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. 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. August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ 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 ▼ |
Cotton, woven, linen too perfect in reverence of gentle white greetings it would be new anguish to stain. Then, the tub’s the thing — though it soothes — it’s with purpose to serve a soiled soul with stains to drain each red moment tide-bled from eternal life clock, ticking, ticking, ticking off. Oh, but be a burden to the maid that must scour? So, with the life-nourishing water tapped, spigot-ever-sending, purge an outpouring until every last sap-drop drowned. And yet, could a soul vanish in wood somehow-never-found except by hungry mongrels to sever worried flesh from pale bone upon receiving ground? Maybe, walk into a fire so intense it disguises all remaining hope of a life not lived well enough to tell? What worry to have been a burden so small unworthy of comfort of bedding, a bath, a walk in wood, warm fire that sparks the fleetest gleam in a lone moment. Thoughts entertain a soul not-ready-for-bed in this quiet undead void of endless night meandering. What if I’m gone? Since, I seem to be less-than-sheets-suds-roam, and another rekindled sunrise of-no-surprise at all? 11.12.23 Let’s not speak of this…too easy to entertain idle thoughts…that progress from room to room to open door, down a highway to hopeful non-existence, freedom of burden to roam as unshackled spirit wherever my mind wants to take me…since, no true home but inside my mind. Thoughts progress, the wider the maw of existence unhinges jaw to receive a thin-thin-pale soul washed awash, never-ending… and-it-just-goes-on-like-that… …dashes blur like yellow highway stripes toward highway oblivion… dot-dot-dot… Do words ever… |
“Celebrating what we hope for together is better than fighting over what we believe separately.” Wing-clipped Here’s to: all the energy, vitriol, indifference, sanction, silent demonstration that fills your lungs like the black balloon, weight one small bird inhales, exhausts white with fallen plumes in endless flight and its cryptic coos... Shall I never write poetry again? Wing-clipped & burdened under a white cape. Black buzzing shears the head of hope I’ll ever be beautiful again. Winter death dreams not of eternal Spring, silenced, sputtering, inhaling morbid dust. Mourning nests in eaves, stiff pine, bushes with cold dandruff. Within, all aspiration chases them through wild Summer grasses past to get to this Fall, to fall and fall, fall, fall…with no arms to receive — me — fleeting, particulate white, scattered, slowly painting my green home going down under brown. Bookmark a life this late, risk sleep without knowing if I’ll wake to realize the chased happy ending? I’m saying, I’ll die without truly immersing in this life wasted. As ash, I have become one with snow. Who knows where we will go. a piece of ash incinerated body a magical element collected by a child my last shard of a human-alien bone. Disembodied, my voice in his room, mis-associated as ghost but helps him cope, find purpose, hope, how to deal with life… solve for difficult factor of x with y. When not charged, it’s silent…until it’s truth revealed. place that particle in some experimental norm an energized, particle accelerator. dark fiction, real but with hope for the future, teach people how to treat one another with respect, and pay attention to what’s really important…love, community, unity, compassion, caring, and imparti Bluck!
I could be a messenger of love, to bring unity, but Wing-clipped, fallen with no one who’ll touch. So, I never stop flying like a dream, through smoke, Your fog, clouds, huffed, puffed that I consume, chug Meant to pull out my plug, but I’m wireless, impervious To ignorance, defeatism, realism I’ll finish and defeat The defeatists. Their game is division, keep my coos From your ears, too many to block, so keep me out, down. Unity isn’t the aim of my love, but a blissful byproduct. We could share but that would mean cutting out the purveyor Middle man who created this tent in a worldwide house. It’s a snare at best. |
Formerly: ‘Raised … in a memory’s dream’ I heard you say only one metaphor at a time — all you could follow am I dreams — when I don’t speak to you? artless? Let me keep this straight while working on another poem in my head… I see — crayons color mother… She hugs me. Appreciation? I draw another and another, lifelong to please her. Wish I could near you, merge with song. Everyone is mother, because… I chase something across a barren rug. Oh, there you are. I’m holding my drawing up… I remember you say everything is poetry…yes/no? Where there’s beauty is song? No reception… The purpose of these crayons? mother raised me wrong. she died. Indifferent, the song plays on. I surpassed into nothing but a void, living in a memory’s dream, recast into shapes like you, with eyes ears nose. You don’t follow this cryptic form of communication that lives in the untold — yet, visualize this incipient space? That’s me! That’s where I live! But (~none~) conceive what cannot be, that cannot bond to your atoms. 11/2023 41 lines, free form https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horror_vacui_(physics) : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horror_vacui_(physics)#Origin Can I breathe now? Wanted to end with an added line… I’m not living a dream? -or- I’m not even the memory of a dream. a little too… Afterthoughts: To exist is to be acknowledged? Earth is true purgatory. 11.30.23 last edit |
I’ve considered you all So much I forgot about me And yet Thank you for the distraction Never far From my next birth…rebirth Received? Amniotic waves flow away From me Once fertile feelings of love Are naught My love not to be bought I hide Walls of resistance crushing Fall in Explode a beautiful sea into A void Harmless blue blood washes brown Back out Black into light obliterated I am Alright in sanctity tonight Until morn We wait to see a sparkling babe Born…again. What a waste lost, to revision. 11.11.23 This…I’ve done for all and any, and yet… still learning…and who I am? Not to be defined by another, anymore That’s why the reviewlution…for now… Cleansed into one-ness. Careful, lest stars get in your eyes. |
Yeah, you don’t know me. What’s that on yo neck? Unrelated How many corners of Earth you tryin’ to own? How many more have I been in tryin’ to whiff an essence? You? You think I chase. You ain’t got the cash I need. You can’t own those mountains, that sea, the sky. You can climb, swim but never fly, yet you try… buy it all, hoping I buy something you can’t conceive, something I ain’t sellin’. ‘Cause, the more I buy, the more I’m bought. The more I’m bought, the less I’m worth. And you can’t have those words that I just stole. They ain’t my birth. 11.11.23 Trousers back on If you ain’t feelin’ me, ain’t been tryin’. Maybe, you read wid dem roses on. Roses ain’t green. You ain’t foolin’ me; but someone, right? I hope they pay you good. Me, I’m jus’ tryin’ ta be. Now…my dick? Yeah, now it feel good. And sorry, it’s jus’ for me. No need a Buffalo Stance… I’ll try another approach another day. I know you don’t ‘respond’ SVP. p.s. My poor mom…’where do all those words come from?’ She SHOULD have had me tested, instead of calling me ‘different’, her ‘dumb bunny’. You know, a dumb bunny is sick in the head…soon dead from madness. I’m no March hare, mad hatter. She could never see what was the matter? Me neither, until EVERYONE told me otherwise. Then, skinned or marshaled me to some island where echoes of childhood float above black plumes and below these lava boots. I’ve stomped each bitch, one by one, until in my Lost, saw just illusion, someone’s delusion, as others employed guilt and shame from that long ago Time Machine I refuse to board. You get in. Bet you won’t know the date I’ll set it. Edited versh. I wudn’t do you like dat. Pilin’ FBoys like logs fer fire. 🔥 burn. |
I’ve Strayed/When You Tire Don’t know what normal is in your world duplicated tried but it’s all a lie and you hate me for my charade wanting to belong when we like the same song but I just go on deep in the night fighting for some right I’m deep in this fog in a forest four counties long further from you so my voice is no good though I sing to someone just like me each day, each night why they fright to extend a hand I do not know but if found, I’ll hold on make sure we’re never cold or alone maybe, I’ve strayed so far from you because we walk in opposite directions beneath one moon, one sun, one song eternal — that I wrote all the words wrong rearranged, so you’d know there’s something about me that you won’t see undiscovered in every dawn you yawn yet, we hum away to that very same song I’ve noticed I’ve strayed from you accept what lonely is accept that forests and nights guided by one moon I won’t fright and when the sun comes I’ll help someone else be strong help write the lyrics wrong I’ve strayed from your normal yet, between us who’s the one that fears? when the dawn? When you tire of that song? 11.7.23 51 lines, hardly epic I might have written to a different song that invaded my head long after this video died down. Speak right into the clown’s head. Maybe, they‘ll get the order right. Choke on dry chicken without Sprite but seltzer to wash down this life. I’m pretty sure the song in my head was “I’m bad news”. Did I blog that yet? |
You know this is just another pawn I’ve played Even no response reveals each position — the incipient voids. Tried to teach you errors in your ways … Silence … absence of sound proven to be heard. I place another beat down felt a heart echo pleasant sadness that you can no longer come around All you deploy takes effort to lack All I lay on the board emulated strategy I don’t care if you move toward or away — you decide where the Queen is at and who is pawn today Does an absent heart regret, lay down or stay, move, play? Disinterest instills foreplay of red and black game In my infinite space nothingness travels Air molecules fill an inner ear Another heart unraveled today… 11.4.23 I’m always thinking, but not acting, six moves at a time, producing six new avenues each…computation that takes time. I learn to rest one hemisphere at a time, so there’s no lag. https://www.thenationalnews.com/world/2023/07/10/absence-of-sound-scientists-fin... Tag! Somber is one of my happiest moods. I’ll look at this someday and wonder… I’m not not listening. |
I can assure you anything I do was preceded by some provocation when stripped the right to … That went nowhere. You don’t have to like me Or pity Know what…? Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll just keep doing… this. It’s artless when it gets to this Some-thing… robs mind soul unity within unity without starved Drops the knife Not the write tool. Right? |
Wing-clipped (Without Context) Here’s to: all the energy, vitriol, indifference, sanction, silent demonstration that fills your lungs like the black balloon, weight one small bird inhales, exhausts with its cryptic coos... Shall I never write poetry again? Wing-clipped & burdened under a white cape. Buzzing shears the head of hope I’ll ever be beautiful again. Winter death dreams not of eternal Spring, silenced, sputtering, inhaling morbid dust. Mourning nests in eaves, stiff pine, bushes with dandruff. Within, all aspiration chases them through wild Summer grasses past to get to this Fall, to fall and fall, fall, fall…with no arms to receive — me — fleeting, particulate white, scattered, slowly painting my green home going down under brown. 10.29.23 11.1.23 edits to make connection to me, though not original intent Bookmark a life this late, risk sleep without knowing if I’ll wake to realize the chased happy ending? I’m saying, I’ll die without truly immersing in this life I’ve wasted. Also, as ash, like white, I become snow. Babble-add… Thought for story: a piece of ash of an incinerated body becomes a magical element when collected by a child who likely has a shard of a human-alien bone. Disembodied, it becomes a voice in his room, mis-associated with a ghost, that helps him cope with life, find purpose, hope, how to deal. It helps solve difficult problems. I’d place that particle in some kind of school experimental like a particle accelerator. When not charged, it’s silent…until it’s truth revealed. I’d mark it dark, real but with hope for the future, to teach people how to treat one another with respect, and pay attention to what’s really important…love, community, unity, compassion, caring, and impartiality…work on. |
Criminal Thoughts Why write poetry? because I’m a criminal who took your thoughts, ran deep into the night, blind like a fool worrying, wondering if I’ll get caught returning them better than before. If caught, I’ll have 29 beautiful lies. Regardless, I’m prosecuted. Yet, time served dreaming you alive in my world. It is the act of imagining what you think of me that drove me to steal away to shaded park benches, hidden, ancient library stairwells, to the sea that heaves dead scrolls at me, or in my childhood tree, an oak (sorry, just a maple), to find you there, a soul like me longing for a friend. We run carefree, fast as wind, quick hounds on monarches’ tails — snatch at slimy frogs, standing, rolling, on mossy logs, feet bare, fearless. And, when I have one! the lights come on and you’re not there. I slip green reptiles and dead butterflies in your trousers hung over the ready chair. My stealth could seem your enemy if spied in your room where I steal your sheep each night. My heart affrights, runs ahead out the portal, down long neighborhood blocks, ducks behind white hemlock when headlights catch up, veer around another corner, steer off, and relief. I’m free! to be alone in my own story. I skip the longest strides, hop toward the bleary moon staring down. Not a single star. Nothing in reach. By three a.m., exhaust; close the laptop. Like jelly slide to sandwich in thin sheets to conjure a story like memory. Eyes tight, the dream I plead please come true is of me and you in June. We hold hands. Sorry, if mine are clammy. 10.31.23 53 lines That’s how much I love, how I need a true friend. Grammar check tomorrow |
I have a recliner I can’t eat in. I have a bed I can’t eat in. I have a bathtub I can’t eat in. Because, I won’t clean. Sorry for the mess. It’s slothsome ignorance not self-aggrandizing arrogance. People who have met me should know me by now without having to repeatedly explain myself. I struggle to consider others inside my own struggle to get outside of the storm that rages within, close the door behind me, to sit in my recliner, to lay in my bed, or soothe in the bathing bubbles. Like a neon sign: No snacks where you idle, nap or soak. Not a buffet. Starved for the littlest luxury. Dirty, tired, bored. Still, won’t go outside to play. 10.29.23 You hear me. So, there’s that. Don’t be so literal. |
Me, before every poem I post…nipple bracket left, font, colon, times, nipple bracket right, nipple bracket left, size, colon, four, nipple bracket right, paste, title entry, chose view setting, save, hope internet works, post. Do I share? Today? Coffee then write another, offline. Don’t want to lose precious words that never pay anything while collecting my self-worth. My flesh for a machine made of human flesh, deceitful, manipulative, incentivized black souls who feign friendship and sever, sever, sever…sounds a machine makes in its systemic purpose. Sorry I couldn’t stoop low enough to feed myself, but I did come up with this arrangement of words. Here’s to all the energy, vitriol, indifference, sanction, demonstration, that fills your lungs like the black balloon, so you can feel the weight of one small bird. Shall I never write poetry again? Wing-clipped & and burdened under a white cape. Buzzing shears the head of hope I’ll ever be beautiful again. Winter death dreams not of eternal Spring, silenced, sputtering, inhaling morbid dust, strapped in leather, collecting all aspiration of chasing them through the wild grasses of Summers past to get to Fall, get to fall, fall, fall, fall…no arms to receive fleeting, particled white slowly painting my green home going down. Let this be the last one. 10.29.23 Bookmark a life this late, risk sleep without knowing if I’ll wake to realize the chased, happy ending? I prefer silence AND stinging words. You-just-can’t-stare-at-me directly in the face with those tanks…at your ‘little man’, two arms weighted by shopping bags. Go ahead. What do I car-ry? It’s collapsible. If released, immeasurable. What did you bring besides metal mud-packed, tread propelled by factory machines, sheathed projectiles that never deploy; silenced by rust, daisies in your turrets, gritty orange streaks have run down the flat green camouflage? Buffalo stance. There’s nothing inside, not even Oz. Be Real? It’s not rejection I mind, but the lack of a sense that I’m part of a community. We decry government for bureaucracy, to self-audit; but the components that you rely on, that you build upon, can not feed you their flesh and bone without TRUE renewal. I’ve tested your flawed systems, and…black smog. You should have inhaled some. Sorry. Cryptic. Isn’t that what poets do? How can you know what I mean, if I don’t come correct, if you are not a poet, too? Another morning wasted in blog in this way, hiding the little gems, because what you want is my unquestioned fervor and a few bucks. I could spend so much more, but have learned how false some people really are, can’t get one sense as arrogant, indifferent, narcissistic and poorly incentivized bottom feeders, how really incorrect and lacking in morals each of you are. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Bruise bitches. Bruise in those domes. So dumb. So, so dumb. You really don’t know what you are. No faces. Smiles are emojis. Poet pretenders with fake, fat community recognition. No value, zero to me, when you show how you truly are, without having to resurrect S.G. propped up like a stuffed Stalin. This ain’t no revolution, baby. Bullshevik |
I’ve done this/these moments, in five different poems. Never all in one… Winter Light by Luke Johnson Let’s say you watch your father heave & sputter & froth as air has left his lungs leaving him still & small. Let’s say despite your sister’s call home your wife’s call home your children calling out for you you’ve come to a bench by a boarded-up gas station to light a smoke & stare across a shady brook toward mountains placard in snow. Let’s say a mother swallow slaps a passing truck & flips across the sleeted street landing alone in the gutter. That as she fights you scan her eyes & for a moment find yourself inside your father’s childhood home where winter light leans upon a covered piano powders an empty gun then moves along the wooden floor to fill a box of moths. You place your lips upon the swallow’s beak to blow. Watch its pebbled plume bloat like a black balloon. & remember how you’d run the grove without your shoes to climb the leaning oak & listen for the egrets’ wings in search of fields with water. It was simpler then. Fire. Snow. Flood. Sky. Hours falling like flowers. Your mother in her lavender slip looking for wild honey & both your sisters’ parted mouths longing for the rain. https://barrenmagazine.com/winter-light/ I had to ask myself, outlining questions I had, before tackling this poem to realize what I had witnessed in Winter Light… What has the poet done here setting scene to introduce memories and to speak to existentialism? Winter Light is a story, is a vignette with vignettes. What are these poetic devices that make this poem charming, and what does it say about the narrator and the repeated ‘let’s say’? What’s up with the ampersands? In a critique, introduce by answering all questions with consideration of what’s been witnessed, and break this poem down for people to realize what can be realized, both from the speaker’s POV, but as poets, to consider before they approach and employ words to produce yet another poem. What I came up with… The poem "Winter Light" by Luke Johnson sets a scene that introduces memories and touches upon existentialism. It uses various poetic devices to create its charm. The poem is written in a narrative style, inviting readers to witness a moment in the speaker's life. It's important to analyze the poem's content and form to understand its depth and meaning. The poem begins by asking the reader to imagine watching the speaker's father in a state of distress, emphasizing the helplessness and vulnerability of the human condition. The imagery of the father heaving and sputtering, with the air leaving his lungs, conveys a sense of mortality and the transient nature of life. This introduction immediately engages the reader's emotions and sets the tone for the poem. The repetition of "Let's say" is a stylistic choice that adds an element of uncertainty and imagination to the narrative. It suggests that the events described may not be literal but are more like possibilities or reflections. This technique prompts readers to consider different interpretations of the events presented, enhancing the depth of the poem. The use of ampersands (&) throughout the poem creates a sense of brevity and immediacy. It's a way of connecting ideas and images without fully spelling them out, giving the poem a more fragmented and contemplative quality. The ampersands serve as a way to link various moments and emotions in the poem, reinforcing the idea of memory and the interconnectedness of past and present experiences. As for existentialism, the poem explores themes of existential reflection and the human search for meaning. The speaker's contemplation of the father's mortality, the swallow's fate, and childhood memories all contribute to an existential undercurrent. The idea of finding oneself "inside your father’s childhood home" suggests a connection between generations and the way memories and experiences are passed down. In terms of poetic devices, the poem employs vivid imagery, metaphor, and symbolism. Winter light is used to symbolize both the harshness of reality and the beauty of memory. The image of the swallow morphing into a "black balloon" symbolizes transformation and loss. The memory of running barefoot through the grove and listening for the egrets' wings represents a simpler and more innocent past, contrasting with the complexities of the present. In conclusion, "Winter Light" is a poignant and introspective poem that engages with themes of memory, mortality, and existential contemplation. Its use of repetition, imagery, and ampersands creates a distinctive and emotionally resonant narrative. The poem encourages readers to reflect on their own memories and the human experience. It's a reminder for poets to consider the power of ambiguity and imagination in their work, as well as the ability to convey deep emotions through concise and vivid language. 10.29.23 Four Walls (Context) Here’s to all the energy, vitriol, indifference, sanction, demonstration that fills your lungs like the black balloon, so you can feel the weight of one small bird. Shall I never write poetry again? Wing-clipped & and burdened under a white cape. Buzzing shears the head of hope I’ll ever be beautiful again. Winter death dreams not of eternal Spring, silenced, sputtering, inhaling morbid dust, strapped in leather, collecting all aspiration of chasing them through the wild grasses of Summers past to get to Fall, get to fall, fall, fall, fall…no arms to receive fleeting particle white, slowly painting my green home going down. Let this be the last one. 10.29.23 Bookmark a life this late, risk sleep without knowing if I’ll wake to realize the chased happy ending? |
They see you shoving me around. They also see me get up from the ground. In front of the children? Are you mad? You have your therapist to employ but it’s me on your couch. Concern so sweet and yet fake, But doing their job. Everything you bestowed was supposed to be a gift? With all the pearls a groundling less than court jester. I need not your wealth. Lend me a hand up from my seats. Take pride in the fact you cede one diamond pressured by your ways, changed rules in your playground. But what price do you pay? There is a healthy way to deal with anger. It’s not through shunning, hating, gaslighting that is the path to least resistance. It’s not sugary words so seldom delivered, too hard to swallow. I feel they’ve worn themselves out. *Squints* but can’t see you. Are you real? How many ghosts linger in these halls? And where have the halos gone? Yes, I’ve got better things to do. God says I need to help you find the right way. Get a bigger kid it still ends the same. Takes less energy to show us that smile. But, if you can’t, I worry who’s the one really picking themself up from the ground. I’ll be around. 10.25.23 I get dirty, don’t like myself there. When I have ‘real’ friends who don’t stab me like some Caesar, I can be who I intend. Hey Judas, why did you kiss? I am the betrayed. Are you confused how this all began, continued to this day? How are the Site Jabber Reviews coming? Decide 4.7 was enough?? Poor Google, Twitter and more, total revs easily surpassed by you. Yelp! |
My oft repeated chorus (Soundgarden): In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone How does it get more impactful than this? Rest in peace Chris Cornell. ----------------------------------------- Broken People I don’t know your fallen angels. I don’t know those who mourn. I wish that I could commiserate without feeling forlorn. Broken people have wings. Broken people can fly. But, we drown in our sorrow. We are afraid to even try. We’re focused too much on pity. We focus too much on the dead. Why can’t people lend sympathy, leaving emotional homeless unfed? I envision your shadows. I have lingered in your shade. I don’t know why I am here and why I am buried with your spade. It’s through charity we find folks who struggle just like us, who are the same kind, who need redemption and trust. We can be here for the living before they suffocate underground. People can love people with differences all around. Lay down your weapons, with their stained bayonets. Extend a tender hand because I haven’t met you yet. 10.24.23 28 lines 4.23.24 formatting and one adjective added We are all stones, either above or below; some shining brilliantly for show while the rest of us know we have worth, too. But it’s really not about that. Is it? Do we want to be on the surface? How much pressure can a diamond take? I’ll be in my bedrock until the earthquake. |
When I was (redacted) years old, I had a favorite (redacted) who (redacted) In an old (redacted)(redacted)(redacted) I liked best. It wasn’t very long later, I learned of (redacted). And I guess I miss (redacted)and the times we (Redacted)(redacted), and (redacted). I know we are supposed to share these very personal experiences with (Redacted) people to earn a prize for contest, because it helps us open up and tell about (redacted), or (redacted), but I realized I really don’t know anyone, not even (redacted) who I miss and can confess is dead and I had nothing to do with it because I was just a (redacted). I’ve revealed enough of my life. It’s all right there for consumption. I’ve tried not to consider that (Redacted)(redacted)(redacted) could be going on (redacted), so I kept to myself, but to be human we each need interaction. Yet, to be told (redacted) years ago I’ve had decisions to make. Never tell anyone about (redacted), (Redacted), or (redacted) because (Redacted) cannot be trusted. They have (redacted)(redacted) and you have to beware of (redacted). I miss that person integral to my life. I really could have chosen mother, but I’ve spilt plenty of beans there. They know your (redacted) and your (redacted) abd they behave like (Redacted)(redacted)(redacted) people. Choose your adjectives wisely. Also there’s an old saying my father said. 10.23.23 And it can’t be fiction. My memory is fiction, mis-remember, completely forget. I don’t make passwords from anything personal, or that will come up when gee, I could win a prize if I act the biggest boob bawling about someone who did blah-blah, I forget. It’s not that they weren’t important. Cherish privately, with family, with trusted ones. If you’re all alone…you’re screwed? I’m working on being unwanted and then maybe can write some stuff about me and fake cry. Save your pity for the dead. Ooh, that got ug-gly. Oh, well. I might enter it, parade it around, after revisions, of course. Knock-knock. Is this thing on? Where’d you go, polysci. Not my friend? You created me. I’m not like this. I just thought that boomerang would hit you all in the head by now. So what’s my end game with Kåre Enga in Udon Thani if I’m a monster? He’s honest, needs attention. You pretend that’s what you do, and now with your phony PR/psychologist BECAUSE OF MISTAKES FROM YOUR PAST ARROGANCE. Own it. Wasn’t supposed be all caps, blind, forget…the PR. And you’re fucking with people. I’ve been here too long, looked for your wounded to care for. Here’s another poke. Yeah, it’s the internet. Shady is okay. I can’t shadow your shade? Haven’t I mirrored enough of your shame? Do you really have no faces? I’ve seen you on Zoom, which was killed. I miss the scripted conversations in scroll to model WDC desired behavior. I copied and pasted the last one from Storm Machine. worse in old days. Now, bots and zombies. Dead. You’re having trouble? Hmm. |
Machines can warm you, but do not hug. Definitely, don’t inhale their toxic exhaust. You can model their behavior. Don’t be robotic. Machines want your data, never ever input Something about through put blah blah 10.23.23 Everywhere I look, little dystopias, chewing on the brains of my spouse, my two kids, co-workers, more. Num, num. give us more. Sad robot. |
Let’s square off You go first Use your words Call me on the phone with three of your friends Corner me and shame me places I live And I’ll respond, “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” With concern, “I’m worried for you. I sense your hands are clenched?” Sit down with me. Let’s talk it out. What’s bothering you?” My version of civility, when I live as public as a frog. Don’t need to pace it off. You have some notions. Let me fill in the blanks for you, so you’ll see why I’ve been poking you. If you don’t dialogue, I have to wonder if you own the guilt and shame. Why can’t you just say something, rather than emote through actions, but no words? I heard it for 17 years, as each faceless one retreated. Some sort of coalition I had sought inclusion. I have regrets, but no forum to speak them. My accusers went to the grave one by one, replaced, superseded one who erred early on, tried contrition, offer a hand, understand the systemic nature of this, an environment that must sustain. Is it not going well? Could it be you are angry at something else. Look. It took me a long time as a whipping boy to get a taste of silence not lashes. Slow as one with no social functions, learned through negation and how to model reaction. But lose myself, dignity, identity? What’s the cause? Secretive. Uh-huh. And I’ve done you wrong, somehow by playing silly games rather than eyes on my own prize when I realize what you’ve taken from me. And if I don’t like it? I’ll sit here and enjoy tea. Repaint your faces, speak falsely. I don’t care. I came to help. I deserve what I get for blind trust. So, square off, talk or back the fuck off. Because, I’ve only just begun learning your game. I model behavior, good and bad. Thanks for the inspiration, I’ll not own your shame. Happy to be out of whatever this is. Not trying to get in the way. I’ve erred somehow, but get off my dick and I’ll stop standing on your porch looking through windows, wonder when you’ll come out. I’m not in hiding. You are. Step out, speak. I’ll listen, I’ll add contrition, if your argument is fair. Some of you have something at stake, won’t speak. I feel you out best. The rest, arrogant indifference. It’s okay. I’ll absolve you all. I said, I don’t care. But, you really need to grow up. School yard stuff. I hate to think how your motivations have hurt others seeking refuge in a false hostel. 10.23.23 I know you read my private stuff. This - is - me - poking - you Take the masks off. You’re afraid. |