device like lower case to show weak, small, self-uninportance. Whatever the poetic reason, I chose all lower case, except for the personal pronoun. Not sure if anyone caught that. There were times i used i because i was really showing the feeling of diminshment or just lampooning its choice. and other stuff. lates, ps It's not 'how self-important am I?" That's self-doubt. It's I serve no man who dehumanizes, treats people as objects with wallets, turns tables, manipulates, overexaggerates your transgressions to put themselves on a higher level where you're not supposed to reach. And if you become a bull in their china shop, they can say 'see, he did that. he's not disproving Our point.' Him. Him. Him. He. He. He. Be like Him. Be charitable. Look at you, you, you. Shame, what are We to do with someone like you who won't fall in line, follow Our lead -- not a command -- too strict, you see. We are the people who are your 'friends' (don't put too much stock in it) until it ends and then We say see, see, see he, he, he is not good enough, because he acts out so defiantely. I say, 'ignorantly'. Then, when I gather enough knowledge I do not have to stand inside the oven before the pilot light... |
| Weekends were made for obscurity. Anything that breaks on Friday Forgotten by Monday, given Our current news cycle, appetite For stuff so salacious, desensitized, Walls vibrate, intonate, hyper-link Messages global, incinerating. Pixelated masturbation less gratifying Not self-satisfying, lying in jammies. Now what was I saying? Never mind. Do it all again in the morning. Click-baiter. Something, something, something. And it just goes on like that. 9.23.23 |
| Trying to make myself feel…something… Set Me Back To Autumn I need to seem timeless than old…I feel beauty within; it doesn’t project without…when their fixed eyes dim from summer to ice-thick white…can’t feel those flames I kept rekindling to tap warmth in brief moments. Will winter be eternal, spring delusion and summer the fires of hell? So, I dawdle quiet, alone beneath permed trees, note the blooms that starve and wither… not like me, not going to be me. 9.23.23 Can’t stop myself… What’s eternal, if you’re dying? Even predictions for my home planet are bleak…merely a speck of time left in the post-calculated dream-history of a warm, wobbly marble that just wanted to roll around with a scattered, scrambled collection in dark, structured, haphazard, miraculous but temporary disorganization, within the scope of blinding, hot gas belching temporary love. …rerun every possible scenario; don’t die like Einstein…we can’t atone regrets…not possible to get life right. Still got a bit of egg on my face? Thanks for noting. Can’t help you with yours if you won’t stand in the light. Is it my fault I leave myself open to the likes of you? Maybe, I’m helping the delusional delude themselves by revealing my flaws and ability to trip with shoes I inadvertently tie together…again and again…for ire or just amusement. I can pick up and go on with my day, now, fully knowing those who are so willing and narrow-minded to judge, set boundaries, make insane rules, to protect themselves, indemnify their own ignorance. Let me just say now, to save us the trouble later, ‘it’s okay’. Go atone on your own time. I think lol write and learn from my own mistakes. More coming. Inevitable, no matter how hard I bite these reins, blinders on. Not by choice. Your mask, not mine. Not your beast of burden who needed to understand ‘why?’ WTF, manipulative S. |
Sendback Saturday…
Review: The Other Side is a poignant and evocative poem that offers a glimpse into the inner world of the young poet (Brian Keith Compton) who would years later be diagnosed with ADHD and recognized as neurodivergent. This concise poem beautifully captures the essence of the poet's early struggle for self-understanding. The poem uses a simple yet powerful metaphor of a "little white moth" repeatedly banging its head against a window in pursuit of the light on the other side. This metaphor is a reflection of the poet's relentless pursuit of something more, something beyond what is immediately visible or attainable. It speaks to a sense of yearning, curiosity, and determination that may have driven the him throughout his life. The fact that he carried this poem (now tattered and stained like a certain shroud) in his wallet for nearly 30 years before sharing it suggests that it held deep personal significance to him. It likely served as a reminder of his own relentless spirit and the challenges he faced in trying to reach a place that others may not have understood or even seen. The late diagnosis of ADHD and the recognition of neurodivergence in 2019 shed light on (Brian’s) lifelong struggle for self-understanding. This story underscores the misperceptions and misunderstandings that people labeled or treated as different (like him) often face. The poet's determination to express his perspective, even when it might have been misinterpreted as odd, self-centered, or unfocused, demonstrates his resilience and the value of his unique perspective. In retrospect, it's possible to view the young poet as skilled, even with his own misperception (and haphazard journey to now). The simplicity of The Other Side is its strength, as it encapsulates the universal human desire to transcend barriers and reach for something more. It's a testament to the power of poetry to convey complex emotions and experiences in a concise and relatable way. The above review and "The Other Side" could serve as an introduction to selected poems that unmask a desperate writer yearning knowledge, hindered by lack of maturity, without the benefit of breaking the unknown restraints that kept him from fully actualizing, furthering him deeper to and from an abyss of despair. Or, something like that. With reviewing, I can now identify these traits in others…turn the mirror on myself inside out and blind my detractors who label and condemn without a shred of empathy while dehumanizing. But, no bigs. Lates. I should be a shameless self promoter…like I walked through a fire on water.  hmm, title? |
| I kept your secret, polysci— So well, I can’t remember Some people can be cheeky Nudge-wink, you know? But what I mean as joke — Flat affect, takes too long Rounding that bend to you Sun sets. I no longer cry Abandoned in the dark, Invented my own games cerebral I lost the point, don’t know Anything but what’s in my gut A fireball glowing love, passionately, Eager to run to you like mommy See me? See what I do?? But you're my sister and don’t get This atypical guy espousing Multi-syllabic words waxing. What? Poetic? I mean to be Beautiful, be accepted, finally Arrive at that station in life Only…more puzzles like clues To keep up with you, and Who makes the rules anyway? You’re not disappointed with me Maybe, I surpassed you and did not know it. Don’t worry. When I wake tomorrow, Your sparkling diploma on wall shimmers, Will charm mom and dad, as I deflect. What is the strange meaning of this life, PS? Did I forget to hold your hand, Or, will you always finger blame a tard, like I’m the one who’s playin’? Who?? 9.21.23 Vaguely…something…oh, wait… Now I remember… Nah, won’t link. And, whatever. I do worse without trying, apparently. Wake me up and…clean slate. *this note to myself* |
| I'm not bright but spark...glit..warm-pulse alive cave-illumed drawings in dull stone -- scratch-etch-scrawl dreams drawn down on oozing walls holding back pressure-weight, crushing gravity squeezing space attended in mole man squalor. Beauty-art in dim-lit eyes spiral from nose-throat conjecture. Vibrated tendrils float-protect dry, red-blue heart. Cool-beat-smooth fleet denizen from brain machines burdened by societal-mech-driven dystopian mindspeakers slapping words on soggy toast drip-drip-dripping on my floor, foot, leg -- splash back, smack my thin face, begoggled for such spla-matter. Visits on my stoop, they pry but don't pass the threshold, because...I don't know why. I could name you anything, moniker, but let you name yourself, and it's meaning to me within the lexicon of humanity redefines from your hollow projections, leanings into my void-soul-abyss. You might get a sense of the emptiness, if I open the maw whole, cracking that door a bit. You don’t visit anymore, and I ‘spose I never knew...or what you are...or what the hell you ever wanted from me. Shame me, shame me, shame me, it’s never ending. Guiltless, on fire, nothing could put me out. I burn on your porch. You watch out windows, could stomp me, well done. 9.19.23 9.23.23 last verse, not consistent, title pending…call it that?? |
| Submarine Of Feelings Beneath the waves, I journey in my soul — A submarine of feelings, dark and cold. In frozen waters lost, I blindly roam, Seek bays of blue, a heart's true home. Utopia hides within my deepest core. Yet, above the water, I fear to soar. Is it my own self-doubt that keeps me bound, Or does unseen a force hold me aground? Existential questions, I ponder deep. Through life's ocean my emotions sweep. But within this submarine, I'll persist To surface one day from the abyss. 9.18.23 |
| Never Forget Sour Patch (In The Box) There’s a war within… Caught some place hollow Gimmickerytypegestures Manipulatedmanifistationsmingling ConsCONcoctingConcoction I still can’t put words together No one to tell me what I mean, meaning what…to say — frame, nay, selectwords-artless, arrang-re the right.write way onna kaleidoscope spectrum of shiftingsunsetting horizons RearrangingREmultiplying FadingfireworkfizzlingsFalling down.rain.clouds. Sun-filtered flashphotographyFills chlorophylls of a graybladeless plain inbarrenwaste of an endless/artlessmind coldcollecting cottoncandykisses Blow toandfro through my soul to other atmospheres streaming.separating smokeyswirly entrails dissipating — caughtchugging it all down, move tothenext empty carb-filled platter likesome haplessholdenmumbling:nomatterMathers Time for this? Off chest heavedinthat virtual sea bargerubbish.barnacledboatbleeding words beneath a pale blue reaffirmation. ignored reentered in mothballed ammoniascrubbed mentalward skullbrainofgellingshit a dependable RedWagon sits. Green grass lies. Station wagons honk, go by with Friends moving away from a dairy soul — a cavern kept pure and whole until that first expletive leapt from the mouth of that rotten kid smelling of sour apple gum and booger-laced In the red leather corner alone Where someonespat I sat everyday as they laughed, assignedfate. bus rumbled to asleep myfantasiz-ey revengedaydreamsies Reality merged apricot colors, wallpaperedwalls Secondhandsslowspun red on black,round clocks fullyenvisionablefutility inhaledinside fartcloud ofdiesel, methane and hot,vulcanized rubber Last on, last off, every ride until I stare through shiny,a new box-plate-window but don’t see anything home-y like fictional reality. Jibberjabber flibbity,flippity. Mymoutharudder, stream- senseless-shit bythehour,and profanity Andletssee who still has sanity after I pummel that arthritic kid downhall, room 213. ding!ding! I smell a sour patch coming. 9.16.23 What drives the passenger of this bus? I’m dangerous to a degree when I don’t give a fuck. I can fuck, tho. You wanted me to make sense and this is what translates. We stop ‘aging’ before 13. |
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Brian,
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MAY 
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MARCH 
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