Walking With Myself

The self is a companion

In the most senses of the word.

It ambles by your side

Ever quiet

And knows exactly where

You want to go;

Where you do not.

It never drags you unwillingly

Into tenacious messes and tangles

For companionship’s sake,

Instead leading you gently

Like a leaf through the air

Following its shadow;

A trajectory into a muffled nothingness

And quiet melancholy

You learn to embrace for its peacefulness.

It shares things with you

Sometimes it can be quarrelsome

But will never desert you

In anger or frustration

Except in those times

When it becomes sullen and difficult

Mulling over discrepancies

Between you and itself,

Things you had neglected

Or failed to notice;

Things you tried to force upon it

Forgetting the fight in its spirit

Always equal to yours

Except surpassing in patience, tolerance

Until it can bear no more.

It tells you things

If you listen.

You never walk by yourself.

Redemption

Standing in line
With fifty-dollar proof in hand
Proof for redemption
That's the plan

The receptionist knows no one
Who comes to her counter
I cannot help but let innate judgment
Unconsciously denounce her

Fake warmth and a forced smile
Welcome her stranger line
How may I help you?
However, I find

Perhaps I, we have lost the right
To complain about this.
Everyone stands in eerie silence
As though something were amiss

Amassed to this line for a common goal
Yet unaware of each other's likeness
Only one sound penetrates the silence
The receptionist's false kindness

The silence remains unchanging
And so it seems
We continue beyond redemption
Unlike the voucher I redeemed

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This blog is dead. This poem's a paragraphing test for this iPad. I think it failed though.

Futility

Collab between Cynic and Caprice

Rules: Two lines per turn, rhyme scheme ABBCCDD... JJA



Perhaps it comes and goes too slowly
To be of any significance
In spite of all that happens
Worldly or otherwise
When taken to the skies
Everything falls eventually
And crumbles to sully
The name of new creation
Without validation
By those who know naught
Of waters with danger fraught
A mist of lies conceals doom
But often takes up too much room
Thus doom must reside adjacent
To life, wanton and complacent
Thinking to provide to all, for all
But witholding much, withal
Do ferns feel pain at the drumming rain?
Surely they don't want to meet germination again
A hard process of labour lowly

Education

Collab between Cynic and Caprice

Rules: Two lines per turn, Rhyme scheme ABBCCDDEE....JJA
I can't believe I actually managed to glean some meaning out of this poem. It's ridiculous.


Lying in a sea of arbitrary constants
Is everything and nothing
And all that grieving brings
Is a sentient mattress
Coddling a swampy mistress
Exuding a lachrymose fog
That burbles in tagalog
But angels dine on lead tonight
Disguised as sheet graphite
Whose layers spill forth, incontinent
Like a shedding onion meant
To do naught but strip itself
Prior adornings adorning the shel
Of self, propagating strip terror
Most would agree it was an error
To strip it; slicing would be tastier
Though julienne belongs not in the patissier
Rising like baking soda meets vinegar
Or pantaloons balooning forever
Leaving the round with growing distance

Dictation

Elusive threads

Tugging at minds' ends.

Chess pieces caress the board

Playing an intense game

The outcome played out

Long before.

One chooses his choice of food

Never realizing

It was never his choice to begin.

And when a poet writes

About what one calls 'inspiration'

He'll never admit:

Every thoughtful word

Meticulously hand-picked;

Is but dictation.

Alienated

@#*&^$^&*#@ xyz

I sure do know my ABCs

Yet I try and try

Till I fail to deny

That I'm may actually not be

A specimen of mankind

A glimpse of my mind

Is a different space

A different time

Radiating with a wavelength

like no other kind

Well allow me to explain

To feel is to:

GRR baaah Tskk RAWRRR Booooooom!

A flurry of colors

And a mess of rhythms

In a vacuum of darkness

Neither alive nor dead

Reaching my hand in yet again

Drawing out

A series of unfortunate needles.

To feel

Is to feel the stab in all

Or the swaying flowers in the wind

But to communicate this

Is but an endless dream

I call out to the infinite void

But no like wavelengths

Were to be found.

But yet this smile never wanes

I think,

yes I do think;

That

I must be

insane.

Thanksgiving

Roasted brown crisps

Perching upon a tree

Combing off remnants

In a boyish wind.

Down below

A cleaner groans

Of the endless fall.

Forgetting whose shade

Embraced him through

The summer's glaze