Life

D'en haut

Un petit garçon regarde la Terre

De son nuage paisible d'argent.

Il aperçoit, tout en bas, la mer

immense et douce comme sa maman

 

Il regarde les arbres, les forêts

Les montagnes ensoleillées, les bergers

les villages, les enfants, les vergers

et voit doucement passer les années

 

Parfois il entend pleurer une fillette

Et tend l'oreille, d'un air alerte

L'enfant n'aime pas entendre la tristesse

 

Il préfère regarder les amoureux sur la plaga, 

observer les poissons sur le rivage

et regarder les petits chats qui naissent

 

Mais il est tard sur le nuage

Alors doucement l'enfant s'en va

Et retourne au pays d'où l'on ne revient pas.

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PTSD

Who hit replay

Shut it off

No not today

Life can be rough

Enough is enough

 

The past is passed

so why must it last

This loop in my head

I constantly dread

 

Who hit replay

Shut it off

No not today

Life can be rough

Enough is enough

 

PTSD is not for me

PTSD must cease to be

Got to get it out of my head

These thoughts that I have come to dread

keep playing over inside my head

 

Who hit replay

Shut it off

No not today

Life can be rough

Enough is enough

Author's Notes/Comments: 

PTSD...we all have it in our own way...we need to stop letting it get the best of us...so much time wasted on things that cannot be changed and need to be forgotten...permanently erased...learn whatever lessons from it and move on and keep living and learning...easier said than done but thoughts to ponder nonetheless...you are not alone. Keep dreaming, keep hoping, keep living life to the fullest...take nothing for granted....be greatful...Focus on the positive.Peace.

Aggressive Warhead

Folder: 
Poetry

I was at home,

relaxed and alone.

I lay sleeping,

the darkness was reaping.

 

Then I heard the sound;

crushed windows all around.

Everything was destroyed,

of glass everything devoid.

 

Then I heard Warhead at my door,

personification of Balthazor.

The glass broke into shivers,

splinters were in my flesh delivered.

 

In spite of my fear,

at Warhead I did appear.

And tried to calm him down,

and he stopped throwing things around.

 

Everything seemed to be well,

Warhead had changes of mood, I can tell.

And Lays-chips was lying there,

I wouldn’t touch it, I declared;

cause it belonged to Warhead.

 

Hours later, Warhead came down;

in his anger still drowned.

He wanted his stuff,

but I knew he would bluff.

Always talking about guns,

but the true deed he shuns.

Though I was confused,

his stuff was unused.

Is what Ramses did tell,

and so ended this hell...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

An event in my life.

Abandoned Child

Folder: 
Poetry

My brother died,

And in his place;

I was born,

But I was repelled.


My mother threw me from the table,

Abused me, both mind and body.

My father never present,

And if so, he ignored me.


They left each other fast,

'Cause mother was a lesbian.

But my father needed a woman,

For his children and as a housewife.


The second was quite alright,

Even if she made me eat axis.

Only my sister I couldn't see,

That became off limits.


After years they had their divorce,

And then came the third, the most terrible.

My wicked stepmother,

The greatest dictator.


She tried to strangle my brother,

Then father did interfere.

She put me in the sanitarium,

With false motives, my fear.


Firstly in a crisis-centra,

'Cause I ran away from home.

Then in the sanitarium,

Where I for six months did roam.


In the sanitarium,

Provided with medication.

By which I lost my memory,

Crawling in the emptiness of chaos...


Regularly I suffered blackouts,

By which I saw nothing.

Not knowing what I did,

Much like sleep-walking;

And strange vistas occurred.


I wasn't suffering delirium,

Is what the doctors told.

So all this time,

I was in the asylum for no reason.


Then I had to go to boarding-school,

Where I developed something bad: anger.

I wanted to kill another, a female;

And Nyarlathotep, I am sorry;

Maybe I didn't wanted to commit this act,

But I had to from Satan...


What happened was unforeseen,

'Cause my room was now aflame.

The building completely in axis,

The police came to arrest me.


A year and a half in prison,

Locked away in a cell, in Hell.

A year and a half terror,

The bondage of society.


When I got out, there was another project,

Named room-training.

I had to work in a factory,

But that didn't end well...

I started to mutilate myself,

Which I learned in the sanitarium.

They send me to the hospital,

To the psychiatric division.


Then again to the crisis-centra,

Which I didn't liked at all.

As if I had to start over,

I couldn't take it anymore.


Through the open door I escaped,

And from my last money;

I buyed a train-ticket,

Which brought me to Ramses.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The first part of my biography.

An Armchair Theologian

I believe! I Believe! Lord, help my unbelief

I believe, I believe, my constant motif

I believe but don't grow

And my faith doesn't show

Because I can't be bothered to “do”

 

I know faith is given, not earned

Yet here I sit unconcerned 

I'm given to resting 

When I should be testing

To see that my faith is real

 

“You shall know them by their fruits”

But seeds planted on stones don't have roots

My apathy grows

So nobody knows

That I don't follow what I believe

 

The path down below is a slope

So gradual and smooth that you hope

It stays just the same

Like a current so tame

But leads to a waterfall

 

I'm not living, or learning

I'm sitting and burning

Lord I want to live

But not if I give

My time or my life

My comfort for strife

Is there an easier way?

 

You said believe and I shall be clean

Believe, and come home again

But how can I start

If only my heart

Wasn't an armchair theologian

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Arete

Hope is a candle in a sea of darkness, eagerly awaiting the sun. 

Trust is a drop of the purest water, in an ocean full of desert sand.

Loyalty is the assurance of your own two feet, that you will stand.

Love is a bubbling geyser; filling, and rushing to overflowing. 

Empathy is a mother's love, from someone that you don't know.

Peace is an ocean of glass-like water, that ripples of war cannot move.

Honesty is a pure wine, with no dregs to ruin the taste.

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Angelus Canticum

Folder: 
Light and Dark

Every single note was a song in itself

And every little breath was a melody

And I, a painful ripping squeal

That bellowed from inside of me

 

Her crimson lips had softly smiled

As she sang angelically 

But no more than a dissonant chord

Was the best that I could be

 

Oh, angel of the nightly song!

How wrapped in you I have become!

How can I go, and sing alone

Shouting like a falling drum

 

I can't forget your heavenly voice

That pierced the ever-present noise

Through sky and the pervasive smog

To me, whom naught but death employs. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I lost the will to keep working on it. It's sat on my desktop for weeks now and it's just time to post what there is.

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Southern Gothic

Folder: 
Tales and Fables

I can't tell where I'm going

Don't know where I've been

But I feel I'm moving quickly

And I guess that's all there is

 

I've gone round in my head

Side to side within

Reason had too much sense

Foolishness left me behind

Walking to a dirt-road crossroad

Guess I'll say hello

 

Whiskey from the heavens

Daniels in my veins

Traveling to hell on that southern gothic train

Baptized my humanity in the river

Left my soul with the morning star

Guess I've lost it all

 

They say that those with nothing left

Have nothing left to lose

Well hell, I'm far past that

With no future, and no past

Don't mess with me, son

Or my face will be your last

 

Whiskey's long gone now

But the moon's still shining bright

And there's heaven to gain

But hell to pay

The brass is still warm

But I'm cold as the grave

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Short Love Quotes For Married Couples

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