Long Disintegrate Poems
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The hurt builds inside, with no way to get free from within.
It’s havoc safely locked away, unable to wreak the divine chaos it so desires To spread like poison amongst cravings of unbridled fury.
To inflict on the soul that ignited this bitterness still left unspoken,
Screaming on the inside, paint on my smile, and look happy for the camera.
Why is it my heart cannot abide the counsel of my mind?
I would not have this anger and thirst for destruction dwelling on my mind.
The shattered glass has fallen in shards by my feet,
The leftover pieces of an emotion that doesn't fascinate me like it did before.
Always dancing out of my grasp, tempting me to seize what I cannot.
The illusions of my mind, the ones where I was loved, and I was happy,
Begin to disintegrate around me, flour and water mix, then become a paste.
One small, with its fiction and fantasies, it weaves a giant web of deceit.
I tried so hard to make them see that love has a cruel cycle it follows,
Demanding devotion, with it's array of charms and sober unrealities.
Impacts are worse on the naïve; truth becomes a chaos loosed in their souls.
The fright, shock leaves me standing alone not knowing where or who I am.
Bewildered, I wonder why I took this chance at potential annihilation,
The fabrication of my life filled with the wreckage of my self-destruction,
My downfall closing in quickly, I can taste defeat, like bile in my mouth
The flavor burns as it fills my mouth, I spit, foul though it may be,
I have unwillingly endured exposure to harsh realities, I can take no more.
Seclusion begins to soften my still raw emotions so I examine them up close.
Barriers stand on end, like a firewall, made of unyielding rocks and stones.
This time it will take more than charm and whit to break them down.
No big bad wolf to blow down my walls, strong in their assembly,
My refuge is sturdy, well built and formidable, and that is the way I need it.
Once again, I have restored my sanity, if only for the moment, and for now,
I will watch the daily lives of those around me, unable to participate, again.
One day I will rejoin the world, but for now I will stay behind my walls,
I will watch from afar and dream of the time I was on the outside,
Even if only for a moment in time, I was there and I tasted the air out there.
My sad, deplorable glory is a nightmare for another
This knowing is sickening to the bone
The need for anothers' pain is like a virus
Slitting the veins of truth and delirious want of false
Watching the bile flow through
I emptied a full, sorrowful glass for you
Without even a moment’s glance
Your parched lips opened to drink
But like poison the sustainable exhalation surrounded your body
I shrank at the shrieks of your disquietude
Not knowing what to do
Expression died with the loss of flow
I couldn’t flourish in the bleak winters of your loss
I couldn’t grow
All happiness in a flash of susceptibility
Turned to woe
I gave into thinking it was all an unworthy dream
But the answers, the symbolism was never clear
The loss of your very soul is what I fear
I never meant to poison you in what I take as nourishment
And here now you rot
At the expense of these sad, empty tunes
They must mean close to nothing to you
Pain
Pain
Why do I revolve around the pain?
The empty glass of your spirits remains stained
With the insides of all things true
Torn away
Smothered in a ghostly, ghastly gore
I couldn’t see you could not take it
The sorrow I meant to erase to fake it
But instead make it
The reason I live is to sing for you
To disintegrate the swelling blue
But instead I crawled into your only space
Leaving only disgrace
The gore splattering in jewels across your face
I’ll tell you what
All my achievements are naught
They are only fakes
I am nothing without God’s grace
I spurt with illegitimate words and tunes
That you can never face!
As if by the heaven I inspired
I am drunken with your bile
Of pride risen above the mile
What is this sadness—
This anger, this madness?
Show me what to do
Show me what to say
I’ll dispose of all vagaries I dared to feel today
And replace it with pain
Replace it with pain
Discordance from another is my nightmare smothered
And this the majority crave
The need—the desire for acknowledgement
We will take it to the grave
I never wanted heartless fame
A poison in a cup
I never wanted anything
Only to fill you up
I poured the glass and there it came
Just sad, tired air
Nothing left to give you
Not even the sentiment of a stare
The truth is I am scared
The truth is I am scared
I guess, at times we are all. . .
Not there
7/13/13
~ Walls of Flesh ~
Life isn't just what is seen in a pretty picture,
But the secrets buried from within the
walls of our flesh, and hidden deep inside,
Intellectually we stand tall, body held strong
by the back bone of our pride,
While we battle the constant thoughts of the
conscious mind,
Unable to see the whole picture because
we are blind.
What if we crossed the wrong bridge,
or took the wrong street,
Should we prepare ourselves for
lies and deceit?
Instead of what makes our heart beat?
Trying to look prettier everyday,
but still perfect in God's eyes,
Inside we still burn with secrets and lies,
Still trying to control in their heart
what lives or dies,
How do you deal with those whose mind
has taken over their lives?
Behind the walls of flesh is where they hide.
We don’t have time to let anyone else in,
So our lives are basically pretend,
We hold up a shield that's made of tin.
Some people can't handle the struggle,
so their thoughts drive them insane,
But still strong, holding onto the pride
while showing no pain.
Then what happens to the one's who are
weak and can't stand alone without pride?
Will they just disintegrate and die?
Will the secrets and pain eat them alive?
Our soul is eating it's flesh from within,
trying to survive,
Wanting to escape from behind the walls
of where they hide.
The pain from our past,
Has forced us to wear a mask.
Deliberating the differences of the
pro's & con's,
The scale tips, unbalanced decisions of
right or wrong,
Those who are lost, searching for their place in
this world and where they belong.
Life isn't just what is seen in a pretty picture,
But the secrets that burn from behind the
Walls of our flesh, and hidden deep inside,
Body held up by the back bone of our pride.
So why can't we break down the walls of our flesh
and let everyone in?
No matter their differences, no matter their sin?
Because as humans we are afraid of possible hurt,
And that is no reason to treat them like dirt.
To be the person that you were created to be,
Take a chance to just break free,
Convince our soul that its okay to finally breathe.
Reach inside yourself and decide,...
' Inside these walls of flesh, I NO LONGER HIDE ! '
Continued from Part 1
“Upon your knees in golden naves, while peeking through the slots,
You horded thirty silver pieces, downed a whiskey shot,
Then crossed yourself and wrapped yourself in furs of ocelots,
And danced on cleated cloven hoofs in purple polka-dots,
Then drank His blood from chalice cups with pious afterthoughts.
“You’ve treated men like mongrels chained, like little flies to swat,
By doing what you wanted to, instead of what you aught;
You’ve wiped your nose with dollar bills and paid your serfs with snot,
But when you’ve paused to preen your pride, you’ve scrubbed a scarlet blot.
“In ashes of our victories: the diamonds that you sought,
The crock of gold, the Golden fleece of bogus Argonauts -
In mirrors of your lifelessness, the evils you begot.
“The haunted winds strew leaves of time across a shallow plot
Where now, beneath the frozen stones blanched bodies bathe in rot,
Disintegrate, return to dust to feed Forget-Me-Nots
Amidst the bane and pits of pain where broken bones lie caught.
“In fields above the catacombs and tombs of Camelot
The black and withered tree of Death arises from the spot
Where oft beneath a bleeding moon you hid your gold in pots
Embedding doubts neath barren bogs where roots of wormwood squat.
“While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
From branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
Your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
With dangling pearls and diamond studs mid dripping crimson clots
And gaping wounds with bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
For wrapped in chains around your throat, the Reaper’s grim garrote.”
Yes, that’s the fate of all your kind, disclosed by Wise Men taught.
But that was, oh, so long ago, by now you have forgot…
End
Long time Shelton, Washington transplants...
also known as
noteworthy Trader Joe's patrons
bass sic lee did treble themselves
conducting taping jam session
assembling (boxing), compiling,
and hermetically sealing tight as a drum so,
a razor sharp machete blade got dull
trying to open in vain said holiday cheer
of awesome delicious goodies,
(especially the yummy
stuffed vine leaves with rice),
which holiday care package
received without fanfare
for this common man,
whose younger sister
(vibrant as Appalachian Spring),
nevertheless wiser sibling
Shari Harris-Dunning
a whiz (hard) at work
tantalizing, teasing, titillating
as a lead wrapper from home grown
organic foodstuffs, she and her bandmates
helped fit perfectly, meticulously,
and snugly together
analogous to outsize constituent components
of intricate jumbo puzzle pieces
amazingly, mathematically,
and thematically linkedin
bearing gifts subsequently mailed
(courtesy the United States Postal Service)
from Bend, Oregon
to Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.
Lemme amplify how creative, innovative,
and opinionative yours truly (me)
a humble wordsmith,
who exhibits his freestyle trademark
Scottish matted style avante-garde,
one run of the mill (by the Floss) bard
wannabe wants to rave about your card,
he presumes unbridled
posthumous fame will ensue
after his lovely bones disintegrate
courtesy cremation, which cremains
symbolically distributed across
all four points across the globe,
cuz the earth will solely serve him
as eternal terrestrial graveyard
ashes repurposed hard
to believe buzzfeeding, jump/
kick starting seeds of life
and white lily obliterating ill-starred
legacy which afflicted one mortal
named Matthew Scott Harris,
whose chronic assault
with mental health issues
undermined realizing his potential.
Into the void of cosmic oblivion
eventually goeth as masterly cell bait,
the once unique human
(cited above) as (e) scripted inevitable fate
of all creatures great and small
death promises to liberate
uniting one garden variety,
and generic soul
linkedin among Spiritus Mundi
a never ending tête-à-tête.
Quote: Forget injuries, never forget kindnesses. Confucius
A Water Fall is an awesome example of a supernaturally engineered portrait, captured by time and space, and displayed in a living masterful frame. It's inhuman but embraces a sight of wonderment; a sound that's 'forever hoped for'; a taste of 'peace unbroken' with nothing missing; a feeling 'undeniably enduring and soothing', and a 'to-die-for fragrance' of 'once upon a time'.
There is a beauty, crafted and hand-painted by the same fingers that formed me. It's an ever-moving and massive flow of living waters. Falling water, not to break or disintegrate, but divinely programmed to continue its flow to places far and wide with no place to hide.
There is no moon-controlled wave after wave of high and low tides, and whoever decides can come along for the ride. It speaks to longing and searching questions from deep within. It utters shouts of inquisitions such as: "O soul of mine, from whence cometh thou?" "What and where is your source, O gentle soul?" "And if the Water Falls have a source of origin and a point of destiny, does not indeed my soul also have a source of beginning?" O indeed, the Water Falls answer 'Yes' to me, saying, "O yes, you like I, the Water Fall, are handmade by our Maker, and absolutely nothing can deny us of our final destiny.
And so, I observe all of God's creation; and if I, like nature, continue saying 'Yes" to Him, all shall be forever well. Though our courses may toss and turn, our flows proceed. I imagine a gentle creek bed evolving into a river,
twisting and turning down-stream where it confluences with another river
and immortalizes its true identity and increases the power of its flow until reaching the edge of a cliff, where an expanse of earth is broken apart with an awaiting trench below.
Below, a new assignment of creative genius begins as a turbine is turned by rushing waters providing fresh energy. And new lights dispel the darkness.
The winds of change blow in time’s one way course,
waft from the fading end to an unknown another,
as the momentum they gather from the power
the spurt of history gives, it goes on increasing ever,
the direction they receive from the coded message,
the current events provide can’t ever be altered,
the intent they read on the social landscape page,
people delicately design, can never be changed.
Civilizations blew away in the destined gale,
the Indus valley turned into a great desert,
empires collapsed on decayed time in gusty squall,
lie scattered in archaeological sites and in art,
all ordained to meet the change from the start.
The mankind sheds the unwanted old grime,
like the dry leaves of summer the winds sweep,
and bury under thick sands of the senile time.
The indomitable spirit rises from the debris,
new generations of beliefs and values emanate,
that survive as long as they can strongly defy
the forces of fated change the winds generate,
and the strike of destined wrath time arrows apply,
transforming fast and invisibly the insipid core
of the traditional society of integrity and unity
into a new deceptive one that seems steeped
permanently in intolerance and in hostility,
infusing a sense of change that gradually sips in,
traditional concepts of living slowly recede,
families and relationships disintegrate within
to morph into the present-day fragile breed,
desperately designed to meet rather blindly
the demands of current times made irrationally.
The shape and the space of mind’s frame alter
with changing pictures it holds, but doesn’t know
the time and the people that are constant movers,
displayed in the kaleidoscopic everlasting show,
the winds of change visibly perform as they blow.
If the storm is strong, wrecking civilization landscape,
everything on its way crumbles beyond recognition.
So savagely the winds surge nothing survives to retrieve
from the wreckage that can’t be swept aside, it stays on,
for everything drags everything into the ruins.
July 3, 2020
Contest : Strand Completely New (4), Any Theme Any Form
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Beneath the River Somnium,
Abandoned Wishes hymn: quiet in the viaduct:
Reverse the Lodestone;
Reverse the First Sin;
Reverse the Autumn Hearse;
Reverse the Universe.
We are the murk men, intangible ends—inebriated together
With Beelzebub our friend. Absolvent now in burning skin, the Piper plays our rudder;
Garudas’ quietus ballroom-mance veils lioness earthbound shudders
Vindicating tincture.
Come speak as One or risk the Sun
Melting e’en your physical fixture.
Rainforests, peripheral phantoms
Meshing lanterns; coalescing unwound mummy-cloth sanctums.
Opium deserts,
Drear-dreaming desolates—we inhale brimstone, we imprison Nymph oxygen
Together Daedelus;
Einstein;
Victor Frankenstein.
Delirium waterfalls brew spirits despite ballets
Heating gloam flintlock
In Nem-kissed cabernets
Cascading pyre dunes endlessly:
Nine inward tales lost in Ambrosia unbelonging,
Scorching any falsely fairer,
Side-thrusting ineffective suffocation
With undead rapiers. Who dares desire to replace You
Shall receive Bubonic nebulas, past arbalest
Exhibiting thrones’ cobalt fire under Babylon’s command,
silent yet laughing always waiting for zero
hands cannot wait they tremble
we dissemble they commend grown avatars
youthful Avatars: hawks circling together,
Smiling, sardonically tired of this world
Trapped within thunder,
As gorgeous black does spool this secret:
Those of us who have strayed from The Path
Disintegrate into cinnamon
For common use. Therein, use the fallen well,
Persephone's stair of the past—
only in dreams Hades’ Wint has passed
hinterland skies embracing crescents’ fast
below our lone, draped behemoth ‘cross cities’ paradox
in the midst of a nightly, playful wink.
We daemons tacit vacant love insane.
Alucard, Alistaire, Allwein: Remove your Glove—dispatch that Vein.
Your pact with us has just begun,
Though fear us not, O Clem, who’s won?:
Escape's been reared by us—reality fears Your perennial face;
Your marrow trills—now Murkland strafes:
Quem di diligunt, adolescens moritur;
To siphon Your Color——A New Corridor.
One evening my dog and I discovered a nature enveloped trail and we went for
a walk. In the dandelion laden grass we encountered a grazing doe with two
identical looking offspring. Unexpectedly, a taller than average woman stepped
out from behind a laurel with her bow drawn and the arrow pointing in our
direction. Frozen with fright, I could not talk.
A golden arrow spiraled from her bow and whizzed by my dog and I. It felt as
though my heart jumped out of my chest and into my throat. With my heart
still racing-I turned to see her intended target. I had such a feeling of relief that
we did not die.
The arrow hit a black panther that had been silently stalking. Upon hitting the
panther, the arrow made a loud popping noise and seemed to disintegrate into
thin air. The arrow left behind a cloud of golden dust and flakes. I was reduced
to jaw-drop gawking.
The black cat shrieked, jumped, and bolted into the wooded darkness. I turned
again to look at the woman and noticed a dog at her side. Her dog had a
slender build, floppy ears, and a narrow face. The woman had long shimmering
blonde hair, blue eyes, and an attitude with a hint of starkness.
She was wearing what appeared to be ancient Greek clothing and knee-high
lace up rawhide boots. And, she was wearing a tiara made with golden leaves
and honey suckle. She had an aura of a goddess. I thought she must have
been reared in the realm of the gods with Mount Olympus being her roots.
This now gentile woman, knelt down, extended her hand, and summoned the
doe and her twins. To my amazement, they complied without hesitation. I
thought she must be a mixture of darkness and light. After all, it’s the
perfection of balance that wins.
After petting the deer, the huntress stood up, nodded in my direction, and
strolled off with her hunting dog into the fir ruled forest and disappeared out
of sight. My dog and I returned home and while doing chores later that
evening, my attention was drawn to a painting that I had of a goddess and her
dog. With wonderment upon my discovery, I grinned with delight.
My friend ,
You have accused me
Of stealing the color from a butterfly
Of your town.
I tore out of some garden, you say,
A sapling of gulmohar
And planted it
In a desolate and barren cemetery.
Just as the coral tree
Has bitter roots,
So, in my heart,
Lies sin!
I am degenerate, immoral,
You have judged me to be vile!
I am well aquainted with pain and have deliberately
Made it my power.
I am a bird of prey and do not care
For the friendship of little birds.
My colors are false,
I am a dishonest dyer!
The inky serpent of fame
Lies around my neck
And strikes, with my songs,
Little heart-baskets!
My pain, like Ashwathaama’s
Is never-ending!
You remind me that my body-room
Will disintegrate soon enough.
In exchange for fragrant songs
I trade in wombs.
I am, you write
A very adolescent trader.
You say that a shadow
Is a child of light.
It is not the duty of a shadow
To separate.
The duty of a shadow is
Devotion to light.
In light, to always be ahead,
And to extinguish itself in light.
Even a bird can fly away
If is miserable in its cage.
But each day
I catch and discard new birds.
The reason I do this, you say, is that I covet just one thing,
The sorrow in my soul.
Because every song I sing,
Is a song of sorrow.
You also write
About one butterfly.
The butterfly who spent a short time
In my garden,
The butterfly with a weakness for,
Silver flowers,
The butterflywho desired,
Golden stars.
Her face was sweet,
Like the moon in a desert.
My songs
Were very dear to her.
You considered me
A son of Saraswati,
Today your opinion about me
Is altered!
At the end you have written
That I ought to be ashamed of myself!
That I should drown myself
In a tub of acid!
I should take my sick self -
Along with my songs -
And leave the environs
Of your town today!
Society has no need
Of my worthless sorrows!
I should be fighting for
The rights of workers!
I ought to disperse the color
Of my beloved
To the grain in the fields.
I ought to take the sorrow of the world,
And set it, like a jewel, in a ring of songs!