And when there is nothing left but the ashes, the sun will shine upon a flower in the dark, and love, ever so giving, will prosper once more.
born.
Author: BГњG
0
Date: 06/04/2020
№ 1207988
The Bandit Has Been Born.
From Discoveries; my high school journal. Entries from February of 2009.
February 12th: Even in good company I still feel alone.
February 13th: I can't paint & I can't draw either. But with my words, I can paint a paper-back That will give Even Andy Warhol, a run for his $.
Three Months ago: I took a look In the honesty window's Reflection And I began to loathe what I saw. & I began to mend my mold To make this work. WIthout resorting to stripping or suicide,
That's when Bandit came out to play.
"Everything I say is said in blue ink and heard on lined paper. Chemical and herbal experimentation have changed me. Oh high, I'm Bandit. & It is nice to meet you. "
Jellied life held together with skeletal marrow memories Stuck hard and fast fired in a kiln lump of clay with needs While wanting and wants plague already muddy waters The demanding tone of a telephone is now a chosen flagellation Keeps on ringing your number tattooed into your mind And somewhere deep there is a poem waiting to be born The last text message was from God according to modern terrorists Chomping at the bit to blow their sorry selves to kingdom come The poets keep on singing because they were born to it And history would never forgive them if they abandoned their song.
born.
Author: nivek
0
Date: 31/03/2020
№ 1202085
A star is born
He stretched wearing his mothers sunglasses on a pool chair, the warmth of the late summer morning shun on his pale skin, like millions of flashes from thousands of adoring fans, snapping photos of a breathless man.
The skin of morning heavy On windows, floors & mugs Blue-eyed wolves trace the scent The fragility of life in indifferent forests Uncovered shoulders near the wind Slowly absorb the horizon, the new common sense Dozens killed killed killed Killed by bombs, cars, trucks, guns, knives Hatred grows like mislettoe The sky an endless empty whole The same heresy errected with fresh blood
A winter born forgetting Some hands without fingers Some children cry Some wounds have no cover The blanket of darkness sweet Hate grows like mislettoe, remember
It must be that I woke up on the wrong side of the Moon hide tonight
It's paramount the notion That men are born to grow, Extend their creativity, Expand the very best they know. Explore the realm unseen before Beyond their very reach, Inflate the mind's potential To absorb and grasp and preach. To plunder flair unrealized Extend skills unperceived, To craft a very masterpiece Of magnificence, unbelieved. To raise the spire of excellence To sculpt a work of art, Compose a peice which scintillates And moves the very heart. To reach beyond the mortal And let the spirit free To pen a Michelangelo And have God sit with me.
Marshalg @the Coalface Victoria Park Tunnel 30 April 2010
He came, reluctantly pulled by his head At the hands of a masked man, Using large metal, Salad Tong appearing forceps, Rudely, crudely yanked from his mother's Cervical embrace, into the glaring, First Light of intended living and breathing. His head now misshapen, (To return to normal they assured, ) His little body more blue than pink, Umbilical cord around his neck,
Absolutely ridged, not moving, No sound did he make, Appearing more gone than here.
My own breath did cease until to my relief, His tiny arms and hands did give notice Of life, followed soon after by a fitting Shrill scream of rebuttal, a rebuke to The light, the air, the rude process That had brought him there.
One moment at peace, safe and warm Within his womb of tranquility, dreaming Whatever dreams the pure and innocent's Do dream, then abruptly ripped from All that peace, out into all this!
At that moment I too wanted to join in, Echo his howl, his guttural protestation, I too swept up by that ethereal wave of disturbance Feeling his struggle as if he was drowning in new found air. For me, as if at this moment of his birth, I too was being reborn.
My knees grew weak, I was for a instant dizzy, I struggled to regain my own lost breathing. Restart my own heart, fight back the water in my eyes.
I let go of his mother's hand, she with eyes closed, As if sleeping, exhausted from too many hours of labor, My respect and love for her and her magnificent efforts, Expanded then to boundless.
The tender masked women in white, They with shining, smiling eyes, Quickly cleaned, and wiped him dry, Swaddled him in a tiny blanket and laid him into My unaccustomed arms, and for the very first time In our lives, I looked upon the face of my son.
At that precise moment, some purposeful mental, Primordial emotional switch, was indeed flipped, And I, WE would never be the same again.
