[[Please do not use or publish any of my works posted below, or on this thread. Thank you in...
Poems, small collection.
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- Location
- Austin, Texas
[[Please do not use or publish any of my works posted below, or on this thread. Thank you in advance!]] I have notebooks of material on this level of aesthetic writing, typically poetic - some of the gems I will keep to myself. Much of these have custom hand done ASCII art that goes along with the particular poem or story(until I can learn to get format correct on the site I may find a way to just post images as it requires a specific font.)
...
---, \|\/indow of perception, `----------------------------
Unbeknownst only to ourselves, the narrow set of light
particle reflections, arranged so neatly when reaching
a single focal point; -- where from, one bases their
reality on. Reality what, so as to be this-
dis-associative veil clouding our expression,
denouncing our mentality, and
betraying our reasoning.
An eye, must be spry enough to follow where it should,
yet shy in way with luck to the instigated reflex. Not
all reactions protect one, movement often leave a wind
current behind, slink right to left -
a swift maneuver of equivocation.
As the moon grew cold, nine skies splayed unto twenty
two segments on the refractions bent in the colloquial
device perpetuating this mystic glint.
The stars are seen by those who watch for them, hopes,
words, divine essence is placed with connotation. Does
the sight invoke that awe- struck with a spark of time
or of place. I stood there now, looking in from where
I began, the memento in the moment then- that connects
to the now.
` The Street Artist ... 222
...
---, \|\/indow of perception, `----------------------------
Unbeknownst only to ourselves, the narrow set of light
particle reflections, arranged so neatly when reaching
a single focal point; -- where from, one bases their
reality on. Reality what, so as to be this-
dis-associative veil clouding our expression,
denouncing our mentality, and
betraying our reasoning.
An eye, must be spry enough to follow where it should,
yet shy in way with luck to the instigated reflex. Not
all reactions protect one, movement often leave a wind
current behind, slink right to left -
a swift maneuver of equivocation.
As the moon grew cold, nine skies splayed unto twenty
two segments on the refractions bent in the colloquial
device perpetuating this mystic glint.
The stars are seen by those who watch for them, hopes,
words, divine essence is placed with connotation. Does
the sight invoke that awe- struck with a spark of time
or of place. I stood there now, looking in from where
I began, the memento in the moment then- that connects
to the now.
` The Street Artist ... 222
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- Location
- Austin, Texas
Thoughts, are about all I have left.
Wandering about, pondering on the theft.
Was it words or was it to do with time,
often reminded - it was the life of crime.
Even my thoughts are robbed from me now,
all freedom taken away somehow.
How was it deserved, that I suffer away,
being as kind as I am even today.
It could be hear, whatever it was, as I lay,
the wall creaks, then I curl up in dismay.
The spirits were there, they spoke without words,
spiraled lights twist and whirl into thirds.
I felt free for a moment, and in my life content,
for the day before I had worked, energy spent.
Despite being right, also the basic human rights,
without warning attacked by a mortal as many nights.
Often I do not try this hard to make others see,
though I see, that the effort was not the only fee.
Knowing they are here, at least half way here,
it does not cause me the least bit of fear.
There is always a place for me to go, often not near.
Just a thought..among many thoughts..
Wandering about, pondering on the theft.
Was it words or was it to do with time,
often reminded - it was the life of crime.
Even my thoughts are robbed from me now,
all freedom taken away somehow.
How was it deserved, that I suffer away,
being as kind as I am even today.
It could be hear, whatever it was, as I lay,
the wall creaks, then I curl up in dismay.
The spirits were there, they spoke without words,
spiraled lights twist and whirl into thirds.
I felt free for a moment, and in my life content,
for the day before I had worked, energy spent.
Despite being right, also the basic human rights,
without warning attacked by a mortal as many nights.
Often I do not try this hard to make others see,
though I see, that the effort was not the only fee.
Knowing they are here, at least half way here,
it does not cause me the least bit of fear.
There is always a place for me to go, often not near.
Just a thought..among many thoughts..
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- Location
- Austin, Texas
She meant what she said.
And she said what she meant.
Some information can help you,
so she said, "listen up gent."
Some information can kill you,
all depending upon the belief.
Master's of Intrigue provide,
The unspoken words offer relief.
And so she piped up, once more,
"listen to my voice, if you dare."
The man now spits with a glance,
pondering what it was in the air.
Should he choose, hear the noise,
or hide away in the Minds Meadow.
The trees sway, rustle, shifting,
speaking in an untouched crescendo,
What was it, the words of advice,
from all sides the sound blends,
She finally got it,
it was simply the winds..
` The Street Artist .. 222
.. droW nekopsnU ehT .
(( With a little inspiration from ol` Dr Suess. ))
Here I am now, ascribing something so;
so as to be poetic but never such as slow.
Was their some kind of ship in I stow?
Almost a metaphor for something I'd know.
This throw-back, style, flavor I tire,
spending my time brooding, not in the sire.
Today, there was no mages, some magic,
cast before me spoke of something tragic.
It was the unspoken word, as heard by,
by me, once upon a time I did know a spy..
But alas, learned this, that of they,
what was it so harmful that I had to say?
This and that, This.. That.. as I may.
Was I the conduit for that in this fray?
Say I so much thus far, no one listen,
but I had not approached the true glisten.
Thirteen roses, sat at her feet, now,
what was it, she scanned, raised her brow?
A million thoughts, invaded this mind.
All of her life there was things to find.
There was a creature dead, compassion,
struck down only by her outward so passion.
From it, she wished a coat to fashion,
as time went on, only felt like a lashin'.
For as far as she got ahead,
she knew to go then to bed,
therefore, where instead,
no longer to out tread,
mistake me not as having said,
so not at all fled.
She had not bled.
Tears not shed,
Light unread.
Was that her mistake?
Her emotion, not to be fake?
Such generosity in genuine display,
lost before- neither here and now in the fray.
Much to her own dismay,
this was common in her way.
Few of you get,
what she had meant.
Again..
She meant what she said,
And she said what she meant.
There is more.
But the index is sore.
And she said what she meant.
Some information can help you,
so she said, "listen up gent."
Some information can kill you,
all depending upon the belief.
Master's of Intrigue provide,
The unspoken words offer relief.
And so she piped up, once more,
"listen to my voice, if you dare."
The man now spits with a glance,
pondering what it was in the air.
Should he choose, hear the noise,
or hide away in the Minds Meadow.
The trees sway, rustle, shifting,
speaking in an untouched crescendo,
What was it, the words of advice,
from all sides the sound blends,
She finally got it,
it was simply the winds..
` The Street Artist .. 222
.. droW nekopsnU ehT .
(( With a little inspiration from ol` Dr Suess. ))
Here I am now, ascribing something so;
so as to be poetic but never such as slow.
Was their some kind of ship in I stow?
Almost a metaphor for something I'd know.
This throw-back, style, flavor I tire,
spending my time brooding, not in the sire.
Today, there was no mages, some magic,
cast before me spoke of something tragic.
It was the unspoken word, as heard by,
by me, once upon a time I did know a spy..
But alas, learned this, that of they,
what was it so harmful that I had to say?
This and that, This.. That.. as I may.
Was I the conduit for that in this fray?
Say I so much thus far, no one listen,
but I had not approached the true glisten.
Thirteen roses, sat at her feet, now,
what was it, she scanned, raised her brow?
A million thoughts, invaded this mind.
All of her life there was things to find.
There was a creature dead, compassion,
struck down only by her outward so passion.
From it, she wished a coat to fashion,
as time went on, only felt like a lashin'.
For as far as she got ahead,
she knew to go then to bed,
therefore, where instead,
no longer to out tread,
mistake me not as having said,
so not at all fled.
She had not bled.
Tears not shed,
Light unread.
Was that her mistake?
Her emotion, not to be fake?
Such generosity in genuine display,
lost before- neither here and now in the fray.
Much to her own dismay,
this was common in her way.
Few of you get,
what she had meant.
Again..
She meant what she said,
And she said what she meant.
There is more.
But the index is sore.
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- Location
- Austin, Texas
-- Sincerely, (?)
Why take the time- to coddle these words,
divided with sarcasm, into fifths, into thirds.
. `
Dripping like paint, left to some kind of mark,
smiles, o'wiles, appear as frigid as dark.
Weeping loom, how you pined for my hand, now
and again, twenty two times- I loosened the band.
Arbitrary, contrary to what would we will, the
secret that beckons, where should we until-
This reply likely, night or day find thou not,
though by this out right- be not thou distraught.
For all that I hoped, and all that I did,
little as I could, along had we sped.
Down the path, and all the way out the end,
ended up so twisted, as far as could bend.
Just look at me, none could be ever so bad,
convince the apparition, of a tea sipping lad.
Here is the tragedy,
formality in soul,
played all, played in full,
no fold, no retreat,
dancing in a street.
Told me this, told me that,
upon the door, rat-tatat-tat.......
..........
..........
.......tat-tatat-ta....
...
There was-
a raven there,
..
feeling
.
yes, a feeling,
the weight of a stare.
Not one of you told, not one of you care.
Why write, I-.. this, explain I not dare.
As we stroll to the side, for a story not told,
bring with you a mind, not tattered, un-sold,
for who could forget, the hook we call gold,
changing, like 'this,' for worse or as bold.
There was one thing, if ever I wanted;
chased many a times, yet still I am haunted.
Thoughts I drag with me, scars, this ol'bag, V
nothing so special, except for the Tag- 2
An insignia once forgotten, though often myopic, E
held something of meaning, uniting a topic.
Twisting, turning, the pain that is felt,
liken to whispers'tween cards, ones that I dealt.
As if they not know, but mean that they did,
is this some fallacy, leaving me coincided?
Was it, was it, this apple they chose,
for me, no, never- I would not suppose..
Back through the blinds, where most give me looks,
eyes were more keen, they read me like a books.
Spoke of good moments, joys of here,
of all that I wanted, became almost so clear..
Even words such as they, sincere as now could be.
Where they go now, well, let us just see...?
Think long and hard, what you think you may know,
for what I seek, cast by always, a lonely Shadow.
With this should I be so comforted,
so loved, the arms you would hope have
all but been shoved-
where they might go
with variables as they toss and they writhe-
leaving me nothing, but trying to breathe..
I ask her for help, and all that I fear,
is that simply, she cackles, only so near.
As the walls begin, to crackle- and burst,
into motion, bleeding in some insatiable thirst;
find myself thinking, only unto myself,
what was she seeking, thenes'oma chevonabzki-lf..
Not me..
not me..
suppose most of you ain' heard of an a-
Why take the time- to coddle these words,
divided with sarcasm, into fifths, into thirds.
. `
Dripping like paint, left to some kind of mark,
smiles, o'wiles, appear as frigid as dark.
Weeping loom, how you pined for my hand, now
and again, twenty two times- I loosened the band.
Arbitrary, contrary to what would we will, the
secret that beckons, where should we until-
This reply likely, night or day find thou not,
though by this out right- be not thou distraught.
For all that I hoped, and all that I did,
little as I could, along had we sped.
Down the path, and all the way out the end,
ended up so twisted, as far as could bend.
Just look at me, none could be ever so bad,
convince the apparition, of a tea sipping lad.
Here is the tragedy,
formality in soul,
played all, played in full,
no fold, no retreat,
dancing in a street.
Told me this, told me that,
upon the door, rat-tatat-tat.......
..........
..........
.......tat-tatat-ta....
...
There was-
a raven there,
..
feeling
.
yes, a feeling,
the weight of a stare.
Not one of you told, not one of you care.
Why write, I-.. this, explain I not dare.
As we stroll to the side, for a story not told,
bring with you a mind, not tattered, un-sold,
for who could forget, the hook we call gold,
changing, like 'this,' for worse or as bold.
There was one thing, if ever I wanted;
chased many a times, yet still I am haunted.
Thoughts I drag with me, scars, this ol'bag, V
nothing so special, except for the Tag- 2
An insignia once forgotten, though often myopic, E
held something of meaning, uniting a topic.
Twisting, turning, the pain that is felt,
liken to whispers'tween cards, ones that I dealt.
As if they not know, but mean that they did,
is this some fallacy, leaving me coincided?
Was it, was it, this apple they chose,
for me, no, never- I would not suppose..
Back through the blinds, where most give me looks,
eyes were more keen, they read me like a books.
Spoke of good moments, joys of here,
of all that I wanted, became almost so clear..
Even words such as they, sincere as now could be.
Where they go now, well, let us just see...?
Think long and hard, what you think you may know,
for what I seek, cast by always, a lonely Shadow.
With this should I be so comforted,
so loved, the arms you would hope have
all but been shoved-
where they might go
with variables as they toss and they writhe-
leaving me nothing, but trying to breathe..
I ask her for help, and all that I fear,
is that simply, she cackles, only so near.
As the walls begin, to crackle- and burst,
into motion, bleeding in some insatiable thirst;
find myself thinking, only unto myself,
what was she seeking, thenes'oma chevonabzki-lf..
Not me..
not me..
suppose most of you ain' heard of an a-
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- Location
- Austin, Texas
` People going, others walking,
Never stopping, always talking,
Eyes so focused, mind so aware,
A day in the sun, not even a glare.`
" ` Wonder I wander to a decent spot,
Seeking a shaded comfortable lot,
A careless rain given not a thought,
Skipping down the road, a merry trot, "
Last edited:
- Location
- Austin, Texas
`Of dreams upon a canvas..
"A dream upon a canvas, a face to appear,
completion of the work was almost near..
As I look deep, the paint seems smeared,
a light shone bleak, the brush I'd not feared.
Slowly the strokes create their display,
blending to ever express the grim dismay.
Fading into the night, the teal swells up as a tide,
to look across the meadow, in the sea of flowers I hide."
"A dream upon a canvas, a face to appear,
completion of the work was almost near..
As I look deep, the paint seems smeared,
a light shone bleak, the brush I'd not feared.
Slowly the strokes create their display,
blending to ever express the grim dismay.
Fading into the night, the teal swells up as a tide,
to look across the meadow, in the sea of flowers I hide."
Last edited:
- Location
- Austin, Texas
*222 - Cold hands.. -
Who am I? Dissever this orchestration of a slight,
a slight, free of the egocentricity. Melting away-
a way, cascades of red and blue; left staining some
face in the dark, falling like avalanches at night.
Unspoken to the eyes, we wonder- who are we? Tell
me a story, one you didn't know until we discovered
the twisting glint in those eyes. Ramblings wrap us
up so neatly within the finely woven words, was it
a distraction? Or, a smudges soon cleaned away to
reveal a true purpose- hinting at a folded wisdom.
They told the whole tale, lost somewhere between
the gaze from here and there. What the eyes didn't
tell, invokes the demon of fear and then curiosity.
Losing a sense of presence, an antithesis to order;
this separateness forced upon us, concealed beyond
a palm or vision. Breaking free, the death of simple
self-imposed reality, baring a oneness with all.
What was it that, slight- it was a cosmic fallacy,
the sway of freedom to feel as all do. The cold hands
grasp tight as the life spills away, as the painful
thoughts and wrongs against me also find their way
into the winds. None harm none, other than the one.
Each time we die, our hands grow colder; until the
icy aid seizes with the weather, only then will death
extend her hand to pine for a favor.
Intelligence may be measured of wear and callous',
where wisdom we find measured through temperature,
and temperance.
Who am I? Dissever this orchestration of a slight,
a slight, free of the egocentricity. Melting away-
a way, cascades of red and blue; left staining some
face in the dark, falling like avalanches at night.
Unspoken to the eyes, we wonder- who are we? Tell
me a story, one you didn't know until we discovered
the twisting glint in those eyes. Ramblings wrap us
up so neatly within the finely woven words, was it
a distraction? Or, a smudges soon cleaned away to
reveal a true purpose- hinting at a folded wisdom.
They told the whole tale, lost somewhere between
the gaze from here and there. What the eyes didn't
tell, invokes the demon of fear and then curiosity.
Losing a sense of presence, an antithesis to order;
this separateness forced upon us, concealed beyond
a palm or vision. Breaking free, the death of simple
self-imposed reality, baring a oneness with all.
What was it that, slight- it was a cosmic fallacy,
the sway of freedom to feel as all do. The cold hands
grasp tight as the life spills away, as the painful
thoughts and wrongs against me also find their way
into the winds. None harm none, other than the one.
Each time we die, our hands grow colder; until the
icy aid seizes with the weather, only then will death
extend her hand to pine for a favor.
Intelligence may be measured of wear and callous',
where wisdom we find measured through temperature,
and temperance.
Last edited: