Critiques and Revision
(12/17/2014 12:17:00 AM)
Loneliness.....oh! ! I hate loneliness
Loneliness.....its a phase of emptiness
& Loneliness is a way to nostalgia
Nostalgia-a stage of lifelessness
But at times, I get nostalgic
WHY?I don't understand
HOW?I don't understand
But all I know is that sometimes I get nostalgic,
either in the dread of future....or with the lost hand....
Loneliness-its got an enchanting power
which detaches from all worldliness,
detaches from all chains.....chains which are futile,
and detaches from all consciousness,
and arouses in me a state of nostalgia,
which is even more futile, with all its illusiveness......
This is for what I hate loneliness.....
Loneliness-its a phase of emptiness......
and all it brings beyond consciousness.....
is just an illusion, but all I know
is that factually n actually everything is mere illusion,
even the so called " true" mirror's reflection......
reflectong with a lateral inversion......
Loneliness-detaches from all worldliness
so, i hate loneliness.......
But somehow, it awakens in me, the spirits of fictitiousness......
the tools of imagination& an " illusion" of infinite " liveliness" .
This is for what despite of a million reasons to hate loneliness, I still love......
to cherish loneliness....
Sometimes I pleasure loneliness....
Sometimes I treasure loneliness......
But, all I understand is that I hate loneliness, and still..........more or less......
I " love loneliness" ........
(12/16/2014 6:51:00 PM)
love to hear. new to site.
A glimpse beyond the walls, I see a life of which will never be
But oh, how high a man can dream?!
To heights unmatched and seldom seen
I touched the star that grants a wish, saw the face that launched 1,000 ships
Had everything, and so t'was bliss
but lost it all, Just.....Like.....This.
For Alas! , I am not meant for those, precious moments of parental prose
Nay- I am just meant to be alone
This curse I bear on my own.
Like a drunk, I rue the morning next, where reality replaces happiness
And darkness mixed with loneliness
Consumes the light my soul emits.
But something in me knew it then, eventually the floor would spin
A vortex where escape is thin
Here past the event horizon.
So alone I walk, toward Destined Death
Not of my flesh, but imagination
For a dream can quickly turn nightmare
And many times I've seen the pyre
Consume my spirit, hopes and desires
(12/13/2014 4:15:00 AM)
Lying on a brick bed
In a noiseless dark room
Lies an unsettling feeling
There is something in the corner
Laughing at myself " It's all in my mind"
Or maybe it's in my head
Next to the mirror full of gloom
A shadow as tall as the ceiling
There is something standing in the corner
Wondering " Is this real life?"
Sleeplessness is starting to make me insane
Trying to fall asleep I shut my eyes
My mind begins to drift away.....
There is something breathing in the corner
Heavier than the weight of a million tombs
My energy seems to drain
It's coming to take my life
" Where have my thoughts began to stray?"
There is something watching in the corner
I need to get out of this room
Paralyzed, perilously awaiting death
But it's all simply a figment of imagination..
I blink my eyes but it doesn't disappear
It's empty face in disguise
And bearing a haunting glare
The taker of souls invading me in my rest
Watching it in helpless desperation
It slowly approaches nearer
Close enough to see the nothingness in it's eyes
I told you there was something over there
" Someone save me"
Succumbing to it's outstretched arms reluctantly
Attempting to move but it is a waste
I can feel hands around my neck
Not a single helpless howl can escape
" Are you going to take me?"
My breath stops suddenly
Stealing the blood from my veins
Drowning in it's dreary darkness
I hear it bellow my name
(12/7/2014 3:49:00 AM)
Children of the Slums
Imagine waking up on a filthy, uneven floor -
light coming solely through the flimsy wooden wall.
Imagine trudging through the mud barefoot -
mud merged with remnants of God knows who.
Imagine breathing in thick layers of sooty dust -
the colors sullen, lifeless and dull.
Imagine smelling the scent of faeces and decay,
of diseases and of death every single day.
Imagine your belly gurgling with hunger and distraught,
sniffing glue - the only way to delude.
Imagine walking on rickety bridges -
a step amiss and drown you will in these murky watery ditches.
Imagine wearing the same old rags - all tattered and torn,
being beaten and battered, no rights of which to call your own.
Imagine having silly daydreams of going to school
but there's not a penny to spare - not even for a worn-out book.
But alas, imagine no more for such children exist,
with ghosts clouding their starry dreams
And death hanging heavy upon their tiny, little feet.
Gangadharan Nair Pulingat
(11/30/2014 9:09:00 AM)
Trees always interested by poets.
(11/30/2014 3:17:00 AM)
Trees Who Needs Them
Scottish pine and mountain ash, what scene could frame a finer dash as sunbeams danced among its cooling glade.
Romance etched upon the bark where lovers coyed and left their mark and men stepped out from where their youth had laid.
And oh! what mighty ships of past would sail had oak not made their mast, and was not the earth alas a smaller place.
Thus acorns seeded on the moor made fast the flag on distant shore, whence king and country ruled its native race.
Whose heart would ache from flight askew, if cupid had not crafted hew, for broken hearts do bear the greatest pain.
How sad would be the village green if men in white made not the scene, their calls aloud as willow took the strain.
Bland would be the vacant pie had nature blinked and fruit caught not its eye, but history brought the apple to the fore.
For had Newton in his search pondered life neath the birch the day would be no wiser than a snore.
Chippendale would ply not or teach the beauty that was sculptured beech and doubtless seek its offspring was well planted.
Cedar wood a nasal treat, maple floors that felt the beat, natures gift we should never take for granted
(11/28/2014 12:16:00 AM)
Flakes fell light against the black night,
she watched the flakes fall low
and crush beneath her heavy, wading feet.
With each step, she exhaled from her weary lips,
each breath, quicker than the last
composed shimmering elements,
that shone weak against
the misleading lights above.
She wished she could breathe.
Breathe out all her shame,
so that if it were, finally,
to relieve her lips and surface—
exposed among her darkened sight—
she might grasp it,
twist it and choke it,
between her wavering, chapped hands.
There, at its end,
holding onto nothing but itself,
it would purge its last
violent breath—suffocating within
her solitary, worldly grasp.
But, she thinks. She knows.
She could not exhale
this secret, searing fire or
expel it from her bitter, collapsing soul.
But, if she could attempt, finally,
to dig in deep below—
meet those lurid, eager voices, the
excesses of her dripping, whining soul—
greet them with baited affection,
greet them without conceit,
she could then, finally,
find herself within them.
When she does, finally,
fathom and not fear this great and
rousing courage she could, even now,
exhale, expel, or dig out this gorging sin—
escape it—at least
with a little of herself remaining,
breath in deeply, unclasp her hands,
embrace her dark and shrouding mass,
she could then, finally,
put it into something useful.
(11/15/2014 1:14:00 AM)
| Read 1 reply
Through the Wringer
Blind wanderer deep in foul territory.
The hazardous lonesome desire.
Seeking the reciprocal.
Satisfaction of a basic need.
Vulnerability secreted like blood oozing into waters of starving sharks.
Unsuspecting supply for vile subspecies.
The vampires, the tyrants, the cannibals, the parasites.
Deep lacerations from razor-sharp barbs.
Staggering inebriated around their hair-triggered land mines.
Horrid agony inflicted by medieval torture.
Desperate pleas for mercy.
The cold, blackened heart of nemeses yielding sadistic motives.
Burned and gassed.
Slowly impaled by twisting bayonets.
Remaining shrapnel lodged deep into the flesh.
Disintegrated ego in microscopic pieces.
Mind saturated and submersed in post traumatic stress.
The tattered carcass.
Left for dead.
Entrails unraveled, left to decompose.
Rancid, putrid organs exposed.
Picked clean by vultures, rodents, maggots.
An obscured, distant memory.
(11/13/2014 9:30:00 PM)
I have taken my time to leave reality;
Stepping out of the picture for more clarity.
I see the negative and positive connotation
Of a growing colossal human nation.
But every day we face utter annihilation.
Pride and prejudice will be the source of obliteration,
Everyone so self-absorbed; nothing they feel or see,
Always worried about, “Are the Four Horsemen coming for me?”
And when the gun’s residue leaves behind,
An afterthought of the moral mind,
I am reminded of what I love to do:
Reading the unconscious without a clue.
When those who have suffered the consequence,
Of a sword hanging over their conscience,
I hope someone or thing, whether it be me,
Will throw away the sword and set them free.
This all I have hoped, nothing has happened.
These diseases are just a way to control, to trap in
The innocent people of the human race.
I constantly wonder, “Who should I disgrace?”
The wish to live in a world in which
There is no fear to be a snitch.
To do right by the terms of the heart
Will provide the necessary part
Of the story
That will grant the world glory.
There is a fork in the fate, however.
To maneuver around it, one must be clever.
One is total obliteration
Where the nay-sayers smile with gratification.
The other one is not to ignore.
The lost finally wash up on the shore,
Those cast down receive pious remarks,
With harmony, will rise the lovely larks,
Lastly, though they won’t know it,
The Great Fuse shall be lit.
When the fire is gone and the world starts to cool,
Only moral shall rule.
Sadly, there can be no way to go.
Right or left, happiness no one will know.
So we keep moving forward with the idea in mind,
Of how we want to be, a person of which kind?
Keeping the idea of the shore and glory best,
If we keep climbing and trying we will be at rest.
Leonard G. Allmon
(11/4/2014 7:21:00 PM)
Maybe this belongs here...
We Are What We Are
Ladybug met Stinkbug on the garden path,
”He’s cute, ” she thought, “But he needs a bath.
If he meets my my friends, they’re sure to think,
That though he’s mine, It would be fine,
If he didn’t have a stink.”
They spent some time together, well over an hour,
She tried to talk about his smell, but he said, “Little Flower, You find my odor nasty, but you should know as well,
Though you are sweet, like dirty feet,
Is how I find your smell.”
They tried so hard to not offend, to overlook their scent,
That finally, it came to them, about what it all meant,
To change the other person, was not part of their plan,
For they realized, through many sighs, that
What you are, you can’t control, but what you do, you can,
The way you are born, you cannot change,
But your habits and actions, you can arrange
To not offend, or hurt, or bother.
So they promised each, as they nibbled a peach,
To gently honor and respect the other.
Leonard G. Allmon