Long Piece of paper Poems
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10/10/2019
I tried to write today, but I couldn’t manage it.
You see, there’s a speck of dirt stuck to the paper.
I tried not to let it get to me, but to no avail,
And had already begun trying to get it off.
Scratching at it was no use, I couldn’t get under the thing.
And washing a paper would defeat the purpose.
It seemed impossible to pry off.
I can’t live with it in my sight, yet can’t throw it away.
I’ll have to take my mind off it somehow,
So I can rest easy tonight.
Just the thought of it will haunt me.
Tomorrow I can write again.
10/11/2019
I got another piece of paper today,
And had managed to get the speck out of my head,
Just long enough to get some thoughts out.
But something else is bothering me.
Now that I think about it, I can’t stop myself.
All the abnormalities of the patterns on the wall,
The crumbs on the desk,
Even the nearly invisible creases in this paper.
I need to get out a bit more,
There’s no way I can function like this.
I can talk more when I’ve dealt with this,
But for now this is all I can think about.
10/12/2019
I couldn’t go to sleep last night.
I had turned on the fan in my room,
But its spinning motion had fascinated me.
The quink motion blurs it together,
But if you focus on a single blade, following it,
It starts to become clear.
After a while I decided to get up.
There was nothing to do, but anything was better
Then staring at the cursed fan.
I found a rubber wall stick toy, molded into the shape of a dragon.
My brother probably got it from a teacher.
After spending the rest of the night trying to keep the wings apart,
I passed out.
10/13/2019
I can’t stay in this house,
The abundance of dust has only become more clear.
My brain won’t rest and I’m seeing things I haven’t before.
The edges of my nails that are begging to be cut,
The imperfections in the palms of my hands,
The papers not all in a straight pile,
The lines of my handwriting inhabiting them,
The dust scattered over the tables,
And the finger marks breaking the unity.
My head is spinning
And I can’t make it stop.
Round and round the ceiling goes.
10/14/2019
Ah, the beauty of sleep medicine.
I finally had a good night’s rest,
And I think I have an idea on what to write about.
Until next time, Journal.
And please, deal with the erase marks,
I need a break.
-Connor Lotts
Oh dear Muse, help me write this verse for thee
Give me the strength to write, and fulfill my destiny.
The lines and rimes that below will be read,
Come from the mind of a disturbed head.
A poet who will share a captivating tail,
And he hopes on this mission he won’t fail.
The story goes back in space and time: long ago,
In far away kingdom a newborn is about to show.
Little fragile boy showing his face to the world,
At least that how this poor poet’s heard.
Little William was his name of course until he grew,
Than William it became, but still “little” to a few.
As the years passed by William got much smarter
Than any man, and that’s why he left to go farther.
He left his village seeking the final, untainted truth:
“Why are we here, why does every man have a LIFE?”
He searched high and low, but still didn’t find a clue,
To his question. But someone can answer it… but whom?
Trying to figure out the truth he stumbled upon a cave.
Entering he found traces of a speech once home he gave.
Who was the strange admirer? Who’s home hath he found?
He suddenly felt a short breeze and slowly turned around.
He was rendered speechless by the sight he had to face,
It was himself, like in the mirror; he had seen his own face.
Stiff as a board he’d stare at his twin, searching a mismatch
But futile, none was found. “So you’ve made the big catch”
The fellow said, “Are you happy now? Or confused?”
For you see, it was indeed himself, who he had faced.
He, the twin was his soul’s other side, the wise one.
Once he understood, whiteout a breath the twin had gone.
Gone away, leaving William alone, but pondering,
He had noticed a piece of paper with some writing.
It was a speech he gave, a speech very long ago,
About his first true love, about passion and grace.
He understood, now a new challenge he would face.
His mission was to tell the world the secret, hidden
Truth: Love. Love is the answer he had been given.
So simple yet so complex, so easy than again intricate.
Knowing, that no one would accept love, only hate.
Poor William could not cope with the burden so heavy,
So he rested his head, and slept for an entire eternity,
Leaving the people to wonder and continue searching,
Knowing, that they will never experience such a true feeling.
Sad story, but true, oh Muse I tell thee…
William was non other, than poor old me.
Dedicated to my darling Mystic Rose...
For my everlasting rose,
for my darling Mystic Rose,
Charished deep in my heart,
for generations to last lifetimes,
on this Beautiful gift,
we all call Mother Earth.
Oh now my dear
come now and do not fear,
I shall take you by your sweet and loving hand,
as we set out in a band,
of two lonely hearts
that both need to be loved.
At first when I came
to this desolate Wasteland;
I was a lonely heart
with poetry that was my art.
You were the first to come to me,
with a smile and a hug.
You read my work,
I won your heart
and you praised me,
looked at me in anew
and treated me diffrently than any other.
My darling Mystic,
Oh how you make me feel;
so grand, so new, so happy.
As I lay my head to rest
I reminisce on your loving words,
that spoke such truth to my soul.
As you praised me through my heights,
and weaped with me through my sorrow,
as I uplifted your soul with the arrangement of words
I wrote from deep down in my weak and weary soul;
You were there always to touch my heart
and cure me of sorrowed tears.
It is impossible to express my love for you,
but see me, to feel my love,
for you my darling Mystic
it tears me apart to not
see your face, to hear your voice,
only to read your loving words
comments on a poem
that was written on a page;
It tears me apart.
Oh, my sweet and everlasting rose,
Blooming in every season,
at every hour,
a beautiful poetess at her midst of an evening twilight
as the nightingales sing outside your window,
I come and show you love and compassion.
Let us go, you and I,
I take you by your hand
and we sail off,
two poets writing of beauty
both in ink upon a blank piece of paper.
To write of love,
My compassion for you
my beautiful rose,
my darlin Mystic.
We shall part seas,
bloom in gardens of beauty,
roses and violets grow tall
around us,
reminding us of our everlasting friendship.
Lilacs and tulups stray long away,
to show my love to a stranger,
but you are no stranger to me.
You are an everlasting rose,
which blooms evertime at the stroke of nine,
and there you stay,
growing in a large and beautiful garden,
that is located deep in my heart.
Now take me, my darling Mystic
your LoveSlayer,
and charish this beautiful write
Charish it at all times,
every hour of the days!
In honour of your beauty and inspiration
I am a fool in love,
intoxicated with your beauty at heart.
The beautiful day begins in the house.
At the end of it, all that’s left of it is the moon,
Shimmering in all the night’s light.
A door to another world opens.
The only movement is a page turning in a book.
Suddenly, without notice, an inconceivable object drops.
The thing jumps and twirls and once again drops.
A person from another time, the future, enters the large house.
The man, pacing back and forward, finally sends away the hovering book.
He magically transports it to the glistening moon.
Something like a black hole, a portal inexplicably opens.
The book vanishes in a fading yellow light.
The visitor sees something bright, a room full of light.
And inside, a piece of paper from the hands of a child drops.
The door of the room slightly, quietly opens.
A child and her grandmother are drawing and inscrutable house.
In a circle and a beam of inconceivable beauty appears the moon.
On the page, like the hovering object, once again, is the sight of a book.
The child explains that she has, many times that year, read the book.
But her grandmother slowly shows the girl the true “light”.
Now, the girl understands that she was wrong, and now appears the moon!
It comes closer and closer, and then, like a shooting star, down it drops.
The planet has gone down from the sky to have a conversation in the house.
The moon elegantly flies in, as large as an elephant, and its mouth opens.
And now all of the people come close together and a road opens.
The grandmother and child are guided by a rather large book.
In time, the home disappears; they have left the house.
The book vanishes, and all that leads them is a guiding light.
The key to a room, calmly, as if carried by the wind, drops.
“Come in and let’s have a talk,” says not a person, but a face in white, the moon.
The grandmother is surprised, for she is seeing the real, live moon.
A beautiful and long conversation through all the night opens.
Then as dawn arrives, blood-red, the tone of their voices drops.
Grandmother and child come out of the wonderful book.
Outside it is day, a new beginning, another lively light.
They walk o’er their field and talk till’ they reach the house.
In the morning, the otherworldly man leaves the house.
Also, he disappears in a now magnificent golden light.
That is the end; there are no more pages in this book.
Life is fuuny and cunny,It's not a good thing for anyone to pass through my path way in life for it is meant only for the strong and bold.I don't know where my strenght is coming from each day but i manage,
It's not easy walking through the path i have walked through and still walking through.I will never pray someone else walks past close to my path way in Life uptill now,never should anyone get it.its been STRONG my dear friend and brother
very STRONG,
I am just stocked in a single place like a piece of paper on a dry ground surrounded by both water and fire.if i change position,i either get soaked and torned off or i get burnt and loses in thin air,
Sometimes i stare at my path way in life both past and present,I see that i have travelled too far but not so far
I tend to wonder if travelling this path is all about staying at a single bus stop.
its really frustrating and sometimes wonderingly uncomfortable to notice that haven travelled a long path in life,you find yourself starting from the very begining where you started from,
its kind of annoying and may give a weak mind some chances of blaming his creator of which at times i do but may God forgive me for I am just being human.Listening to FOOLS and illitrates whose mindsets are blocked with ignorance and mischief makes my path narrower and tight,
well,well just keep doing your thing my brother and God is with you.as for me,I'll keep walking my rough path in life till my God makes it glaringly straight and easy for me,
I realy feel so down man,so down and confused.I feel real down.Yeah I know about my faith,I know about my God and I know everything is possible with him but i feel weak after passing through so much in life His strength has been and is still keeping me going but i need more,
I need to get to the stage in life where i can start doing what my heart yawns for.As it is said in the bible,"Train your child according to the ways of the Lord so that when he grows up,he will not depart from it",
Hope you get what i am talking about even if you are not around or beside my path way in life to witness the reality of it.But we must keep things we have in a continuous and pospective way where we can see developments in the near future even if it aches my back,throat and heart in a very bad way.Well,well I just keep my path way in Life and until then,i keep praying...
gently
before me
on a desk, or a table
rests the means to enable
me to craft a new fable
to run and leap like the sable
a squirrel scampering upon a gable
to perch on high
level with the treetops
even with the dew drops
before they appear on leaves and grass
and as the moments pass
above the uncouth, the crass, with aplomb and class
to perch on high
not a computer, monitor, or screen
but a single piece of white paper, pristine, clean
and a pencil, or a pen
this is one of my favorite things, always available again
for me to clutter up with poetry, it's a religeous experience, maybe a sin
to perch on high, and then, to fly
above this work of still life, a pregnant moment, this glory
how do i get across to a mere animal like many of we
the potential, the opportunity, the act of creation
the pantheon of art, intellect, and creativity, the nearly divine relation
of a pencil, or pen, and one single piece of paper, the correlation
of inspiration, asperation, imagination, an elations flirtation
with all of creation, and even with the Creater, all the world and history
all possible, sometimes, probable, once in a while, we'll get to Be,
creatively
this mere human being, this mammal, this fallable and maelable man
may one day be as close to God, as, say, a squirrel, a sable, a dog or a cat
created as perfect as God intended, then staying that way
us? this world is sick and evil, faded, jaded, and peopled with egos based
entirely on waste, differences of taste
being better than, largely by plan, and lies, by intention and ignorance, like flies
i was perched on high, minutes ago, almost
(computers, phah!)
there is a certain amount of gratification in crumbling up a piece of paper
when faced with the fact, that what i've created is trash
getting another one
setting it down
setting a pencil or pen on it
and starting over. perfectly. gently. what is that moment?
to fly
perfection, and me, trying to be, to become, to create,
really, it seems everything i write or draw is a waste of time
it was perfect before i picked up the pen, now look what i've done!
delete?
phah! can you think of a title, a word that defines the moment described?
p.s. i am ussually surrounded by malevolent cretins, nobody on this site is a mere animal,
my apologies if you are!
gently
before me
on a desk, or a table
rests the means to enable
me to craft a new fable
to run and leap like the sable
a squirrel scampering upon a gable
to perch on high
level with the treetops
even with the dew drops
before they appear on leaves and grass
and as the moments pass
above the uncouth, the crass, with aplomb and class
to perch on high
not a computer, monitor, or screen
but a single piece of white paper, pristine, clean
and a pencil, or a pen
this is one of my favorite things, always available again
for me to clutter up with poetry, it's a religeous experience, maybe a sin
to perch on high, and then, to fly
above this work of still life, a pregnant moment, this glory
how do i get across to a mere animal like many of we
the potential, the opportunity, the act of creation
the pantheon of art, intellect, and creativity, the nearly divine relation
of a pencil, or pen, and one single piece of paper, the correlation
of inspiration, asperation, imagination, an elations flirtation
with all of creation, and even with the Creater, all the world and history
all possible, sometimes, probable, once in a while, we'll get to Be,
creatively
this mere human being, this mammal, this fallable and maelable man
may one day be as close to God, as, say, a squirrel, a sable, a dog or a cat
created as perfect as God intended, then staying that way
us? this world is sick and evil, faded, jaded, and peopled with egos based
entirely on waste, differences of taste
being better than, largely by plan, and lies, by intention and ignorance, like flies
i was perched on high, minutes ago, almost
(computers, phah!)
there is a certain amount of gratification in crumbling up a piece of paper
when faced with the fact, that what i've created is trash
getting another one
setting it down
setting a pencil or pen on it
and starting over. perfectly. gently. what is that moment?
to fly
perfection, and me, trying to be, to become, to create,
really, it seems everything i write or draw is a waste of time
it was perfect before i picked up the pen, now look what i've done!
delete?
phah! can you think of a title, a word that defines the moment described?
p.s. i am ussually surrounded by malevolent cretins, nobody on this site is a mere animal,
my apologies if you are!
Form:
Intellectual progress with thee
beyond this, that, here or even there
of matter within what color, shape, size, weight, etc
All in all, we started with for example if you were to use a pencil or a pen, marker, etc. Indefinitely once that utensil is put to a piece of paper.
It begins within a point to draw a line or many lines or a circle, etc
Either way, the lines connect to another and another and another
Since the beginning of time LOVE backward is EVOL, hence vice versa
Did it all start with a point, a dot?
I think I'm tryna prove a point
Not for you, her, him or even them
It's beyond and above all this evil
Living in different people
A born autistic bipolar schizophrenic
But yet I think I know my limits
I'm in a learning process
Yet EVIL backward is LIVE
learn to live without all that evil
Voices never go away yet I try to be civil, I've been at war with myself since birth, I'm so confused with everything but I do know about Love yet I've never been in true Love, Unconditional Love since birth
every day kinda feels cursed
I struggle with what u can't imagine
my voices go from 5 to 100 at once
even famous celebrities voices
Trains, Bangs, Screams daily above all things, I struggle daily yet I need to be here for these kids. I try hard to control my own lurking evil trying to come out for I'm a born psychopath
I'm insane, not crazy, it sometimes drives me crazy but I don't let it come out, my kids need me, what's real and unreal bring me to tears, every day is a struggle I try to stay calm, I don't wanna lose it, I'll blackout and wipe
out an entire house, even a little mouse, some people are just not worth it, I gotta live for my kids. not for all this evil. I gotta break some type of cycle. but I'm on my own, with a million voices every day I struggle with suicidal thoughts but then it goes with a different face, I can't help it but I try, I STILL KNOW HOW TO FORGIVE AND LOVE, if I can do it you can do it. Evil and love don't sound right, but every day. live and evolve, live and love, evil and live don't really belong together but backward is more sensible. I could lose my mind any dam time, Dementia is in my future, Blessed to be alive this long, then again I'm barely learning to live without so much evil yet I'm filled with so much love I gotta move and move to spread more love
She kept walking, kept travelling...
A Traveller by profession, she kept exploring.
With a pure and kindest heart inside her soul,
She was pretty easy to pick, easy to be fooled.
Her feet reached a small town,
Tired, she was happy to have it found-
And hoped for some water and food,
With her kind eyes, she now intrudes...
In a small village, with no roof.
She asked for some food,
If she gets, she will pay them good.
But All they did was to cry in front of her-
A pure soul, sang a song there,
Her heart couldn't keep up with the utter cries-
And she gave them what was with her, to see their eyes dry.
With everything given, she proceeded bareheaded and barefoot-
All she got was the happiness from helping those troops.
With sparkling eyes, she headed forward-
And saw an old lady, sobbing, cuddled up.
Not noticing the suspicious air around, she thus proceeded-
With nothing, but a body- bare and naked.
Didn't want to appear in front of others,
She ran to the nearby forest, in the southern.
She walked shivering, yet with kind gaze,
And met the forest demons, hungry and desperate.
She noticed, yet she smiled, as a mist.
She opened her arms, inviting them for the feast.
All she did was to help others, she did her job well, I guess.
In return, got nothing but more and more pleases.
She offered her arms, her limbs, her feet-
As she pitied the hunger of the demonic beings.
All that was left was her head, rolling around-
The last demon took out a kind eye and licked it, very much bound.
"Here is a gift from us demons" he said and flew away-
Leaving a piece of paper, leaving the one-eyed head for decay.
She rolled out her eyes, with the strength she had left with her-
To look at the gift the demon left as an honor.
'IDIOT!' it said, said the piece of paper...
Tears rolled from her eye; she couldn't feel more satisfied from her works.
"Thank you!" a mumble came from her mouth, and she smiled-
"It's my first return gift! Thankyou!" Were the last words that came from her mouth.
Her one-eyed head now rested for eternity, no more kind deeds to be done.
Ah, The cry! The song of the dead bird sure was a pitiful one.
Never heard a pure soul rest so peacefully in this world.
??????
As I sit and watch
Watch you denounce the obligatory violence
Announcing and pronouncing the fabricated freedom
Joyfully commemorating and celebrating your assassinated true leaders
The enemy killed not the leaders but the ideas
You buried not them but the ideologies intended to truly liberate you
6 feet deep under the ground,
Saying they shall multiply and long live!
Chanting slogans with no comprehension just for the rhythm and sound
Deep into the ground
Burying your true liberation from colonization
Being sold the false hope of FREEDOM.
As I sit and watch
Watch black man selling his kinsmen to the highest bidder
Manipulated by the enemy to think he is better and different
Better than the poor masses who sacrificed themselves to be his ladder up
You are no different black man
You are just a slave in a black tie
They bribe you with a cheque from your forefathers’ fortune and wealth
They use you to steal in your own pocket
Stealing your legacy to your enemy
Yes they are right ‘You are different’
The difference between us is your inanity.
As I sit and watch
I watch my brothers and sisters been turned to be educated slaves
Enslaved by a mere pen and paper
A piece of paper segregating us and determining our destiny
Desired so hard by many to own to serve the enemy
They chose very well the useless texts to colonize and brainwash you
They planned so well to systematically oppress you
They took the weaker with no vision to execute their plans
As I sit and watch
I watch them say “save that one in a cell we might use him later”
I watch them say “kill that one he is too stubborn, a true leader and he is a threat”
I watch them with white collars reading the scriptures that say ‘a slave must obey his master’ and shouting PEACE BE UNTO YOU!
I watch them on the other hand brutally killing, raping and stealing.
Wake up black man and liberate yourself
No one will
Not even your so trusted leaders
You are not yet uhuru and so is your Azania
They stole your land with a bullet and you shall get it with a bullet not negotiations and commissions
Free yourself
Decolonize your education
To truly liberate the coming generation
Preach not their gospel but Africanism and socialism
ALUTA CONTINUA!!!!
#I WRITE TO PROMOTE NO VIOLENCE BUT TO LIBERATE