| (no subject) |
[Aug. 26th, 2009|09:10 pm] |
As each solemn string is plucked by my soft hands, tiny waves stir across the starless sky. I am lost gazing upon the endless ocean before me -- it's depths like the amazement that stretched across your face when the moon drifted into my sight.
The lute, or guitar or harp in my hands -- the instrument I play -- my feet in the sand.
The cool ocean breeze -- pushes the tendrils of my hair away.
I sit, I smile, I sigh of yesterday.
The grass behind me struggles to make it through the sand.
Clawing like the rising of a zombie, at first with its hands.
The area twinkles, like watching the light in your eyes.
They glitter and then are gone.
They are silenced like my song.
They are taken away to death.
To Charon's grasping, endless breath. |
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| Poetic-Duels |
[Oct. 23rd, 2008|10:02 am] |
Wide awake and it's only 10,
On my LJ, Poetic battles again.
Perhaps this weekend, I will find a duel.
Two blades, two shields and all the old rules.
3 lines , 4 lines, 2 lines or haiku.
Two souls, two pens, and all the old rules.
Dueling in the park at a table near the ducks.
Or dueling through the internet, strangers and such.
Dueling through a text while I'm driving in my car.
Or dueling in Tennessee in the mountains with Aunt Star.
The duels are delicious, I enjoy such a battle.
The duels are nutritious, Sweeping through shadows.
Running with winds and dancing with fires.
We duel with the lute, the word and the lyre.
We speak in the words of the soul of man.
We duel with our minds, not the mettle of our hands.
We spin and we thrust, we dance and we parry.
We chase like the fox, but dash like the rabbit.
With a poetic license we create through your eyes.
The tales of the children, the tales of the wives.
The tales of that the narrator himself, will not speak.
The tales of the strong, the humble, the meek.
But with two blades, two shields, and all the old rules.
We dance the dance of the poetic duels. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 29th, 2008|10:23 pm] |
//To Lisa// -- feel better [ and FUCK DAVE ]
Better than now than you were before.
Poor Dave can leave his prejudice at the door.
Just because she isn't jewish doesn't mean shit.
Facts of life -- only a third date and you are whipping out your insecurity.
Confess the sins of a troubled mothers boy.
She makes your decisions for you Dave.
She makes your lunch for you Dave.
She folds your underoo's for you Dave.
It's ok if you want to hurt yourself.
I'd send you razor blades so you can parade against your flesh.
But to lie to my friend so you can lie with her.
To deceive an old flame so you can feel her burn.
Your minds illusions are projected out of your mouth.
Don't continue this kind of charade.
She is not blind.
Her words are not meant to fall upon your deaf ears.
And her heart.
Her heart is not destined to be held by you. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 29th, 2008|06:08 pm] |
The baby might be lost.
Not a partial birth, and not an abortion.
Not an act of murder or the incentive of sending him back to heaven sooner.
A pain has emerged.
A pain that tears through the flesh and up the spine.
A pain that verges on the life of the mother and borders near the caverns which the baby would never escape from.
How does one make that kind of decision. To determine the ending of a life or the ending of your life.
Is it based on a selfless timetable of your experiences.
Could you allow the child to reap a life of motherless experiences?
Can you and or the child survive the pain and torment, since it is months before birth is possible.
Can you as the mother endevour through the wicked sickness that grows inside you and means to capture the life of your child, while dragging you down into the oceanic depths of eternal sleep?
Will you be standing 6 months from now? Or will your child stand alone?
Or will mother and child live under a different Son then we do now? |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 28th, 2008|10:10 pm] |
Why do you ask for the advice to the questions you don't want to answer?
Conversations are like meteors crashing into the fragile earth you complain about.
The mountains of problems are no more than the hillsides children roll down.
We pick apart the worlds that collide and help hide the fragments of you.
But in all the space that is limitless, you are the limit.
The finish line isn't far ahead, but every new line crossed.
Is a new path, a new way, a new vision.
It will bring new plights, new diseases, new sadnesses.
They will tear at your legs like the hands of those who have fallen.
Always looking for a step up. And the lost want a hand, and then they want a leg, and they'll grasp anything they can to stay above the dirt for a moment.
To bask in your sunshine, to wash in the same springs that run across your body.
To remind themselves that if they wanted anything bad enough.
They would conquer worlds and move mountains. They would dry rivers with their merit and throw stars from the sky just to make one more wish.
There would be nothing that could stand in their way.
But then reality settles in again and they crawl back into the caves and holes.
They play with their toys and build castles in the mud.
While they could be building castles in the clouds. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 24th, 2008|03:23 am] |
I slip into the darkness I.
i hold it deep and close inside.
I hold not much, I just hold I. |
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| cant sleep, my thoughts are racing. |
[Jun. 24th, 2008|03:14 am] |
[Cant sleep random poetic ramblings/forced rhyme schemes]
The willows sway not quick enough.
The stars wink not slow enough.
And hearts will blaze just enough.
For the suns rays will wash away.
All the troubles on a cloudy day.
What happens now cannot be long.
Washed aside in lifes big storm.
Forgotten years from the day it first occurred.
History repeats and I just smile.
Nothing more than sad denial.
Figure Eights and Eternity signs.
Race the heart against the mind.
Where all thoughts dig in deep.
To defend a heart that sadly weeps.
Where the sirens call is lost at sea.
My thoughts tonight, they ramble on.
I laugh at forced rhyme in songs.
The melody isnt mine to sing. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 23rd, 2008|06:23 pm] |
[So Miranda was talking bout some crazy shit that went down last night, why she couldn't finish the duel, and she mentioned massage so i started writing bout it -- this is what i came up with]
Lightly run your fingers like they are two little people skating on ice over their body real gently.
As if the lines in the ice that are being skated on are goosebumps rising from the frozen water.
Let the sounds of her breathing dictate the jumps, the sweeps and possibly even the flips.
A triple axle in the world of touch, is the progression down the spinal column.
As warm digits, touch soft skin.
Tiny explosions of breath, spill out like a silent hunter from her closed lips.
Pushing the red gates that surround her castle of communication open.
A stolen glance of her eyes upon your hands, and then back to your eyes -- reveals a smile.
She is wrapped up in the silk of the moment.
Like the blanket on the cold winter morning, with the realization that you don't have to leave that safe haven of a feeling.
Your hands grip and move pushing the skin and the lay lines of nerves in her body around.
Each movement spreads the energy from her internal lay lines over her body.
With the quickness of a heart pulsing, your hands should never stay in the same place.
Each new section, is like the next step upon a crystalline staircase.
A delicate shift in weight could cause a crash, which would leave her body in an uproar.
But if you dance too lightly upon the stairs -- you shall take her anywhere.
The line lines in the sand of massage are ever shifting like the ticking of the clock on time.
Your hands and fingers are the marching soldiers of warmth and care.
Remember these things when you send them out. |
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| Havent Dueled in ages |
[Jun. 22nd, 2008|11:30 pm] |
First Duel in Ages...thank God!
Duel: Miranda Vs. Eric.
Topic: Reasons for living. [her topic]
[E]The reasons for living are are numerous as grains of sand upon the shores of a far away island.
When the wind picks up, and pushes your hair away from your eyes -- you will see clearly.
[M] Life is hard and running me ragged. Heart's broken in a million pieces, no hope to fix it, and my body hurts like it's not much better.
But I gotta keep on running, hoping that one day maybe, just maybe, things will be a little better.
[E] I know that the only path for me to go forward is the same one that heads heaven bound. Things will improve as I improve, as I grasp my happiness and the wants and desires that try to escape in my heart between beats.
//JUDGEMENT FAIL, Miranda couldnt/didnt finish.
_FuCk. |
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| The secret to the stars is in your heart. |
[Nov. 24th, 2007|01:45 am] |
The peace of the night, is nothing like the day.
Though the night is just day, without sunlight.
The night holds in it's secret words -- more to say.
The stars are the guides, they point to the secret words.
The map's really just a dark canvas.
Each spot's, just a flickering dot.
If you reach out.
More than your hands
More than your feet.
More than your time.
More than your deep thoughts.
More than the shallow streams as well.
If you reach out, God is there.
He never left you.
The journey is to not find your answers.
The journey is not to figure out the meanings.
They are all there, right infront of your face.
One simple book.
One dusty cover.
Like your heart. -- Open it wide.
There is no risk in learning the Truth.
There is no fear in knowledge.
To fill up the dark hole, that sits in your soul, with the warmth of Jesus's Love.
Why do we -- as human beings run away from the heat?
We charge aside. Distractions and conditions are our excuses.
Environmental elements, crazy drama -- and the fear of actually knowing.
We fear actually knowing.
We strive to gain knowledge -- and when it is reached we deny it.
For -- what is there to live for, if you have reached it so easily?
LIFE. HAPPINESS.
The Ability to help out your fellow man stand on his feet.
The remembrance of getting help when you yourself couldn't walk.
The secret of the night is heard by those who listen with their hearts.
The secret of the night, is only a secret for those who fear to learn.
11/27/07 |
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| You know what it is. |
[Nov. 24th, 2007|01:09 am] |
Falling into that deep slumber, I could watch for hours.
Once beautiful eyes hidden behind those kissable lids.
I'll lend my vision to this enchanting scene.
I'll be the one to count your tiny dream-filled sighs.
I'll be the one to move those wild strands of hair that want to itch at your face.
I'll be the one to pull the comforter up, smothering you in warmth.
Before you pass, into the plane between life and the future.
The lit red candles and their wondrous dancing flames, spark against your eyes.
I could fall into my own angel held sleep watching those colors mix with the light of the fire.
Red candles holding tightly onto orange dancers, spinning around the wick.
Almost as beautiful as you -- when you dance. When you move slow, or when you move like a tornado.
I always find myself -- finding it more than amazing.
It might be in the way that your beautiful.
Even before you smile, even before you laugh.
It's the moment between the sunsetting and the night appearing.
It's when the mesh of the stars and the pink horizon merge.
It's what you embody.
It seeps out of you when you speak.
Curls up in my memory like the perfect book.
Purrs softly like a kitten.
Feels like that morning stretch -- where your whole body cries out, and you make sounds that can't be translated.
11/24/07 |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 22nd, 2007|10:17 pm] |
The way she walks into a room.
The way the music rythm mimics her steps.
The way her hair moves.
She's got my gaze.
The way she speaks, the movement of her lips.
The way she blinks, each detailed lash.
The way her words tip toe out, slow-jazz from a piano.
She's got me wondering if this solo is a duet.
The way she glides between everyone else.
How she's dancing, with a purpose -- passing others by.
It's that smile that leaves you speechless.
Leaving you in the wake of silence and your own perched lips.
It's how the rain makes you dream of her and pina colada's.
It's how you don't second guess, or watch your step around her.
It's how she always has something to say.
But you've never been interrupted. |
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| Sad world. |
[Nov. 20th, 2007|10:32 pm] |
Excuses are about as far as a lot of indivuals reach.
Double edged swords, losers either way?
What if's, and what about's
What then's, and where's your factual clout.
Excuses are about as far as intellectuals go, they just add large words.
The Critical density of my internal struggle, and how I am my own antagonist, fighting my soulful thesis of existance.
Every choice you choose and every thought you have are held in your own hands.
Internal struggle, internal thought, internal feelings.
They are internal, your finger can hit the killswitch anytime.
It's the external ones that excuses are good for.
The She said, he said, she did, he did, the becauses's, and then's and you wouldn't believes.
The suprises, the explosions, the moving cars, the frequency of speach and the hole you feel when stabbed.
You are in control.
But you choose not to be.
11/20/07 |
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| I Like me. |
[Nov. 20th, 2007|10:19 pm] |
I am a bit of darkness surrounded by warmth.
I am warm in 40 degree weather.
I am, as human as webster can define.
I am, also as gullible as my name being in webster.
I am a bit of laughter.
With 20 percent success rate on jokes, and 80 percent on "woops."
I am another adventurer whose on his way.
Though I admit I took the flight less travelled, because of cost.
I am a healthy human when I get a physical.
I am only healthy when the physicals compared to a Leper, cross-eyed with one leg.
I am a curious puzzle that some might want to solve.
I am a few dozen hundred pieces short of the landscape though.
I am certainly as shiny as Mr. Clean.
Under the ample amount of hair on my head.
I am a sponge in the world of education.
If spongebob could walk and talk.
I am patient and willing to go far lengths for my friends.
Only in the non-metric system, and the patience extends to my ability to watch rocks grow.
I am here but half the time I am there, soemtimes it's somewhere and the other time's I swear it's nowhere.
I am not a lost pair of keys, nor am I a found pair of keys -- I am a stable pair of keys that is glued to the keyring.
I have the energy of a million watt bulb, but only five amps.
I am as confusing as the counting of sandgrains in a desert tornado.
But I don't mind, I'm happy.
And I like me.
11/20 |
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| Inside. |
[Nov. 20th, 2007|10:13 pm] |
Have you ever stopped to smell the breeze?
To feel more than just the wind tapping on your knees?
To become the rhythm the wind taps away?
To emerge free, from your stresses of the day?
When was the last time you stepped off an edge?
When was the last time you stepped off, knowing it would hurt?
When was the last time you asked yourself these questions?
When was the last time you felt self-damaged?
Have you ever sat on a tree stump, in a forest and let the animals come closer?
Have you ever, watched yourself being watched.
By creatures you can't understand, analyze or decipher?
But that your heart screams are just as alive as you?
Can you think of the last time you took your time consuming?
A meal, a conversation, an art piece, a 20 dollar bill?
Can you calculate how the memory is a blink like lightspeed?
Why do you rush through all of life's choices?
Have you ever stopped to smell the breeze?
To feel a bit slow, but a little more alive.
To become the rhythm the wind taps away.
To Emerge free, and pull out -- what's inside.
11/20/07 |
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| Untitled. |
[Nov. 20th, 2007|10:11 pm] |
What part of yourself do you put down.
When you write, when you talk, when you paint, when you walk.
When you gaze at another -- what does your eyes truly say.
When you sculpt with clay, or you craft in metal.
When you dig a hole -- what do your hands say?
What do you say when you speak with your tongue?
What do you say when you speak without it?
What part of yourself do you put down?
11/20/07 |
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| Untitled. |
[Nov. 20th, 2007|10:01 pm] |
We really do feel the passage of time -- after it's happened.
Like the wind rolling over your arms,
You realize what has just happened.
And it has passed.
We contain a collection of memories, building blocks of our identities.
All past events.
We look for inspiration and reach back into that identity, into our own shell.
Where we hold the past alive.
The past holds us back, for the future is uncertain.
But we grasp at the past, we wrap it around our fingers like ceran-wrap.
We do so because we know it.
We so, because it's easy.
But most importantly.
We do because it's safe.
The Past can tell us the causes and effects of our actions.
The Past can remind us to not re-make the same mistake twice.
But the past cannot contain passion.
The past cannot be an untamed beast like the future is.
The past lives in an already printed novel of your life.
Those pages are turned and glued shut.
Your future is alive.
The Future is un-predictable.
The Future is the animal that cannot be caged, until we have enveloped ourselves in either it's Mercy or it's Anger.
The Future is our real personal demon.
All other personal demons that are from the past -- are ours to bring out.
The one's sitting up above the next hill, will not exist unless you walk forward.
The future cannot collapse us because it is unknowing.
The past can only contain us when we let it.
11/20/07 |
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| Love and Time -- Entertwine: To Israel |
[Nov. 20th, 2007|09:39 pm] |
The Situation that is coursing through your veins is clear.
If you are not good enough now -- when you are amazing.
Then why would you be better later?
When you will have increased the Fancy and left the Tears behind?
He just wants Azure blue eyes, when he feels he wants the nation of Israel inside.
But Israel, isn't a pure breed - and Israel isn't a mutt.
Israel isn't a dog -- who follows a masters whistle and call.
Nor is Israel the left overs in the fridge -- set aside.
To Rot away like a beautiful fruit, but to be left during certain seasons, high and dry.
She is certainly not perfection, but she is better left to not wait.
For Israel is strong, she has passion on her shoulders, and angels guarding her gates.
She opens up every so often, and finds herself more awake.
For with each beat of heart, that chokes on abuse.
With each liquid that runs amok against her soul.
She tears them apart, and spills the diseased juice.
She separates her fruit, from the vines that slip her way.
She has the knowledge, the ability to move to a new tree.
She has the beauty to find herself a better partner, for her seed.
With time, she will find her love entwined.
_To Israel, feel better. 11/20/07 |
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| Danger |
[May. 1st, 2007|11:40 pm] |
"My Love, for Danger"
Eric Camil Jr/Poetic-Edge May 1st.
Dangers got headshots, but she really got me in the heart,
I hold her nade close..as my body comes apart
A beautiful rose, with thorns 5.56cm long, she explodes outward, and I wish to embrace her.
Her knifes edge cuts deep into my soul, and only I can only grimace.
Danger i cannot even begin to count how you raise my choke to ungodly levels.
How my ping bounces faster than my heart.
How I find myself silencing the ignorant, to stop them from wasting the air that you breathe.
Alas..my true love has slain me, I am weak in my body as I die from her bullet wounds to my skull, the blood rushes yet my heart bursts onward.
Forward is the force that allows me to respawn, to seek such grace.
What I wouldn't give for a morning sunset caught in your ever changing eyes, watching the waves cascade shadows across the beach that bow from the enchantment you envoke.
I compare the depths of your eyes when they are aligned in an azure color.
I find not even the deepest cut of diamond to fathom such design and magnificience.
I throw my weapon to the ground, my true love remains silent, she is embaressed by such prose being spun about her glorious being.
I find my heart on the table, and it winces, better to impale it with a rusted piece of metal,
then to let it suffer the cold miserable fate of never knowing at all.
I am taken back, suprised, as if a knife had cut into my back.
I find myself humiliated, washed aside in a quiet room like broken shells picked up carelessly by the tide.
For what is a love that is kept secret, hidden, like a shimmering orchid that braves the heat, to not keep it out in the open sunlight -- would be to banish its chance to grow.
There is no love i presume -- no tower scaled, no rank to be scored, no KDR to raise.
Nothing would fill the engorging leviathan that rages in my heart wishing to be free in her passionate arms.
_____________
http://poetic-battle.livejournal.com
http://mylie.info |
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| Love. |
[Dec. 18th, 2006|12:48 am] |
A breeze of wind sweeps down a clear pasture and sends a few strands of loosened emerald grass upwards towards the heavens.
A beam of light cuts through the mirage of clouds that are pasted across the sky to hide the clear blues that try to escape.
A few birds gleam down the horizon line, blurred by the sun's bright beams and the distance, they soon disapear -- as if existance was a hallucination to the onlooker.
On a single white stone whose inlays show the wear of a thousand years of weather -- sits a beautiful woman.
Her legs lay against the cool ivory white stone, hardly a notice in the stones texture can be felt.
Her hair catches the sun, her smile makes a single mangolia on a distant tree bloom.
She isn't the type of woman who you easily find the words to simply define.
Lady, Girl, Female, Madame, Miss, -- there seems to be not a suitable word.
There isn't a single thing about her you can eye -- she blends together -- as does her personality.
She is the true definition of enchanting.
It isn't charm or beauty or her physical features.
It isn't her smile,her hair, or her voice.
It isn't any of those traits that weave a spell around you.
It isn't even the honesty in her eyes.
It's her personality emerging from the shell she exists in.
The tiny bit of soul one is allowed to release into the world.
That is what your eyes fall upon.
That's what makes you look again.
That's why you smile everytime you see her.
That's why your heart never "skips a beat" -- because it doesn't want to lose rythmn.
You don't get lost like the birds on the horizon by her.
She doesn't complete you.
She certainly doesn't define you.
She isn't the wind beneath your feet, or the fires of your soul.
She isn't the ying to your yang -- the black to your white.
She is none of those things.
A true love of beauty -- is not wrapped together tightly.
A true love of beauty -- is not held loosely with apathy.
A true love of beauty -- is that which stands next to each other.
Even, Equal, Elegant, Enchanting. |
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