Wild

I find peace finally in the land that bore my grandfathers,
There’s a man here who lost his son and lost his mind with it, he smiles at death everyday
His son 11 broke his neck falling off the back of a camel, and stood up when his father came, put his clothes on and walked towards him, his neck broken, head standing tall
His other sons 8 and 7, left to fend for themselves in the wild, the wild spits them back vicious, strong
If they don’t survive they’re not meant for this world still, love, doesn’t not flourish here
Only courage and strength
This is the land that my father’s killed and fought for, there’s no place for the weak here
These men don’t know anything except war and livestock
They still feud in clans
They carry the memory of the tribes with them
They eat meat, bloody and cooked for the guests
They remember my history in stories told over fire under the moonlight,
They stand when I stand
Death doesn’t scare them,
Only cowardice in its face does
A man faces it on his two feet
No matter what comes
How was your day is an actual concern here
Have you lost someone to death today
How about your sons
There’s a man here that hasn’t seen his wife for years

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I’ll  admit that i didn’t  pray for this, that i didn’t expect to cough the freezing clots of wasted epiphanies out  through lungs blackened with disappointment, blood thickened with the tar of unresolved feelings, to watch my hands tinge slowly with despair’s orange pigment, watch my fingers shriveling into disfigured knots of gestures repeated over and over again until the fingers are more function than form, nails sharp enough to prick the bubbles of content from the clouds of captive fantasies, they never realise themselves, they always never make it to the ground, they dissipate with the elements before even making a splatter that echoes louder than an antithesis,

I don’t  believe in atheism, life is fickle enough with an anchor, is it better to flap in the winds of turmoil without a mast ? why are you amplifying your demons unneccesarily, life offers us enough proof

people always told me i complicate my feelings or was it my writing, i could never tell the difference,

isn’t it why we write, to validate our feelings, so if feelings were half as simple i wouldn’t  even have  to write

i would navigate the seas as merrily as a buoy , floating  about  with no sense of direction, but it seems not to be my calling, it seems mine is to kickstart things and fill them with passion that fades consistently, afraid to commit

forever swiping right .

 

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I sip on those alliterations,exercise my patience

 i stand precariously on the perch of the literati looking down on the illiterate, a trap song away from oblivion and all i can think is

These Spoken word miracles, i Merely cull,

These letters never haunt my soul, aware of ill
I flaunt my wisdom through these crowds, no overkill
There is no place left to fill, but i still stuff it in
I linger in the metaphor, Who do you think i meta for, ever after

I hear the cackle in my ears, loud laughter

Make sure you stay on this train, i never left her

To dance around in the flames, Practice my reverence

I, Never left her breathless

You, won’t get the reference

She, won’t learn her lesson

They, just want some leverage

We, didn’t get the message

Hey, let’s count our blessings

Or 

There are pinpoints of light penetrating the once thick clouds of dread, as those clouds drip drip drip on the cold steppes of discontent
the thick leaves of dark disappointments fall into the trough of clarity
sloughing away the wasted regrets, 

 A steady drain of past mistakes and should jave nots, those tiny pins prickle

and only in consistensy will the warm embers of passion reignite, inconsistently blowing to ane fro, and only then, will the
flames of absolution rage, scirching the dry earth, inviting more soothing rains, love 

Is not quiet, love is loud, and though we

whisper our professions of dedication in the warm embrace of honest vulnerability, there can not be smoke  of joy without the fire
of Stability and hard work, to religiously show up and bear the grunt of exertion and execution, love is not blind
love sees the entire panorama of soul diving, where a loved one would spread their souls wide and shallow as not to drown their
partner in a sea of prejudices past, to love faults and fallacies, to yearn for both the sweet surrender of humility,
shedding the acquired second skin of false pride, & to bend knee to the talismans of fate, to bend byt never break the strength
invested by the grieviances past,

 love is not bold, love is a little boy’s long lingering looks at nuclear families, love is a drought of expectations,

love is the command of the heirs of vulnerability, you can not learn love, only inherit it.

Love is finite, in and of itself

 it is prayed for in the small  hours of the night, where expectation and need coincide, love is not. There are a few truths left
one states clearly that you must free fall into the supposed cushion of vulnerability without entitlement; 

Stripped of no title

The second also clearly states that the receptacle of this love must volunteer their unintentionally unfurled blanket of hopes and validations, unguided by reason or logic, 

devoid of deliberations, love wins.

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Nobility

I never claimed nobility per se, but i try to the best of my abilities to stay within the realm of altruism.

It has come to my attention that nobility is a faded concept, misconstrued and withered, It is cloaked; more often than not in the moth-eaten drapes of self importance.

Altruistically speaking, it should not be mistaken for weakness of character. I do not know if it makes me a pessimist or a defeatist, but through this lens that has been discolored time and time again; by the slings and arrows of perceived misfortune, thank  Shakespeare for that. It always is.

I hope, like all fools do, but expect like all “rational” people do. That the tide will not bring this about anytime soon. The winds never bring about the change that you hope for, not to sound ominous either, but this is not the worse humanity will get, before it gets better.

The lullaby of States

Only at the deathbed of every civilization do the green sprouts of whichever that is vigorous push through,
I only hope that this particular crypt sees the sun before my passing.

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One day , when the spikes of the wheel don’t feel like they’re pirecing your heart with every movement,
A day will come when you would want time to stand still because you are not quite ready to move on ,
A time when you want to bask in the iridescent rays of the sun hitting the surface of the oasis that you were promised during the long thirst
The time you want to quench your scorched soul first
Before
You venture forth into the dark place that you fear no more
The big bad scarecrow in the fields where the planted seeds of doubt grow
To take a respite from the light that is shining so bright you don’t know if you’re in the tunnel or if you haven’t gotten that far yet
We love, with all the bravery of the restless youth, we love like we cant wait  to placate our insecurities,
Like we need to scour the earth,
Like we give disappointments a wide berth,
Like we can whisper without shame our secrets with all the hope, that our trust will never fade,  the it’ll never waver our faith, in everything benevolent,
And how only the omnispresent can present us with the talisman that has become a war cry for every child who mans the banner of truth,
Peace, and when we’ve had it we’ll try to piece ourselves enough together to face the mismatched notes and make them a symphony, to have in us the foresight to not think that the latter is disjoint from cacophony,
Through the clamour of voices polluting our judgement we ascend to see all that knowledge taught us , and to rise further enough to shake down the heresy of those that we perch on the pedestals, to emancipate oirselves from the thought that I am not or ever will be great , that we cannot forsake our dreams, that we claim this no man’s land a reservation for our excellence
That we cut the strings of mediocrity that weigh us down,  these anchors of old can’t help but make us drown ,
Untethered, we pioneer this age into unclaimed wonders, and it becomes the age of the deliberate and pondered

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Gyrus gruesome

Destiny un distinguished ?
I fear lots, mostly my lot, lost or not
Loss is final.
I want for a lot , an effervescent one with no twist in the plot,
Alas, there is no I in us
As long as I’m eyeing us I don’t see , farther than than I could fetch,  more than I can say for loss , less than I can say for the lass, or was it the our’s glaze of everything fickle
The hour’s glass knows my pickle
Limerick limerick please my ego,
Pass the impasse until we go,
On and on and on and on
I mean how board this widening chasm up with the blocks of forgiveness,  the strady trickle of tribulations is whetting the stone’s resolve, the elements are not kind
There is no fire or flood ,
That calms the blood,
The crows claim .

One trail of thought later

Generosity is a function of bravery
Through, my muddled feelings, my coddled fears, my addled thoughts
My molded preconceptions,  milder than my convictions
Muffled ejaculates
Mark my words
I do not stand by my arrogance, eventually
Hopefully
Knots tingle , not tinged with the hue of hope , weathered drudgery save me
Nest the sane

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Plucking Carnage

What is it about beginnings that make beauty a memory,
More rhetoric than inquisitive,
Pray fell, the mast of overbearance unoiled won’t separate the medium of love from life
What gives?
The unbalanced will not stand fast,
The stones of half whispered apologies scattered on the puddle of dread won’t see you safely across,
The proposed prospect placates the patient, neither the passive pessimist
Nor the presumptious protagonist
The truth, is not always tender,
It excavates the wounds festering with misappropriated “shhhhh, I’m here now”s
It breaks the spirited, resets them in a cast of character,
Kneads the remnants of resentment away from the bosom of regret.
Cleanses guilt with a shower of disillusionment dipped in resolve.

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Estimated time of Deliberation

There is a dignity in silent companionship, a beauty in pregnant silence, forever begetting
Eternally in labour

The love child of said patience is always long overdue, coveted and spoiled with the memory of loss
Only the barren will ever understand

What it is to truly immaculately conceive wisdom, inspected through the cracked lens of experience, infinite fractals of both faces

Regret and wisdom nurse from the bosom of mistakes, it is neither pleasant nor sweet, yet they continue to suckle the sour produce

Days pass, the thirst continually demanding its fill, the beautiful twins grow sickly, bellies filling with their own excrement: pride

You cannot bury and cradle experiences , you must choose one or the other; your head excluded, earfuls of sand do not a healthy mind make

Crescendo:
The wailing harpies; cautionary tales,  will not drown you, nor anchor you in the festival of Mourning, sing the dead.

Solo:
Strum, the fragile strings of what could have been, the come what mays, they will snap, snap, into forever
“wait, maybe I shouldn’t have not”
Doubly negative

Applause:
Misery’s only chorus, clap loud enough to forget why .
Exhume the body, the soul will still be gone.
The End

Locke

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Precipitate

The rain shall set you free, truth comes in all forms. Cirumstance rises , the cold wind of hindsight; well met, condenses the vapours of
The collective, the thunderclap of all that could have come to be . Louder than the thoughts that haunt you whence the hounds come,
They clamor, preying on one another till the toll of the first precipitate.
Very little matters then; except that which has the patience to persevere.
evidently , the soft pitter patter  is declaration enough, it never really rains, It fills the pores with naked truth.

Locke

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