I ran through it.
My arms are ribbons twirling around.
There is always a spot available.
On a bench which is made up of livelihoods like mine.
But there’s something so nice about sitting down.
When there is nowhere else to sit.
This is the most splintering kind of panicking.
This bench is made of old wood.
So it’s one of those woodsy types of places to sit.
And everyone does sometimes.
It’s the most ruined, run down panicked feeling.
The last person who sat here?
I think he was a music teacher.
I can tell by the music he left in my head.
On this bench which seems to conform to my body like a couch cushion.
I think he stopped following me.
So I can fall asleep in the woods.
Wouldn’t it be weird if I kept running?
I thought so too.
YOU’RE NO FRIEND OF MINE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh scale! You’re no friend of mine
a constant reminder of the weight I desire
You whisper secrets in my unwilling ear,
of all that's lacking, a never-ending quest for perfection.
Your numbers dance upon your face so bright,
a dizzying maze of digits that confound and confuse.
I resist your grasp, your hold so tight,
for in your depths, I see only an endless fight.
I see a battle to conform, to fit the mold,
to sacrifice my soul, my heart, my internal gold.
Oh, scale you’re no friend of mine, I cry,
for you’re cold and calculating with your digital truth.
You ignore the beauty of imperfection, the charm of flaws,
the uniqueness that makes my spirit unique.
You see only the surface, not my heart,
a shallow reflection of my beauty within.
Oh, scale! You’re no friend of mine.
SINISTER
Why prove it?
Prove that you’re significant to the a purpose that has no
sensibility,
In a world where we conform to that which surrounds us.
Does it make sense?
With this we ponder each day,
That your right is the only right and that the only validation needed
is yourself,
The opinion of others doesn’t matter,
Self-absorbed is the only thing I see,
Maybe, Maybe not, but this is what I can conclude from this.
Deeper I seek to find an answer to this madness.
How can we confirm what is evil from hate?
The greed for superiority with failure of morale
Can you ever really hide from Human Evil?
It never really goes away,
They are born in arrogance,
And will become egotistical it’s a must.
To play this game,
Where we never win,
This game of pain,
This game of torture and misery.
What can we really do about it?
But to let it be…
Karma wins..
Maybe not now ,
But eventually it always does.
Chins up and best of luck…
I lived through the '60s, when peace and love were in the air. The scene had this incredible feeling, but it didn't last, like the government had it killed. Yet there were leftovers, and we rode the nightlife times. Then more diversions and more ups and downs, and those plastic fantastic lovers! I remember learning from sages and from fools, taking the rap for the deals gone bad, caught between the past and the future. Until I realized that I was in charge and I had what
it takes! Then reality has to conform to you. For life can't be second-guessed; it knows even if you don't. Take your turn, don't hesitate, for one must strike with pure resolve. One night, I looked up, and the stars looked back, saying, Soon you too will shine! Where is that hope that strikes in a person's face? The look in the eye that says, these are my stories, all the unforgettable ones, those lifetime highlights we hold dearly in our hearts. Contemplating whether we shall see them again someday, maybe in another dimension. And those times will look bright, so too will the faces of the youth, lucky enough to find some of that peaceful energy, and with love, on a sultry summer day!
Though I can't attend your wedding party yet,
My respect and admiration for you are great.
Invited, I let my inspiration flow like a vast lake,
I'll write this dedication on paper and then send.
I won't hide anything from you as usual,
A land of feelings, a sea of verses casual.
Let me dedicate a poem to your ambition,
As if it were a party of mine, to mention.
What you sow, that’s what you’ll reap,
Children learn all they can from home.
It doesn't matter that clothes are expensive or cheap,
The matter is what values you are bequeathing from.
We are both hail from the same village,
A valuable, respected pair in the community.
Dauther makes clothes, if she sees her mother,
With a father, the son will conform to unity.
Your deeds resonate in the hearts of people,
You are the descendant of the land you come from.
May the young ones' household be strong and stable,
May God bless it and bring prosperity to them.
If you catch the scent of grandchildren in the future,
That’s when true happiness will come your way.
If anyone asks who wrote this poem of nature,
Say the author is Aibek, my friend, by the way.
A subtle stir is born in my mind, a dance of thoughts rising,
Like foam finding its place in the azure sky, seeking unwritten answers among the stars,
Yet fearing the earth that pulls dreams towards itself, a merciless magnet of freedom.
We dream in endless chapters, pages full of hopes and fears,
Where the end is a distant echo that haunts us silently,
Catching us in a struggle between two forces: normalcy demanding submission,
And defiance urging us to rise, to be more than our shadows.
Should we conform to the world's demands, living in quiet anonymity?
Or surrender to the sweetness of dreams, losing ourselves in them like martyrs,
Dying for a cause that only our soul knows?
The sun, a hurried witness, wants to see the story whispered by the moon,
About the boy who, with a gentle motion, makes the poles of the metronome of destiny sway,
Balancing between what is and what might be, between darkness and light,
Between desire and surrender, lost in the endless flow of consciousness,
Seeking balance between the dreams that call us and the reality that pulls us back,
Dancing endlessly in a universe of melancholy, a play of the soul through time and space.
Nature distorts humans
to conform to its pattern, in shape and form.
Stretching, bending, squeezing
the human form to somehow fit in,
as an odd Chameleon,
hiding out of place
distorted and misshapen,
bashfully conforming in camouflage.
I’m all about being free
to make decisions for my body;
I may not partake or need it currently,
but I get to choose what’s right for me;
Yes on four and yes on three;
I’m not going to say it gently
to conform to ANY part of society;
I may not be the one to instigate loudly,
but I can become a wildfire when need be;
Yes on four and yes on three;
I’m baffled by all the dialog lately,
to say you know best offends me greatly;
I may belong to a different ideology
but we must be free to disagree;
Yes on four and yes on three.
Your vanity is insanity.
And it is a painful sight to see.
Whilst looking through the looking glass.
How did your life become so crass?
Why did we all become so vain?
Reflections in a windowpane.
Remember when that no one cared?
Now everybody seems so scared.
With thoughts that hurt the way we feel.
Like peeling back an orange peel.
And as the surgeon sharps his knife.
Now these procedures are so rife.
Why do you want to look the same?
Lip fillers are in part to blame.
Conform to look a certain way.
Procedures that are so risqué.
Whilst looking for the right procedure.
Whilst scrolling through your social media.
Not comfortable in our own skin.
Just looking like a mannequin.
Our beauty now it runs skin deep.
Procedures done, yes, on the cheap.
Procedures done more harm than good.
We are beautiful, not made of wood.
Obsessed about the way we look.
When really no one gives a ****.
Our beauty, yes, it runs skin deep.
And while we get our beauty sleep.
We'll dream about there was a time.
This beauties yours and so not mine.
They say the abused becomes the abuser,
but I will never turn out to be you.
Your shadows may haunt me,
but never consume.
Every scar you inflicted,
every tear you caused
has given me the strength to never fear.
Your cruelty taught me what not to become,
but it also taught me empathy.
I carry your wounds,
but not your hate,
as I refuse to conform to your twisted fate.
They say the abused becomes the abuser,
but my mind sings a different tune.
With every step,
I prove society wrong.
In healing,
I grow immensely strong.
Your ghost may haunt me time to time,
but I will never let my past dictate my future,
as in shadows deep,
my spirt climbs,
to reach beyond the pain you caused.
Every year on Valentine's Day
I never conform to the pressure
of throwing away hundreds of dollars
like a drunken master
on boxes of coconut chocolates
dozens of red roses
white stuffed bears
carbonated heart balloons
and chicken in the bag snacks
with glass bottles of blue Mist
instead I would rather
sit at home and craft poems
a surprise gift from the bottom
of my heart of Leprechauns gold
embodying the authentic love
I possess for everyone in my life
like the words and verses
in the Songs of Solomon
and cannot be solicited
by currency of any shape or form
I remember being told
Since I started joining letters together
I was taught to fit them into words, sentences, stanzas or paragraphs
Let your creativity flow they said
How was i to do so?
Just jumble up the words in the voice of another
Be anything but elementary
Use bigger words, a flowery language
Make your writing eloquent and exquisite
No one cares what you are writing as long as you're filling pages
Your poems should have symmetry
And your prose should be lengthy
Kudos! You got the highest marks
Does it end there? Is this what I perspire for?
At what liberty am I to use my creativity
If I can't make new words of my own?
Why aren't I taught that?
Why must I always fit my voice into poetry or prose?
Why must my handwriting be cursive and my poems have a rhyme scheme?
Why must I always conform to these moulds?
Why should I conform to man’s rules? Why persist in this facade? Even if I tell you to cast aside worry, your retort might be, “Why should I?” Jonathan’s soul intertwined with David’s, love binding them as one. But you—do you desire to be shackled by societal norms? Speak now: “Why should I?”
The Lord’s thoughts toward you are of peace, not evil. A future and hope await. Yet, I foresee skeptics in the streets this November, clamoring, “Why reelect Mr. Trump? Why indeed?” Ah, the allure of divine laws! Sweeter than honey, they linger on my tongue. Have you tasted the Lord’s goodness? Some unbelievers scoff, “Why bother?”
The Holy Spirit recalls my words to you. So, why should I heed your voice?
We are all poets turning wounds into words
We are all poets turning our joy into words
We are all poets expressing life through words
Poetry Speaks when the wounds live in silence
Words conform to a story
Letter by letter
Poetry can make things better
Also, poetry speaks in abundance
When romance filters through the heart
Poetry Transforms the weak with a universal relevancy
Poetry is the sun and the rain
Speaking from the heart allowing
The mind of man and woman to gain in the future!
We are all poets turning wounds into words
We are all poets turning our joy into words
We are all poets expressing life through words
Mark Frank
Copyright 2024
Kingfisher! Sculpturally shaped! Beam with a bold bright beak!
How splendidly your soft-strong somatic symmetry shines!
Awesome is the charm of your topaz eyes and rainbow quill.
Wondrous are your feet, tail, and poised plumage pattern designs.
Symbol of swiftness, prosperity, and agility
Fortune, patience, and abundance abide in your esse
Compassion, courtesy, and creative felicity
With each weather, season, and circumstance, you acquiesce
With paramountcy and persistence, you pitchpole from perch.
Which vaulter in this universe could fulfill such a feat?
Blue and orange! Moving motionless, like a sage, in search
Do you swingeingly oversee the lands-oceans-waves meet?
Infirm in form, you conform to any storm and transform
Is such nature, as though inborn, quilled as a human norm?
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