Reflection

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 wrong before.

I had beat 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 steeds?

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 forbade 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 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 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.

Times

If seconds lead to hours,

And hours such daylight thrall,

Why Sun give in to minutes,

And have viracous hour's call?

If we forget, do then moments arise, lead to oft sunset's fall?

 

Sometimes to look to moments,

Such embers of passage past,

For forward looking arrows,

But in past such arrows cast.

 

For Embers are so empty space, of voids such sparks once grew.

But now just echo of distance, and past, such arrows sure once drew.

 

In past such unknown of errors,

with unforseen sight no sound,

Drown in such embers,

Drown in truth but known,

Drown in redacted tones.

 

But let me know such instance,

Of instant kettled noise,

And success is such not so ordered,

No menued item crown.

 

We see in futures, 

And hope for better such lifting embrace,

Because past is such no anchor,

But anchored to no caste.

 

Lets fly, and swirl, in air of stars, and sea of dreams,

Where no bound of circus tricks can reach us,

And bound by no riverbed banks of streams.

 

Into light we will guide and be blinded,

Such blind to silence for vision,

So we can see all moments for true,

So touched by moments hue,

Past dreaming is for heroes,

In those dreams of hero,

I choose you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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rant

Folder: 
2017

I am not a pretty crier

you say that

because when I cry

here

I hold back

I fucking

hold back

internalize

I fucking-

hey-

don’t stand so close-

you might come down

with me-

I don’t open

I am locked

without a key

I am lost

without a compass

and no one is finding me

in this forest

there is nowhere I can go

where no one will see me hit the wall

and so now I remember

how lonely I really am

I am not good at being alone

and yet they tell me

it is my greatest talent

where does that put me?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 8/13/17

View tallsquirrelgirl's Full Portfolio

12:05 AM

Lying in the darkness

My pen will find

The whiteness of the paper

With my eyes closed.

 

These black scribbles

Are meaningless nothings

That fill the silence of the page

With beautiful noise

 

A head so cloudy

Overfilled with hopes

And the worries of last night

With more to come tomorrow

 

Lying in plumes

Of grey smoke that float

Up to my ceiling. Like clouds

With less tears to rain

 

These black thoughts

Are meaningful everythings

That fill the noisiness of my mind

With beautiful distractions

 

A mind so heavy

Way too full with worries

And more and more that just keep on

Coming and coming. My

Heart wants to know

When it will all just

Stop.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Sitting alone in my room with only smoke to accompany me and my miserable thoughts - how most of my evenings tend to be spent, musing over the same single object of my affection.

View ksdw's Full Portfolio

Beyond the Fence

Folder: 
Beauty

 

Surrounded with good postured grass and newly fallen leaves

My eyes soak up sparkling dew and lungs rejoice with the breeze

My private haven, with bright greens and sunshine gold’s

A place where my imagination can soar, and beauty is bold

 

This magnificent meadow, with vibrant colors and rich smells

Every strand of dark green grass has a story to tell

My admiration, my escape, this secluded refuge serves

My gaze is set on climbing trees, with their out stretched arms that curve

 

This caring defense, of plump bushes and soaring trees

Save me from the outside world, yet lets me be free

I watch the graceful decent, of an autumn leaf,

Flow to a calm bed of grass, which lie beneath

 

I peer upon a family of rocks, caught between day and night

Relaxing in the Earths cool soil, yet bathe in deep sunlight

These fluid thoughts, abetted by the breeze

A place, my place; my mind set free

Total Listening Silence

Folder: 
Silence

 

 

user img

*

TOTAL LISTENING SILENCE
*

Someone who listens totally

knows that even a simple

clarification question

can disturb the

reflection

as water waves fragment

the sun’s image on a mirroring lake

 *

-saiom shriver-

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Favorite Song

Folder: 
Dusk's Rule

Hearing the rumbling beats, sweet melody, 

To rescue from now into past remedy, 

Favorite song of ages gone, play again,

Inspiring words back into the pen.

 

Your song may sound different to old ears,

Hearing more than before other years,

It is a sweet embrace of memories,

To sweep away current daily worries.

 

Never is there a song loved by all,

No such mark that everyone is enthralled, 

There is the meaning and irony now, 

For such work, brilliance, take a graceful bow,

 

But know the importance of what follows,

Step out of the distorted, dark, shadows,

And know that there is no such ideal song,

To be anything else than you is wrong,

 

Free yourself from the false advertisements,

Impossibly great goals are punishments, 

To songs so beautiful that only need, 

To be their own favorite songs, please heed:

 

Matters not if you are a favorite song,

Only that you are your own favorite song. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

It's nice to be loved by others, to have others believe you are attractive, smart, strong, whatever positive comments that come your way, but unless you can be comfortable with yourself, happy with yourself, then it is much harder to love yourself.  Not everyone is going to notice your traits---you are you own art, you can change yourself, but be happy with yourself.  

View aloris's Full Portfolio

my distillery-a poem about my BP journey

I was a distillery once

Extracting aesthetics and experiences

Some who tasted thought the distillates were sweet

So distinct

And some thought it was too inflammable


But for me it grew toxic

And I abandoned my spirits for another place

Where am I now

What do I do

I am no longer a distillery

The grounds were sold to a different owner

And he tore down my distillery

Pays me in cartridges every month

Besides those I am on a raw diet

I love the wholesome taste of fibrous thoughts

They take their time to pass through

And leach out some of my heat

Someday I will find an engine to plug in to

That produces for people besides me

Till then I must decide

 

How will I remember my distillery

Author's Notes/Comments: 

the person I mentioned in this poem is not one in particular-I have no hard feelings about being 'bought out.' this poem is to help me move on, and I hope it can help someone else in the ongoing struggle with BP disorder

View smilefortheages's Full Portfolio

A Breeze of Memory

A graveyard of dead trees

Fallen leaves of vast red and orange seas

Squirrels scurry before winter strikes

As children play while others pass on bikes

 

harmony of the trees an the wind come together and sing

As a bird chirps then stops to clean it's wing

Children shrieking and screaming as they play

Angry armies of cars roar past, then fly away

 

Memories start of when I was a kid

Only broken away by time an what it did

Sitting still only in question

Of who I am and to what is my impression

 

I laughed . . . I played here

I was happy unknown of fear

But then reality again breaks memory's connection

Only to be lost again, still unknown of my reflection

 
Like
 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

annnd, here you have yet another class assignment that I did way back.