Long I do not know Poems
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my sorrow
comes and goes
fluctuating
Like
april showers
but
progressively
has
some flooding
powers.
My rain
falls and falls
until
My entire body
aches
of cold
and my shoes
sopping wet
overflow
until my legs feel like bricks
And a clear spot
is just over the horizon
while
the birds
shake off the
water
from the tips of their wings
I peer above
as the clouds
hang heavier
and
the wind picks up
I hold tightly
To my body
For this
Horrid weather just wont stop
And I try to find cover
And
Company
But
In truth
All I find
Is
Mud puddles
Rain
Slapping down my back
Vision blurred
I am trapped
Muddling my brain
To leap
over
These tiny oceans
Is harder than it sounds
But to continue to further sink into
My own
Despondency
Destructive nature
Of my
Heart will
Not win
Today
Form:
SHOOT FOR THE MOON
Forbid me, forget me, ignore me, deny me, accuse me, forgive me; ask me why?...you left me! I have done as you ask, stepping back from the wrath; not left with an option or, not a chance, even half.
Yes, I have taken, guilty of theft; trying to savour any that's left. Telling myself it will be over soon, lying again, I shoot for the moon.
I watch the wheels speed right by, it really is hard to watch the years as they fly. It's my turn again, it happens so fast, how quickly it comes; my turn as last. No need to hurry, no need for mathematics, what ever the number, I'm the one that has it.
Yes, I have taken, guilty of theft; trying to savour any that's left. Telling myself it will be over soon, crying again, I shoot for the moon.
I wait for you, ...be patient you say. Just a little more time, and we won't have to pay. We didn't volunteer for such lies and treachery, I try to step in, but you just won't let me. I try to show you what's right before you, but you tell me you refuse to believe one who knows you.
Yes, I have taken, guilty of theft; trying to savour any that's left. Telling myself it will be over soon, dying again, I shoot for the moon.
Trying again, but that's no revelation; I retake, you relate always with hesitation. As I slowly give out of choices to make, I look around at the place I will take. I'm waiting again, for you to get wise to her conniving ways and her witching little lies.
Yes, I have taken, guilty of theft; trying to savour any that's left. Telling myself it will be over soon, lying again, I shoot for the moon.
She takes a breath in, you take a breath out, she consumes your oxygen, your light is burning out. She slithers and wiggles her way in and out, casting a shadow over logic and doubt. She is wicked in ways, and evil at best; she is no good for you, at last, you confess.
So, when she has taken so much and so guilty of theft, don't try to save me from whatever she's left. Don't try to tell me it will me over soon and don't be surprised when I shoot for the moon.
Form:
if i could
make you happy
just by waving my hand
it would be the least of things
i hope you understand
but i prefer something greater
like swiming across the sea
or climb the highest mountian
just so you could see me
like a child says "mommy watch"
just pretend that's me
i'd dig a hole to china
with you watching me
and when it comes to taming lions
anythings worth a try
i'd do it in a second
if i knew i'd catch your eye
i'd cross the Gobi Desert
if you were on the other side
walk from here to Tim Buc too
if that is where you hide
i'd dive into the Baltic sea
if you were in a submarine
and tap on the hatch my code
to let you know where ever you go
i won't be far behind
so when it comes to making you happy
that's nothing to me
i could think of a lot of things
but i think i'll start
by waving my hand
Form:
A balance of Scale your sWord does bare
Bringer of Life to those who ;Dare…
Care…. you see, we ARE
Everlasting never casting to scare
Forgiving and giving to heal the scars
Glowing is Love in the Stars…
Horses carry Hearts far and
! I say Black Writer,
Your abundance Starts.
A balance of scales within the Head
Bringer of Song and Notes to read
Celebrating Life in all it’s form, I say
;Determination BE, your Pen..AMore!
~Scales, Two, balance Four.
This color of Ink, includes us All.
Re.Written...
What's been for knot...
...
When the Lamb opened the third seal, I heard the third living creature say, “Come!” I
looked, and there before me was a black horse! Its rider was holding a pair of scales in
his hand. Then I heard what sounded like a voice among the four living creatures, saying,
“A quart of wheat for a day’s wages, and three quarts of barley for a day’s wages, and do
not damage the oil and the wine!”
*Mistaken, was the pivot once a.More!....dig it?sWine ;)* — Revelation 6:5-6 NIV
Form:
I am one hypocrite, imperfectly
I am all edges, no single curve
So rough all around, so badly wrong.
I like the positive, never to do
I say all that I should, none ever true
I step on every toe, I am the brute!
I am one evil mind, alas I am
I scheme all that I can, sleek, evil plans
What is the need? In here, no good is found.
But I’m sorry, each time I break the line
In tears and anger, every blessed time
And I despise at once the shameful crime
Would it ever change anything inside?
If after death one’s corpse would start to cry,
Could it draw any grace close, right beside?
I could but scrape my knees to beg for hope
I beg just for grace, not karats of gold.
I beg each time that my prayer would hold.
One hypocrite; imperfect, always would cry
Would beg for mercy, would forever try,
Though I be called a fool, and termed “unwise”.
Dominic A. Ami 03/04/2013
I am one hypocrite.
Form:
today, i wanna die and bid god riddance grandly
going gamesomely gra grave, de deum, and cymbal crash
to bing mulct emotionally, physically and spiritually -
all the grinding hardships would be gone in aa flash
how tempting to seek ot a solution sans hemlock
or other deadly potion,
whereby toothless mouth need not gnash
boot simply swallow and drink from the goblet of
mortal freedoms renting psych ass under
with purposelessness mine hash
tag, which bout with suicide while n the edge of thirteen -
anorexia nervosa defeated -
then as now experience whip lash
lacerating, flagellating, and repeatedly rousing thoughts
to circle back to why death be not proud when life on par with a mash
up of ennui, futile gobbledygook housing incubus
analogous luft waffe bombardiers quash
the joie de vivre per je ne sais quois spritely spring
in step happy jollity, and levity attempt to make light
of psychological me's mental illness rash
whence thru the lvii roam min years as chief garbage taster of trash
hurled my way gnome matter the gremlins dwelt within the Wabash
distance to inflict din er of dissonance targeted this mortal for'er abash
as soon as he got expelled from the womb, his reddened ears did bash
from sonic screaming boom causing astir the nurses
into the maternity ward of me late mum sped like dash
her, and fast as a comet prancer doth emulate
a con vixen dancer, cuz ova this rude half
re:that came a boot from genetic chromosomal dna wash.
Form:
Picture a man and a woman naked side by side,
chains wrapped loosely around their necks
attached not to each other, but to the familiar horned beast that towers over them.
To others it appears obvious they could easily abdicate, however the couple does not view the same landscape
They stay comfortably bound to the monster they recognize
what may come to their surprise
they are their own adversary and their own allies
rather than escaping habit they CHOOSE to stay enslaved
not living but surviving, one foot in the grave.
Its not that they are unable ,they know they can be free
they are just so accustomed to not being able to breathe.
They are hoping that they can illustrate their own reality,
create their own light, dreaming of freedom
whilst still believing the chains are skin tight.
Form:
she wrote
that she
confirmed me
meaning her
flight
i knew
because
we con
firmed
each
other
it seems
dinosaur
ages ago
before
the supposed
comet hit
wiping out
exsistance
even while
they were
digesting
suggesting
suddenly so
violently i can't
even breath
while trying to
write this but
i'm a bit of
a survivalist
but my poetry
only exists
because
of her
and
so she
becomes
more then just
a lightning strike
but the rubbing of
wood
against
flesh get
ting a spark
to at least start
a flame
where as
she has not
but i have not
shaved pubicly
(spell check tried
to correct and
suggest that
perhaps i
meant
publicly)
but i'm not
into exposing
myself unless it
is with her poetry
Form:
I’ve never quite managed to fit in. I can sculpt multiple different masks from wax or clay, put them on and try to make my way but the truth is I am the gaps between the wood of the pier, the drawer that doesn’t fit quite right in your dresser.
I dance between the lines, a tightrope that can only be accessed by those that don’t feel entirely human.
My entire life, I have felt displaced. Nothing really feels real. Including myself. Maybe that’s just how it is. Life is a constant battle.
The feeling of being alien isn’t new to me. Feeling disconnected from my own humanity, wondering if I was a changeling because I’ve always felt so different to the rest.
I cry for help over and over but people stare at me blankly, eyes glossy like they’re not even living, like I do not speak the language they do even though I know that everything I say they could understand if they just listened.
Staring at the scars on my skin from where a blade, hastily freed from the casing that gave it purpose, kissed my flesh and made it bloom with red. It’s like there’s a fuzzy filter between myself and the pain. Like my brain refuses to acknowledge that they are self inflicted and instead chooses to believe they are just a part of my design.
The filter only goes away when I’m in the one place I really feel I belong. The people that make me feel less alien, maybe because their presence transports me to a world where everyone else is “alien” too.
So yeah, maybe I don’t belong anywhere but in a cluster of stars, surrounded by life so bright and full that warmth envelops me every which way I turn. And maybe that’s okay.
Form:
I am not your friend, my friend.
I see the grease on your hands,
dark with the blood of the streets,
palms cracked from gripping lies too tight.
I am not your ally, chief.
Your promises rot in the dirt,
buried beneath broken bricks,
dreams crushed by the weight of your schemes.
You preach of unity, of justice, of peace,
but your words dance like thieves in the dark.
You feast on the future you stole,
your belly full while hope withers.
I am not your comrade, boss.
You take, you hoard, you vanish.
We scrape the bottom of empty coffers
while you fly first class to nowhere.
You sip champagne; we swallow dust.
Your pockets swell; our cupboards empty.
Factories shut, classrooms hollow,
but your laughter still cuts like a blade.
I am not fooled by your anthems and creeds.
The people march, the people bleed.
But rage takes root in dry ground,
and no flood can drown what is coming.
So hear me now, tyrant
your time is running thin.
No throne stands when truth takes flame,
and the night ahead will not be kind.
I am not your friend, my friend.
I am the storm you cannot stop.
Form: