Signing in as Away

:: My name is : [k.] ::

All poetry has been archived at L'esprit d'esceleir

What to say…

The heart weighs heavy. weakness fills the mind. I’ve hurt the ones I love to seek instant gratification. Narrow minded short sighted selfish inconsiderance, that is I, and I am dying inside. Dramatic? Yeah, but no fucks are given.

Imagine being stuck in the past, always in the mind. For some, it’s not so hard to do.

Crippled in so many ways, suckling on a cloud of haze, for years and years, I’m trying so hard to escape. If my enemies could see me now, they’d be gratified. Weakness: Fucks will be given for the sake of self citation; spirit crusher: pride, oh hush, oh hush. we’re dying inside. Stop living for yourself. Selflessness is never in vein. I’ll believe it when I see it. That boy’s all talk and no walk. He mentioned, once, of brighter skies, but delivered only trivial lies. Addiction sets the mood as every action swoons and reeks of despiration. The mind’s escaped, and left behind a pound of flesh to waste away. Maybe one day, oh maybe tomorrow. Maybe baby, we can say it one day. The self must die. STOP LIVING FOR YOURSELF. This message reeks of despiration. SELFLESSNESS IS NEVER IN VEIN. But here we are…

To my friends, who knows. The heart weighs heavy. Or maybe that’s anxiety… too much coffee, I don’t really drink the shit anymore. Half a bottle of tequila for anyone who wants it. But you gotta take the banana liqour too…

Life must be taken in stride… The art of zen is: dying inside? Stop living for yourself; selflessness is never in vein.

Collide-a-Scope

And with a sigh, he saught to find the pieces of his life:

A bloody knife to tell which way the heart lies,
Tangled limbs in finger’s kiss to come with modest bliss;

Disconnect

A glass of eye with which to soy the inside of our minds,
to never find what lies outside,
Glassy I and glossy eyes to find a better kind at the end of time…

And with a tear to eye, she saught to find the gentleness of knives,
To see which way the heart lies by the peaceful end to life.

fill your lungs/: The Optimist ~

fill-your-lungs:

This poem is comprised completely out of traditional proverbs.

All work and no play means beggars cannot be
Only skin deep; but you can’t count your blessings
Before they’ve hatched. Ignorance is:
“Great minds think fences make good neighbours.”
But if anything could go wrong, it goes without…

Ferguson~

Roses are;
Roses are out of fashion,
Romance is dead…

Counting days and going through the motions
Counting motions going through the days,
And I saw you obstain,
And thought,
"But where’s the passion?"

Roses are;
Roses are out of fashion,
Romance is dead…

Meet Yourself

Like that infant would have crawled back into the womb;

And every pore awakens,
Eyes as wide to shut the world out.

Out of your head,

`And i reject this as my own reality,
For pleasantries do well to please,
Believe me now;
I`ve been wandering,
Always wondering what could have come to be,
In the dead of that night,
Where i stirred with a mighty roar,
And bore no remnants of that skin i would have torn:

I`m alive, i`m afraid,
Alive and frightened awake,
Taken to the height of skin,
And left to fall within.

Give Up// The Ghost

What a joke (we are) we`ve made ourselves,
Are we starved of a little attention?
Intentionally made the scene, or unconventionally left some pieces in between?

Destination saves the message beep,
Says the maps that point from ‘a’ to ‘b’ lead us by the by,
Or somewhere in between…

Check your voice mail,
Hail to ours as ever after-fact and faced to front the satellite commander,
Canned our coin in paper cups with bunny-eared antenna plenty,
Tied by strings and sold it for a pretty penny.

Came it rushing in the eulogy of thoughts engraved in a stave by wave that ever thought i’d see,
But never caught us,
Picking up on ghosts or counting toes,
"Makin’ toast, oh…"

In the dead of night,
By the light of day,
It’s not quite what we had to say…

But I’ll get back to you on that.

it’s been a while and i feel like speaking into oblivion.

it’s 10pm here in my residence, and i have soon to sleep before waking up for a short 9h day of work. endless thoughts creep through my mind. i wish to write, i wish to construct, and at the same time i wish to analyze. it seems, with so much i want to do, a crowded door effect is conditioned, leaving me with a sense of dissonance from my aspirations.

tell me, can one be learned without certification? i’m in the pergatory of post-highschool, before post-secondary education, and i know i am not ready for it. But a child of learning is what i wish to be, can it be done of one’s own accord?