Metaphor

Money is One Heck of a Stimulant

Your deceit has polluted the rivers near your villages.

The very rivers that its people rely on for drinking water.

A sip of that poison ignites a plague that turns friends into foes and kin into fugitives.

But where is the antidote? Why do your people continue to fall ill?

It is locked away along with the fortune you made from the production of your deceit.

Money is one heck of a stimulant.

 

I’ve been away for a long time to know why I’ve been in the wrong before.

I had beaten a dead horse and gave CPR to two that had cancer.

I should have known that it was not worth it if the doctors were not going to help treat it.

I was an ignoramus. They have all the knowledge that the world had to offer.

So why not share it with the ambitious and give new life to these once noble steads?

Money is one heck of a stimulant.

 

I long reminisced about a time when the doors were open to tons of villagers with potential.

It was a world that I wanted to be a part of since I was a guppy not yet exposed to mathematics.

A potato infected by a blight and stabbed me warned me that the chief doctors were monsters.

A poor surgeon who tried repeatedly to receive a raise vanished, was slandered, and never seen again.

A coordinator found a shady message in her contract that forbad arbitration and fled to another kingdom.

And I recently heard that the one coquettish nurse was expelled over scrutiny from her personal life.

Why, Dr. Kim? Why do you egg your personnel to choose sides when there are lives that need rescuing?

Can’t we all get along and lay down our weapons? It’s easier to negotiate than to wage war, but no.

Money is one heck of a stimulant.

 

People lose their minds when they fall in love. It’s not just me. It’s a fact of life.

I lost mine to a mongrel who shut me out after a few months and lied directly to my face.

A good friend that I had regretfully wronged had given the doctors the deceit that tainted the rivers.

A clever herbalist that craves drama knows how to brew tainted water to make it appear crystal clear.

Not everyone knows that making up stories to sweep malpractice under the rug is a gold mine.

Money is one heck of a stimulant.

 

The coachman that brought me to this place can call me a whiny little boy if his mood fits.

Just like the kid who offered sage advice to the chief doctors on how to break down barriers.

But that judges the coachman's character more than mine.

It’s an fyi that looks terrible just because he’s wearing it.

But hey, why bother listening to advice that’s more expensive than one’s pride?

The doctors’ salaries are too low for them to spare a dime to make that change.

That’s why that there’s never room for improvement nor for sharing in their greedy hearts.

Money is one heck of a stimulant.

 

I am terribly sorry that your folks never taught you that what goes around comes around.

That your hidden crimes will come back to bite you when you too become penniless.

When you one day get a taste of your own poison when you drink the river you tainted.

What does your life have in store for you afterwards? Can you sleep at night again?

Will people still care when the doctors go their separate ways? What about the pollution in the river?

I will not return to the filth you created to clean it because in the end, the deceit would be even worse.

To change your practice for the better was my greatest wish until I found out how unethical you are.

Now it is to build a fortune of my own so the artist that my heart now beats for can have a bite to eat.

That is the change that you will never see because you are too comfortable smoking the dough you baked.

Money is one heck of a stimulant.

T.R.O.Y. (The Ruins Of You)

Folder: 
Confessions

I stand in the ruins of you
carrying the casket
of the memories of us
Once, 
a cradle of holy affection and love.
Here lie the shattered 8 months
of unison prayers, 
jeepney banters,
subtle, orgasmic whispers,
the euphoria of meeting your mother,
and the dreams we built 
on midnight kisses and sacred moans.

The pen you gave me
still holds
its allegiance to you
refusing to spill its ink
thriving on its own will
I grapple it by its neck
and watch it slowly faint.

Lonely hearts from the start,
we relished the thought of a lasting love.
Two candles burn
when two lovers pray.
On our very first date,
I cursed on how you made me wait.
On our very last day,
I prayed that He would make you stay.
People say first impressions last
But you had me only at second glance.

Sober fools in a clandestine night
we laughed and walked for hours and miles
You, holding my bag
Me, holding your hand.
This was before his ghost haunted you
again
alive and well.
This was before in between hours,
you’d forget my whispers
and long for his.
This was before your friend 
called me to say,
“Just let him go. Love is not supposed
to work this way.”

The dark clouds came
and never left.

I stand in the ruins of you,
claws clutching to the ground,
eyes beaten and tired,
feet still shackled 
with the ropes you gave me last June
and every inch of them is an untold story
and each story is a blow to my head.
Love is but a slowly unfolding agony.
Knot
after
knot,
I untangle these shackles I tied myself to.
Knot
after
knot,
I begin to remember 
the life I built around you and me,
the dreamy kisses,
the day I met your friends and family,
the night I got so drunk
you had to forget our fight
to come and get me,
the night you got so drunk
you had to forget our fight
to say you still love me.
But the high wasn’t worth the agony
of knowing that at my lowest point,
confined in a hospital,
covered with punctures,
you successfully abandoned me;
of carrying a bleeding heart every day
and hoping it won't leak;
of feeling the sands of time slip
away from your grasp,
along with all your hope and chance;
of finally choosing to live through hell
hoping that your lover would remember
the warmth of an earthly heaven
you built for yourselves and once lived in.
of knowing that the memory of us
would later turn to dust
and I am to collect them
with bare hands.
Knot
after
knot,
The walls of this temple begin to shatter
I am no longer your prisoner.
I stand in the ruins of you,
claws clutching
on crumpled bed sheets,
rubbles of your promises,
residues of your gifts,
pictures torn to pieces, 
my handwritten notes
a hundred poems, 
a thousand letters
and the ashes of our bodies.
I spread my wings 
and begin to rise
and look up for the clouds
The dark clouds that came
never left.
But I am.
•••

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem about moving on.

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Hourglass

The hourglass stands

Bits of sand fall

Turn it on its side

My being is split

Between what once was

And what will be

Each grain reflects a choice, a trait, a memory

What happens now? 

Wasting time again and again

Where does it begin and end

What is my foundation?

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It's a Metaphor! (I'm not good at titles)

A seemingly infinte amount of books line shelves old and new

You can't possibly read them all, but shouldn't settle for just a few

The cover is a starting point for weeding through the masses
Even though its what the author wants you to see, not necessarily what is past it

Some books have lost their covers too

Taken apart by readers that came before you

Whether the cover is hard or soft

The pages it protects, holds the truths that you've sought

Your world could be warped by the words of one page

You could flip through a thousand and find they had nothing to say

There's no guarantee of what you will find

But I urge you keep looking, and yes it takes time

For if you've found a story that never gets old

You can read it each night and new love still unfolds

Then you already know there's nothing better you can do

Than looking for that book that was written just for you

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Umbrella

Folder: 
Poetry

Brave warden, protector of all; 
Bulwark that shelters from volley and squall. 
  
Like a sword and shield for a warrior to wield, 
With you I face mighty foes in the field. 
  
But the days of your youth have all come to pass, 
Weakened by wounds your crusades end is alas. 
  
Against beasts with no substance bravely you fought; 
But of wrought iron you simply are not. 
  
Branded with claws and torn by their jaws, 
This day the Gods don't favour your cause. 
  
Now after the battle in the gutter you lay, 
Broken and twisted in a state of decay. 
  
Rust and mould shall gnaw on your bones, 
For you there will be no funeral stones.

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I Done Killed It

I Done Killed It ©

Kyla Bingham (circa August/September 2011 – Modified/Completed January 25, 2012)

 

 

Lemme flip the script while you read the fine print,

Don’t try to smash me when you can’t even make a dent.

I ain’t tryna cause no trouble or be the least bit subversive,

It’s just that I’m so smooth & pretty, I even write my numbers in cursive.

So stay inside your lane, and stay outta my mix

‘Fore you find yourself in wreck not even Pep Boys could fix.

Before you try and outwit me, best make sure your premiums are paid and you got literary P.I.P.

Though what would be the point? Your verbiage is flat-lined and has its own headstone marked, “may my expressions R.I.P.”

Please, now, you’re making a scene—ain’t no need to get all flustered and disheveled.

Ain’t no shame in just admitting that your lexicon ain’t on my level.

Go ahead, here’s my sleeve—wipe the snot and dry them tears—you’re embarrassing us both gettin’ all sentimental.

They say admission is the first step to healing, and you’ve just realized that to your verbal health, I’m detrimental.

It’d probably be in your best interest to retire your paper and your pencil.

Cuz your word credit score is so low, you couldn’t buy yourself a rhyme—hell, you can’t even get a rental.

But me? The way I chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out, my moniker is McDental.

 

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PӧḖrotica: The Writers’ Honeymoon

Folder: 
My Favorites

PӧḖrotica: The Writers’ Honeymoon

© Kyla Bingham November 24-29, 2014

 

I hereby pronounce us Poet and Poetess.

The writers’ suite has been appointed with every necessity and toy for our enjoyment,

Pens of every shape, size and color—paper of every thickness, heft and weight,

Even a few electric gadgets, all for our amusement—designed for the ultimate in synaptic stimulation.

So let’s put all this stuff to use and do it right—in store for us in an overload of sensory delight.

We shall consummate our vows with words and imagery.

No hesitation, but rather a desperate, explosive coupling of fertile minds fraught with multiple, simultaneous metaphors.

Fecund creative juices, viscous yet flowing freely and producing offspring named Simile and Italics.

Our frantic, near violent joining evidenced by used, ink-stained pages—crumpled and strewn, tossed carelessly to the floor.

The scent of recently spent adjectives hangs heavy and redolent in the air from feasting on forbidden folios.

Deeply inhale. Take in the perfume of passion. Like a serpent, flick out your tongue, and taste it.

 Exclamations and exhalations from our union flying fast and hot fogging windows and mirrors.

Fingertips sticky and wet with cerebral sweat and pigment residue, dripping, smearing ideas on the walls.

Your intellect and appetites are merciless.

Letters intertwining in a relentless rhythm,   pounding again, and again, and again.

A titillating game of push and pull, parry and thrust, advance and retreat.

Pulsating postulations, suggestive stanzas, hinting at hypotheses, all blinding and flashing until finally, finally we collapse exhausted—our work complete and for the moment replete.

I reveled in the dénouement even more than the exposition.

And now we lay here, lighting up rolled thoughts, passing them back and forth in the aftermath of the cataclysm.

Now that the urgent beast is temporarily sated, what say we take the next round slowly?

We’ll take a leisurely stroll through one another’s brains.

Crawling. Probing. Sliding. An unprotected exploration of every fold, neuron and synapse.

Navigating neurological terrain. Gasping, grasping and grappling to reach the right phrases. Nothing between us but concepts and whispers.

Do we even have any more clean sheets? Yes? Good. Tear off a few.

After a moment to catch our breath and recover, let’s write another and another and a…

Damn. The fountain pen is empty.

Hurry.

I do believe you’re primed.

As I feel your need swelling and growing, in tandem my anticipation again amplifies—it’s building,

No pride, I’m begging, weeping, crying out for more of the heart stopping release of climax.

We can clean up later.

Right now I’m ready to dip into a fresh well of literary intimacy.

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The muse bit me this week. This muse's name happens to be Obbie West. Became acquainted with him recenlty, and he inspires me. His catchphrase, "Poetry Is Passion". I thought I'd expand/expound on that sentiment. I do hope you'll enjoy. (Apologies in advance to my brothers.)

Tousled


Brighter days were foretold and seemingly started to unfold.

Tousled into the unwavering sea.



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tags:

Tides

Unmoored at sea.

Adrift in the undercurrent. 

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