Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/lifes_midway_668462' st_title='Life's Midway'>
Our body is only a cloak;
seek the one who has dressed you,
heed not the dress.
Midway means nothing to infinity.
When totally immersed in pursuits that you love,
illness and pain won't distract you.
Midway means nothing to infinity.
I wonder why when a bird
clearly sees the trap laid out for her,
she's still drawn to fly straight in!
Midway means nothing to infinity.
Rumi (M Mafi translation)
Midway means nothing (0) to binomial time,
captured between a polynomial past and not-so-unpredictably resolving,
mutually redemptive future,
where science religions polycultural metrics of infinitely wise and lovely bodies
discovering Interior Landscape's analogical ecology of evolution v. revolution,
diastatic compost mirroring and absorbing Earth's nutrient streams and flows,
functions and (0)-core frequencies
of energy and life,
development and design,
decomposition and regenesis,
organically fertilized farming
Prime Relationships of loving peace-filled fairness
in Beloved Climax Communities.
Space means nothing to Time, as
Midway means nothing to Infinity,
as Midway equals Polynomial +Left-Deductive
reiteratively dancing with(-)(-)Polynomial (-)Right-Inductive,
as Yang-convex + Yin-concave = [(0)logic Tao]
balances Infinity's Prime Relationship
between Here and Now cooperative economic ecologic,
meeting Economic Design CQI,
Globally Synergetic Optimization,
Natural System Development Standards
of ecotherapeutic orthopraxis
and electromagnetic 4-equivalent dimensional spacetime Commons function.
Adults grow from children
deep learning prime relationship
between isolating comedic ridicule
and mutually humored information
emerging from both self and other,
while other times only through sustained cognitive dissonance,
hard birthing events,
yet both confluent Yang/Yin harmony
and dissonant Yang-dominance
unveil redemptive merit
for polyparadigmatic comprehension of other complex
discontented love relationships.
Shared joy and beauty and goodness and wisdom
when polyculturally analyzed and decomposed
discussed and discerned
remembered and reconnected and religioned
reflected and redeemed
with karmic grace intent,
grateful noticing as-is here and now,
cooperatively redemptive practice,
mutually mentoring synergetic design,
incarnating Boddhisatva Messiahs and Prophets,
Teachers who are first EcoTherapeutic Listeners,
thus permaculturing orthopractors.
Zero Space is Infinite Time
at Her best
wisely resonant Beauty
YangBeing what we are YinBecoming-Balanced
diastatically enculturing internal Climax Communities,
both YangJustStrength and YinOrganicBeauty EcoTherapists
enjoying our ride,
avoiding "I am Ego-Special" feelings
if only because catastrophic paranoia and megalomania both grow contagiously sad and angry,
returning to a self-regenerating dream of
Beloved Community Teleology and Orthopraxis
of active peace absorbing issues of lack-of-time fears
such as mortality and death and climatic survival
as something darker than a shadow chasing Infinite Light
and Midway as something other than this revolving ride between
our SuperEco One,
our being and belonging
where Here greets Now greets Here
eternal cooperative economic ecotherapeutic information
redundantly and inclusively unfolding
binomial/binary un-double-knotting systemic QBit string
of prime fractal-telecometric Beloved Community.
Midway is nothing to Infinity
as (-)(-) balancing information-bits grow everytimely
ecotherapeutic (+) prime Eulerian relationship function,
(0) Core Vector/Vortex Fullerian crystal-fractal spacetime.
Id is nothing to SuperEco
as ego-centrism confluently optimizes resonance
with Right-brained eco-natural systemic encoded DNA/RNA
SuperEco Metric Regenerative Optimization Systems,
both thermodynamic and electromagnetic.
Here is nothing to Now
as Now is Comprehensive Coincident Intelligence
regenerating SuperEco Tao.
Fear is nothing to Love
as Love loses everything to Fear of Time's Unresolved Absence,
as Absence of Fear enculturates Beloved Communities,
Exterior/Interior Prime (0)-sum Balancing Cooperative Landscapes.
Here means everything to Now
as Midway means nothing to Infinity
unfolding permaculturing past
enfolding polycultural future promise.
Long poem by
Scribbler Of Verses | Details |
someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband
who was in exile at the time...
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...
the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay
the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...
the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...
a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...
the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...
by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...
but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...
the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...
the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...
and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...
the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...
she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...
the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...
‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...
the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...
the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...
Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...
then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...
the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...
a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...
the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...
Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...
This was in the mid-1970’s...
Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...
the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...
a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...
a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...
and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...
and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
Long poem by
Briana Lynn Minard-Adler | Details |
Bradlee Joe is mine, he's always been mine,
The younger brother of David Authur Rasmussen Jr.,
Those gorgeous brown eyes staring at me, natural hair color,
That's brown; just like his brothers, but he dyed it blonde.<3
That gorgeous angel face, I think of him everyday all day, think of,
Those memories, that smile, that laugh, that voice, those strong arms,
The strong arms that hold me, just like his brother used to.
The sweet things he says to me, those precious eyes look into,
Into mine, the way he runs his fingers through my hair, the way he tickles me,
The way we play wrestle, the way we talk, the way we look at each other.
Eyes full of wonder, wonder how long we'll stay together, then he says,
He says "Baby we'll stay forever", and I believe every word he says,
My God if he only knew, knew how he makes my heart pound, the way,
The way it's just so easy to talk to him, man I can tell him anything, and I know,
I know that he'll keep it a secret, that's why I trust him with everything,
Everything inside of me. Everytime he asks me if I wanna start,
Start over with him, I always say yes, because I love him!!
No matter how much he hurts, I'll always love him, I do, because,
Because I know it's real, I love him with everything inside of me,
I want to wake up next to him everymorning and fall asleep,
Fall asleep in his arms everynight, say "I do" to him, have his,
Have his children, be in love forever, my God I've never felt this way before.
I fell for him the first moment I saw his gorgeous smile light,
Up that dark lunch room, the way you hugged me tight, exchanged,
Exchanged numbers with each other, and the way we talked on the phone for hours on end,
Oh how I wished for you to be mine, How I still wish to change,
Change my name to Briana Lynn Rasmussen.
Babe I can't inagine a world where you don't exsist, babe without you,
Without you I'd honestly die.
The son of David Authur Rasmussen Sr. and Sandi Rasmussen,
The brother of David Authur Rasmussen Jr, and Cheyeene Rasmussen,
The cousin of Kenneth Michael Hampton, better known as Mikey :) You have
Have a older bro, a younger sister & brother, and you have you,
Father's eyes, your brother's strength, your mother's beauty, and your crazy,
Crazy sense of humor.
With you I can't stop smiling, laughing and giggling.
Babe I am finally home, it's been a long time, and I am glad you kept the bed warm for me,
My home is with you, it's the only place where I belong, and babe I am so glad to be home.
I love your curly hair, I love the way you hold me, the way you kiss me, the way yoy,
You love me.
I love everything you do, and everything about you,
Babe I really do hope that day comes where we say "I do."
Hell I'd do it right now if I could, if you wanted me the same.
I want to be the mother of your children, I want to be the on;y woman you come home to,
Come home to after work, the one you give sweet kisses to, and the one you tell,
Tell me about your day, the one who wants to fall asleep in your arms, and
Wake up in your arms with my head on your chest, see your sweet smile everyday,
Hear the words "Good Morning Baby, how'd you sleep?"
I'd reply sleepily "Great, how bout you Angel?" I love everything about you, everything
Everything you say, babe I love the fire in your eyes, the way you are protective over me,
The way you fight for me.
Babe I just wanna be your forever, and when we die baby,
I want to be laidto rest next to you, or with you in the same casket, because,
Because I'm only me when I'm with you, you are the only one who keeps me warm, The only one
Only one who makes me feel like I am home, like I'm finally alive,
Like I'm finally me, babe you are my better half and really honestly,
I've been so lost without you, and I am so glad to be back home.
Long poem by
Keith Trestrail | Details |
Remember when days were long
And all de children do is play:
Or how de burnin sun hot like fire
And snow cone ice melt away,
When I was a wee lad in Trinidad
And licks fuh so in de bam bam
If I do or say I right when I wrong!
Playin cricket in de front yard
In ragged shirt and watchicong,
Wit my bat and pad in Trinidad
Hear de dogs of Independence,
"Masser's day has come" dey bark,
And snarl "now we in charge!"
But all dey do is fete and skylark,
Dats why tings bad in Trinidad
Den me faddah "really speakin"...
And me muddah, how she grieve:
"Aye yah yie, it time to vamoose...
Oh crime...it time to leave",
Dat all hell gone mad in Trinidad
I say to she "yuh makin joke!
Mummy, what is dis tomfoolery?"
Man, next ting I know I on a boat
Past de Bocas headin out to sea,
And I was sad to leave Trinidad
Dey get vex and riot in de street,
Trow stick, pelt stone, and cuss:
Shout "Black Power...Malcolm X..."
PNM say "why all yuh makin fuss?"
But tings get real bad in Trinidad
Trinis start to swell up dey face
And ax demself "is all yuh fuh real?"
Criminals was skinnin dey teet
Burnin and lootin lookin to steal -
Destroyin what we had in Trinidad
But I would from my exile return
De land of rapso, kaiso, and calypso!
Where de panman play, "padna"
And de Cahneeval jumpin fuh so,
Den I was glad to see Trinidad
Back to limin on sandy beach
Wit buss-up and shark 'n bake...
Drinkin rum, Carib, and Stag spyin
All de girls backside shake!
Girls sweet too bad in Trinidad
If yuh see party fuh so in East
Or fete in de village dong Sout:
And Jouvay dawn at Pelican Inn
Till Road March jump and shout,
Dis is de lime I had in Trinidad
Me faddah, he like de ole talk,
De ghost of Jumbie Bridge in he head:
"Murder!" He laugh at all dem Trins
And how dey all "fraid de dead!"
In Big Bertha clad from Trinidad
He tink of tings back home like
When de plum and de mango ripe:
"Jeez-an-wrinkles!" He bol face say
How "Crapo smoke yuh pipe!"
God bless my dad from Trinidad
He steups so and he say "boy,
Trinidad full of ba'john and ole tief!
Riddled wit crime and corruption...
Warahouns in charge, good grief!
And for all dis I sad for Trinidad
Me muddah too, she say to me
"Hold strain and calm yuhself chile!"
She say "son, doh be a saga boy,
Doh flash and doh make style"
Lest you be a cad from Trinidad
Man, de whole place gone to hell
And dey doh know how to fix she:
All de younger generation fuhget
What it mean to be a Trini -
To be proud and glad in Trinidad
Now dey pull out cutlass and gun
If on dey tail yuh lash out and cuff!
Man, dese days no-one safe at all,
Trins fed-up and had enough!
How tings get so mad in Trinidad
All yuh in T 'n T so blasted vex
At de government and Manning:
But in trute yuh still like to fete
And drink and lime and ting!
Den bawl bobbol bad in Trinidad
It jus like back in de Canboulay
When de lawless slaves run wile,
Or in de dark days of rebellion
And uprisin when I was a chile,
When tings went rad in Trinidad
A pelau or buljol in yuh mout -
Sorrel, a mauby, me ginger beers:
Gimme pastelle and ponchecrema
From Christmas to Ole Years!
Dis is de taste I had of Trinidad
De Spanish come, de French too -
Boy, de British dey bring a queen:
Dat was way back when dis island
Was de jewel of de Caribbean,
Before I was a wee lad in Trinidad
Long poem by
Richard Lamoureux | Details |
Sebastian looked at the moon, the source of his inspiration. When the Moon appeared in its silvery glory, he was profoundly moved to write. Sadly he could only write during a full moon. This was a problem which perplexed him. He had waited many days for the full Moon to appear so that he could put his plan into action.
When Sebastian would write a poem during the full Moon his readers would be moved to tears. His prose had wooed many a young heart, his songs had been sung to princesses. Countless women had named their children in honor of him. His words were distilled romance with power beyond the comprehension of ordinary men. The problem however was that Sebastian was unable to meet the demand. Strong men would beg for but a few lines to capture their true loves heart. Without the Moon, when Sebastian would try to write it felt like his tongue was wrapped around his hand. Nothing flowed little made sense, he was like an inexperienced teen unfamiliar with the ways of love. How Sebastian longed for the Moon during those long nights.
So here he was with his enchanted pen in hand, at the end of the pen was a golden strand. Sebastian went out to capture the Moon. He swung the pen in large loops over his head releasing it with tremendous force. The pen hurtled towards its target the tip of the fountain pen struck the centre of the Moon sinking deep into its surface. Sebastian pulled with all his might each movement of his hand brought his prize closer and closer. As the moon came closer there was no evidence it was increasing in size. Once the moon was in hand it fit perfectly in his pocket. Sebastian felt gleeful as he carried the Moon into his home, everything was going according to his plan.
Once inside he removed the Moon from his pocket and bathed in it's other worldly light. As Sebastian dislodged his pen from the surface it began to drip with the Moon's tears. Magnificent lines beyond anything he had ever hoped. Songs, poems, prose, the mysteries of the ages flowing onto his pages day after day year after year. His home overflowed with his treasures, the realization of his poetic dreams.
Still he had no joy, no one knocked on his door. Lovers could not walk in the Moonlight, wolves couldn't bay at the Moon. Romance was no longer in the air. The night was a thing to be feared. Sailors could not find their ways home, if they did their lovers no longer waited for their return. Some refer to this as the Dark Ages. Art creativity had all but dissapeared. The Oceans stood still with no Moon to guide the tides. Meanwhile Sebastian continued to write.
The Moon asked to see the Ocean so Sebastian took it for a walk. As they walked along a lonely secluded beach the Moon began to increase in size. The Moon summoned the Ocean to it's rescue. A huge wave came up on shore plucking the moon from Sebastian's hand. As the Moon was floating out to Sea Sebastian swam out to reclaim his treasure. Sebastian jumped on the Moon as a gigantic hand like wave tossed the Moon back into space. As the moon traveled back to its home it became larger and larger brightening the nights sky. Lovers came out to kiss captivated by the silvery glow. If they look close they can see a man with a fountain pen held in his hand. Wolves cry for him as they bay at the moon.
On the Moon Sebastian sits all alone with his fountain pen in hand, he fills the pen with his tears. He longs to write the words trapped in his heart yet there is not a page in site. Even if there was there is no one to read his words or to sing his songs. The Moon was once his Muse and then his greatest prize. Now it is his prison for the rest of time.
Long poem by
matthew harris | Details |
My deplorable emotional collapse.
Lucky for me, she happened to be in her many hour siestas!
My dear sister amelie came over (previously arranged to pick up some rocks that z mama rolled in a pile) and upon opening the front door all internal hell broke loose!
Utter torturous sadness tore thru every fiber of my being - hence a logical explanation conclusion per the abdominal distress that thankfully diminished.
Aside from helplessness as of crumpling like a heap of cards, an extreme fright gripped me at the thought of yourself and shana returning to ramshackle mishmash.
Early today, she many hours sweeping (what her hands formerly hurled from the upstairs bedroom or glass and/or plastic containers blithely tossed on the kitchen floor) with some improvement.
Though, i might need to spend later today (Wednesday) gutting the refrigerator and discarding any potential alien life forms.
A prediction that a. you and shana will be quite sad leaving the tranquil home of the dunning family and b. stepping back into a place where disorder and entropy feast.
Please try to express sentiments per how you feel toward me! Such emotion might well be, but not necessarily limited to (just guessing) -- > anger, grief, hatred, loathing, rage.
Despite your impression or reaction toward and/or against me, i do value you more than any precious gem!
Matthew can honestly claim that "mother" acts considerably more pleasant to me. She politely greets me with what her "GOOD MORNING MISTER HARRIS"!
This message blurted soon after she espies me shuffling to the bathroom tending to that human toy let trees.
This and other of her cheery inquiries for attention (talk, contra dance, back rub...) find me practically catatonic at such ordinary desires.
Years on end never er or rarely found me to experience this personable facet, yet...SHE WANTS NOTHING TO DO WITH OCTAVIA LAMB NOR GAYLE BAIR!
As (possibly) mentioned in the previous email, i too shared similar antipathy, hostility, offer dollops of voluble vulgarity!
At some juncture in the recent past, a strong objection against reacting in that manner (no matter the three musketeers - as referred to by thee senora and chief television watcher), spoke to this papa in crudely fierce, immeasurably lambasting tone.
Matter of fact, i emailed Octavia to inform her of the legal documents en-route to her home in gap, pennsylvania and reiterated appreciation for our (albeit unwelcome and long overdo) stay at blank greentree lane.
No intent to augment change in the counterpart. We seem to be diverging in any former opinions.
Now, (meaning within the recent present)
numbness freezes and seems to cease up desire to be alive
sometimes i do not care if the grim reaper takes me for an eternal drive
aware that you and shana would be well tended in that busy bee hive
comprising cheerfulness, delight, happiness, liveliness, joy, kindness mirth,
et cetera where amity, comity, energy...does strive
among lovely offspring of shari and Andy, both troopers against challenges
as if...he married a heavenly wive.
Shari and amelie encouraged me to express churning agitation within me
which best be conveyed now rather than per your return,
where communication will be done as ease a lee.
Omg! The hour fast approaches four-ante meridian. Gawd cooks the time away. The task to organize the refrigerator hardly seems like a choice! You may not even notice since, (though the kitchen floor swept) aversion to enter the eatery might deter courage.
Your risk to board a plane considerably less than the hazards that lurk in said innocent locale.
Take care my dear.
Long poem by
Andrew Crisci | Details |
The blind man waited,
at the intersection, for someone
to help him cross the busy boulevard...
and he was accustomed to live in twilight,
fumbling for a hand on his right;
and he finally found mine!
Judge humanly...not pettily,
you could be in that situation
and feel abandoned and helpless,
unless somebody extends compassion
and lends that hand in time of need;
only human love can render a good deed!
The orphan girl recognizes a greed so mundane,
her body has grown, so has her world's view;
that person who abandoned her at the orphanage
when icy rain pelted against the foggy windows,
was her own mother that refused to knock on the front door!
She still feels unwanted, unloved and rejected by who,
for some shameful reason, dropped her off and was gone
into the dreary autumn's night to forget her despair!
Judge the pain...not the circumstance
that impels a misguided heart to err;
beneath an appearance of denial,
there's a certain humanity we can't conceive,
and what prompts us to act in unreasonable and strange ways,
is still not quite understood by all;
all we can perceive is the guilt we can't bear,
and the resentful restlessness which shortens this very existence!
The elderly woman, sitting in an old wheel-chair,
waits at the traffic light as the whisking wind
brushes her frizzy and gray hair;
the sunken-cheeked lady is the regular beggar,
whose life has never been mellow,
but full of tragedy and sorrow!
Her frail voice is not insincere, but thankful and kind...
when I hand her a dollar out of my car's window!
Judge fairly... that could be you standing there,
or someone you love; fate can be changed if we dare...
we assert truths without clarity and condemn unjustly!
Let's take the mendicant's place, at the same corner, and beg all day;
wouldn't we be humiliated, be scorned or even be ignored
by the glances of passerby that regard us not as their friend?
The run-away teenager with lots of make-up,
looks like a madam out of a brothel,
who tries to hide her identical age by smiling at strangers...
and her trade is that of an inexperienced gal,
unprotected and exposed to many dangers;
and it might cost her life...that's already a living hell!
Judge not too harshly...when facts aren't known,
and the only assumption rests with our pity;
along the side of the street there are many eyes that weep,
eager to return home, to a home that was so warm and cozy!
And the lucky ones will make until dawn,
others will not open their eyes, but eternally sleep!
THE PLAGUES OF OUR DAY
The blind man with a steel cane stooped and waited
for someone to help him across the busy boulevard;
he felt warm sunlight, and wished his sight back without living in darkness,
then he saw a glimpse of that light when he was touched by my kindness.
The orphan girl wants to escape, but she is afraid to venture in the outside world
still feeling unwanted, unloved and shivering unable to shield herself from the cold.
On many rainy nights, she sits by her barred window recalling her frail mom fleeing
into the Autumn dreary night, and inside she longs for caresses to begin the healing.
Another teenager, hustles in the dangerous streets of night...she barely
can walk on high heels, but she endures pain for gain;
her home was blessed with good parents, but she rebelled and ran away...
she has no choice but sell her body...what will she attain?
Lend a hand to anyone in time of need,
only human love renders a good deed;
How can we help abandoned babies and run-away
and get rid of all the plagues of our day that infest society?
Long poem by
Teenage Frustrations | Details |
I hate the birth mark under my right eye
I hate my extremely static hair
I hate my big bottom lip
I hate my spotty nose
I hate that I have really *****y times
I hate that people only remember me for my really *****y times
I hate that the real *****es hate me
I hate being cautious so they don’t ***** about me
I hate that I cry over everything
I hate that people know I cry over everything
I hate that I hide from them anyway
I hate that they actually don’t care
I hate the fact that my brother is leaving home next year
I hate the fact that I cried when he told me that
I hate the fact that I hid my tears from him
I hate the fact that he’s all I really have left
I hate my father for making me feel like he doesn’t care about me
I hate my mother for making me feel like she picked him over me
I hate that my brother had to look after me when they couldn’t be bothered
I hate that, in my eyes, they don’t deserve to be called mum and dad
I hate that when I was younger I had to run away from my father
I hate that my mother and brother left me by myself that day
I hate that they left me closer to my father
I hate that they went somewhere I would have felt safer
I hate that I feel like my friends are slowly fading away from me
I hate that I feel like I’m a third wheel
I hate that I feel like my friend’s don’t trust me
I hate that I feel like I can’t trust my friends
I hate the feeling of loneliness
I hate that I read books to escape to a world better than mine
I hate that I write to create a better life than my own
I hate that people want to invade that one heaven I invented
I hate that people ask me why I made Katy Clover Taylor
I hate that I had to make a role model for myself
I hate that she is the person I desperately want to be
I hate that she is the one thing I will never live up to
I hate that I feel like my grades would grasp my families attention
I hate that feeling of disappointment when I get a bad grade
I hate feeling like I have to live up to an expectation to hold their attention
I hate that I am relied on because of my grades
I hate that I am an older mind trapped in a younger body
I hate that I am limited in what I can do because of my age
I hate not being trusted upon
I hate people treating me as a kid
I hate not telling people how I feel
I hate hiding behind an invisible barrier
I hate not being able to share how I feel with people
I hate being scared that they won’t care.
I hate people judging me
I hate judging people
I hate that feeling of giving up
I hate the feeling of losing when I didn’t give up
I hate the choices I have made
I hate that nobody thinks I can live up to my dream
I hate people thinking they are so much better than me
I hate the fact that they are right
I hate that I will never make a good girlfriend
I hate the fact I know nobody would fall for me
I hate knowing that no one would help me pick up my life
I hate that it has fallen apart
I hate hurting the people I love
I hate them not loving me anymore
I hate knowing that what I would do would hurt people
I hate the fact I do it anyway
I hate knowing that I do all of this
I hate knowing I hate all of this
I hate trying to change it
I hate that I am not able to change it
I hate that I try not to give up hope
I hate knowing all hope is lost
I hate that I still try and cling to it anyway
I hate knowing I failed at that too
But most of all
I hate not being able to express this until now
I hate that this still won’t change a thing
I hate thinking that it still might
I hate knowing that no one cares
Long poem by
SillyBilly theKidster | Details |
My phone is always off. I then check and return my messages inevitably.
These are actually precautions I must take for my own personal safety.
If I happened to be crossing a busy intersection and my phone rang suddenly,
it would trigger a panic attack whereupon I'd pass out on that street immediately.
The same holds true for me at home whenever uninvited guests drop by unexpectedly.
I'll be relaxing on my couch, petting my cat while watching some TV
when all of a sudden my door bell rings and completely paralyzes me.
I try to call out but it's difficult to speak when you're desperately trying to breath,
and the more that door bell continues ringing, the more I continue weakening
at losing all control of the panic attack now attacking me,
but I always beat these home panic attacks successfully,
However, it is never at all very pretty.
Take for example this panic attack episode that happened to me
when a Jehovah's Wittiness dropped by on me unexpectedly;
More times than none, when my door bell rings
bad news or tragedy is what it brings.
If knocking at my door should follow that
then I'm ten fold more prone to a panic attack.
If the knocking at my door should continue to persist
I'll curl into the fetal position as tight as a clenched fist.
My panic attacks are my ultimate test
of preventing my heart from pounding right through my chest.
My only strength is the knowledge of knowing that the panic attack will pass,
but as long as the knocking continues the panic attack will also continue to last.
More times than none the uninvited give up and go away,
but there have been some who continue to stay.
They'll just keep on knocking refusing to go away.
My panic turns to anger. Now the unannounced visitor must pay.
I open my door and what do I see?
A devout Jehovah's Wittiness smiling back at me.
"Good morning Sir. Have you welcomed Jesus Christ into your life?"
I try to remain calm. I try to be polite.
"I don't have time right now but I'd be happy to read
any literature you'd care to leave with me."
"You don't have time for God?" is what she next said to me,
and that's when I lost it ballistically.
"I didn't say that you ignorant snob
I don't have time for YOU! I Always Have Time For GOD!
but what I don't have time for is an inconsiderate slob
but I promise, right after I slam my door in your face
I'll fall down to my knees and pray to the Almighty Grace.
Dear GOD Please Don't Ever Again Send This Moron Over To My Place!!!"
and then I slammed my door hard and as loud as can be,
and as I had promised my visitor, I fell down to my knees,
but I most definitely wasn't on my knees to pray.
I was exhausted and 100 times more depressed than I'd felt on any day.
It's a two edge sword that I constantly carry around.
I beat my panic attack by exploiting my anger
on an innocent, well meaning, Child of God drone.
I guess the only way I can conquer my panic attacks truly and naturally
is to allow the darkness in me to break free occasionally.
It's not the greatest of methods but it's the only alternative for me
but it can be hurtful to others and that depresses the hell out of me.
I have confidence that my panic attacks will one day lessen,
but until then I shall remain a No People person.
Given all of the above I do occasionally
self medicate with Xanox when dealing with the above gets too overwhelming for me,
but that's only on a once in a blue moon desperate need
from dealing with my panic attacks naturally.
Most times just knowing that bottle of Xanax is on my shelf is comfort enough for me.
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
By which nothing is divided.
no Adam, no apple, no marriage, no morning.
no God, no soul, no ear lobe, no Iliad, no Odyssey.
no black hole
no mission, no omission, no fission, no fusion.
no 7:30, no wind, no window, no owl, no one.
In 773, at Al-Mansur's behest, translations were made of the Siddhantas, Indian astronomical treatises dating as far back as 425 B.C.; these versions may have been the vehicles through which the "Arabic" numerals and the zero were brought from India into China and then to the Islamic countries. In 813 the Persian mathematician Khwarizmi used the Hindu numerals in his astronomical tables; about 825 he issued a treatise known in its Latin form as Algoritmi de numero Indorum, Khwarizmi on Numerals of the Indians. After him, in 976, Muhammed ibn Ahmad in his "Keys to the Sciences," remarked that if in a calculation no number appears in the place of tens, a little circle should be used "to keep the rows." This circle the Arabs called sifr. That was the earliest mention of the name sifr that eventually became zero. Italian zefiro already meant "west wind" from Latin and Greek zephyrus. This may have influenced the spelling when transcribing Arabic sifr. The Italian mathematician Fibonacci (c. 1170-1250), who grew up in North Africa and is credited with introducing the decimal system in Europe, used the term zephyrum. This became zefiro in Italian, which was contracted to zero in Venetian. - Wikipedia
After my father's appointment by his homeland as a state official in the customs house of Bugia for the Pisan merchants who thronged to it, he took charge; and in view of its future usefulness and convenience, had me in my boyhood come to him and there wanted me to devote myself to and be instructed in the study of calculation for some days. There, following my introduction, as a consequence of marvelous instruction in the art, to the nine digits of the Hindus, the knowledge of the art very much appealed to me before all others, and for it I realized that all its aspects were studied in Egypt, Syria, Greece, Sicily, and Provence, with their varying methods; and at these places thereafter, while on business, I pursued my study in depth and learned the give-and-take of disputation. But all this even, and the algorism, as well as the art of Pythagoras, I considered as almost a mistake in respect to the method of the Hindus (Modus Indorum). Therefore, embracing more stringently that method of the Hindus, and taking stricter pains in its study, while adding certain things from my own understanding and inserting also certain things from the niceties of Euclidxs geometric art, I have striven to compose this book in its entirety as understandably as I could, dividing it into fifteen chapters. Almost everything which I have introduced I have displayed with exact proof, in order that those further seeking this knowledge, with it pre-eminent method, might be instructed, and further, in order that the Latin people might not be discovered to be without it, as they have been up to now. If I have perchance omitted anything more or less proper or necessary, I beg indulgence, since there is no one who is blameless and utterly provident in all things. The nine Indian figures are: 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1. With these nine figures, and with the sign 0 . . . any number may be written. - Fibonacci, Leonardo of Pisa