Originally posted by setaside2 TO BE THE HUNTED/alas the hunter
If you thought the dream sorely remembered
If you thought the last breath escaped
May I politely remind you of last year's triumph and this year's last stand
Those clouds are mine
I've claimed them as my manifest destiny
You can keep your land
Nothing grows here as it is
and the slamdance tantrums that you pull in the state
mean nothing to these cliff walls so silent and imposing these past centuries
i am standing, suitably admonished
and i shall atone for my sins against language by reading War and Peace on the toilet all night
Some people have to have the sultry evenings Cocktails in the blue, red and grey But I like every minute of the day.
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
Felicity, our slang admonishing and wrangling queen, I bow to you. Though I have my dictionary of American Slang at all times, that site is new to me. Rock on to you sister mercy.
sultry, despite usage of old and tired cliches (and our known history between you and I) there is still love here. I promise.
seta
ps wow everyone. this one really got a response.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
They say that saint lucifer was the only angel made in the image of god
that he was the closest to humanity that an angel would ever get
that he walked in the darkness at the edge of the city forever
and questioned
to feel alive
the seraphim were robbed of all spontaneity
until the day they queried the lord: why he appeared to love his newest creations
far more than he appeared to love his first and most perfect
the unfortunate thing is that there is nothing to debate in the idea that god
created lucifer for the purpose that lucifer fulfilled...
And if that is the case
then there isn't a hell for those who question, merely another home for those without answers
if we've been locked out of heaven because of an apple
and yet by the grace of creation can continue to question
this must, at the very least, be purgatory and we're all in line
biding time
there is no hell without hope
there are secrets to be unlocked within us all
genetic
cyclic
millenia on a spiritual twirl
of you don't believe in reincarnation
stop eating fruit and watch the green that grows in the wake of it's disintegration
the rinds you left behind
you wasteful soul
how dare you attempt to wound me
i was given my ability to question
THE ability to forage and scavenge and infer
The singular humana persona
If it is wrong...
It feels too right to be wrong
questioning and seeking are the very basis of the myth of free will
I'll find my own way on any given sunday and, fuck the tie, I'll be dressed in t-shirt, jeans and hiking boots. My imagination will be my greatest weapon in the war to come and I find that I'll be far more prepared when the sky does in fact fall
than you'll ever be. I've been walking in the rain for a long time. To feel alive. It's fortunate that my fingertips have not gone numb.
The touch of god on a rainy day. As vague as the mist rising from heated streets.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
i was given my ability to question
THE ability to forage and scavenge and infer
The singular humana persona
If it is wrong... It feels too right to be wrong
My imagination will be my greatest weapon in the war to come and I find that I'll be far more prepared when the sky does in fact fall
than you'll ever be. I've been walking in the rain for a long time. To feel alive. It's fortunate that my fingertips have not gone numb.
BRAVO! this is what i think each and every day, the idea of Spiritus Mundi, yes! you are right, you are right, you are right! though social systems must exist, their functions are only as adept as the humans who make them work.
imagination, the free mind, the ability to see past the veil of illusion, this is what must be taught to the new human. not the worship of money, but a way to use the tool to best advantage. staying by what's real, what's instinctual, where one feels love, compassion, and when one is able, to give it back freely, without emptiness or worry. love always fills itself up again, ALWAYS.
actually, you just sound like a dirt-suckin', tree-huggin', herb-smokin' hippie freak. just teasing you. i know this will be the philosophy my future partner and i will share with a passion.
brains, imagination, love, living up to human potential. oh, how we sometimes short-change ourselves. here's to a new year of continued hope, full of love for each other and compassion for those who could be so much more.
it does feel too right to be wrong, because it IS right, guaranteed. and doesn't it feel unbelievable that it is so right? there are hardly any adjectives to describe it. the feeling is akin to the waning tremors just on the other side of an orgasmic peak, where there is no consciousness of time, where the mind is blank of everything but sensation and pleasure, refreshed, flooding with hormones. you have a right to feel like that, oh joyous ones, it's all good and it's all about the love -- self-love and for others.
Originally posted by Felicity brains, imagination, love, living up to human potential. oh, how we sometimes short-change ourselves. here's to a new year of continued hope, full of love for each other and compassion for those who could be so much more.
seriously, i couldn't have said it any better myself. Bravo to you too, Felicity.
Marc, i feel for you. you know i do. i'm here, no matter what. please promise you will do all that you can to keep your head up through all of this.
Originally posted by setaside2
My imagination will be my greatest weapon in the war to come and I find that I'll be far more prepared when the sky does in fact fall than you'll ever be. I've been walking in the rain for a long time. To feel alive. It's fortunate that my fingertips have not gone numb.
The touch of god on a rainy day. As vague as the mist rising from heated streets.
Seta, they say if you walk, rather than run in the rain, you won't get as wet and the sound is pretty too.
if wetness is what you desire then know that you are my friend and if i could i would
break my waves over the center of your heart
and spell out with wet words
and frothy bioLuminess Sent letters.....
you are an anchor,
you are the shore,
you are the tree we tie our boats to during the storm.
I wish I had such waves, gita. I dearly do. but this intensity burns so fiercely I cannot even begin to help myself.
it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS it burns it burns FUCK IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns....
ashes to ashes.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
there comes a point where a shattered heart and a wounded psyche must needs seek shelter in an area of silence and calm, away from the piddling mistakes of the one who pulled the knife.
I tried to duck, and I was successful the first 2 attempts. The third was mistimed and now I bleed.
Do I forgive my tormentor? Yes. But I must heal and I cannot do it around her.
I do not feel that I have broken a promise with god or any higher entity, I always try to consider the greater good. If the will is to love, then love I do, but it is not a healthy love and it is not easily saved.
The ring is precious, and I will keep it always, it has meant many things to me.
But our bond is broken and irreparably severed. Unfortunate but true and now we need to do what is best for the children. And staying together for their sake is not what is best.
Letting them know that the ability to seek happiness is by far their greatest gift and that they are still their own unique and wonderful human beings, despite the mistakes of those that rear them...
That is tantamount.
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
I do not feel that I have broken a promise with god or any higher entity, I always try to consider the greater good. If the will is to love, then love I do, but it is not a healthy love and it is not easily saved.
The ring is precious, and I will keep it always, it has meant many things to me.
But our bond is broken and irreparably severed. Unfortunate but true and now we need to do what is best for the children. And staying together for their sake is not what is best.
Letting them know that the ability to seek happiness is by far their greatest gift and that they are still their own unique and wonderful human beings, despite the mistakes of those that rear them...
That is tantamount.
seta
Seta
I am looking in the mirror through you. I did it too. I wanted out of my marriage and I could not tell him why. I just didnt love him like i wanted to.
I
WILL
NEVER
FORGET
THE HURT
ON THE FACE
of the man i married. on the day he moved out into a nasty dusty room he rented in a neighborhood he didnt know.
my swedish mother in law hated me after that. she said.
"you made my son cry and i never want to see him feel that way again." she was write.
i knew if i stayed our child would suffer bad. so i made the choice.
hurt my husband.
my son was too young to understand.
my husband cried for 5 years and i went out and had fun and fucked people and spent my dead fathers money and drank and inhibrated my pain and used the disguse of my depression as a justification.
he went off to raise my child proper.
he is a saint.
i helped. but he was the dependable one.
no breakdowns dispite i tore his world apart.
i was the one with the guilt so i had the breakdowns.
and to this day i feel because i broke a promise to god, my heart will always hurt.
i think our children will tell us the truth later seta.
it was ok to love parents, apart.
bless you marc and know the pain does lessen
and in it we learn one.
Originally posted by Amaterasu awesome.
Couldn't help reading your message for SET
what you said was brave and I appreciate you
for being you. Thank you!
Thank you. It's only because i have tried to cry the number of tears he did and I have finaly caught up to his water level and sharing it here is why i feel so safe.
thanks for call me brave. people dont ususally call me
do not curtsy nor bow before the king,
there is no necessity.
A payment of respect requires merely the nod of recognition from across the room,
a wayward wink that carries with it the secrets of all the world,
the voices that whisper in the wake of those who travel past,
the election of supremacy more an invite to the ballroom,
the glory a ghost of seasons gone,
the youth and effervescence a mocking gift to lay at the feet of those who worship you...
Did you fancy that pink bow as she walked by, I thought to myself...
it was garish and crass though the flavor seemed keen in the 2:00 sun,
these shadows ever longer as the autumn descends.
I envision her turning the corner though I have resumed my journey opposite.
Strange how the world allows the wings to carry home so many a persona,
those whispers heard are the bees taking flight to their latest hive.
Must the cave shadow so dark as the moon fades behind the regional lake and dancing district?
Why must the sonic wave of evening sonar turned wrecking ball devour me so?
those sand castles at your knee our microcosm,
crumbling to dust as they are lapped by the tide,
the useless pride involved in construct misconstrued and proven wrong.
Tiptoe the tide in temerity,
the time a tawny streak of tingle and twine,
you rush to meet the wave, bred crumbs in the wake,
your aftereffects my shockwave north.
I noticed my petals are wilted as though the weight of the salt in this breeze were the world upon the tip of a tongue,
the wait for the world to turn the flick of an eyelash on the air.
Why the metaphor must fail for free and direct speech when the art is lost is a killing thing.
The king pads his plush and faded carpet so torn and threadbare with the years of worry for his sins.
His bare feet feel the comfort of the necessary and familiar weave, such patterns that are woven underfoot in a day the way of the wind.
The paraffin drips as the water-core candles are blown out,
the late evening presumed to be enough to say farewell and good night to all.
His footsteps fade into the black echoing a presence far gone beyond the one who shuffles by.
The heads that turn and those comments that follow so sly...
bring the fluttering mariposa a rose,
she is tired and willing and may yet breach a stroke of faith so far stretched,
the flight attained a trembling and hesitant affirmation,
the unanswered question of landing another statistic to gain.
Dare us all to go it together, be it alone,
the holes in the carpet shall only grow deeper,
gathering all that is stone nearer and nearer to the surface.
Watch that patch of cold, his majesty considers it most grievous and begs your forgiveness as his house is not as well kept as it once was, his castle no longer the mastering fortress it used to be.
Strange how he steps onto the sand looking back at the open cottage behind and all that comes to mind is a pink bow, crass and garish in the early afternoon...
the autumn may bring peace come the late monsoons as the waves pound the microcosm into oblivion.
How cruel the flood.
How cleansing.
The taste of salt never so bittersweet.
The cry of seagulls settles a soul so covered in grit and thread bare, the winged creatures padding down the beach in troves. No one notices a flash of pink on the returning tide; a silent wish of good fortune and the setting sun...
The angel has arrived.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
all of the previous 4 have been written on the pc, in fact.
it is not natural for me and yet it works so well. I write completely differently when I type... and while both styles are decent, I like the typed one better. I don't know why.
This one is a love poem of sorts... or a poem of fantasy, which may or may not be the same thing.
I do so love his fortress within his cottage.
thanks for taking the time to read this stuff guys, I know this thread is getting loooooong but I just can't start a new one. This one has all our history on it. LOL it'd be like moving to a new state.
so it goes.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
"The king of all flights fancy" really hit me. thanks for that.
There have been shows where maybe the whole first half of the show my eyes have been closed. and then you'll look out in the crowd and there'll be somebody totally lost in their head, in exactly the same place you're in. That, to me, is the essence of music
Originally posted by setaside2 The King of All Flights Fancy
do not curtsy nor bow before the king,
there is no necessity.
A payment of respect requires merely the nod of recognition from across the room,
a wayward wink that carries with it the secrets of all the world,
the voices that whisper in the wake of those who travel past,
the election of supremacy more an invite to the ballroom,
the glory a ghost of seasons gone,
the youth and effervescence a mocking gift to lay at the feet of those who worship you...
Did you fancy that pink bow as she walked by, I thought to myself...
it was garish and crass though the flavor seemed keen in the 2:00 sun,
these shadows ever longer as the autumn descends.
I envision her turning the corner though I have resumed my journey opposite.
Strange how the world allows the wings to carry home so many a persona,
those whispers heard are the bees taking flight to their latest hive.
Must the cave shadow so dark as the moon fades behind the regional lake and dancing district?
Why must the sonic wave of evening sonar turned wrecking ball devour me so?
those sand castles at your knee our microcosm,
crumbling to dust as they are lapped by the tide,
the useless pride involved in construct misconstrued and proven wrong.
Tiptoe the tide in temerity,
the time a tawny streak of tingle and twine,
you rush to meet the wave, bred crumbs in the wake,
your aftereffects my shockwave north.
I noticed my petals are wilted as though the weight of the salt in this breeze were the world upon the tip of a tongue,
the wait for the world to turn the flick of an eyelash on the air.
Why the metaphor must fail for free and direct speech when the art is lost is a killing thing.
The king pads his plush and faded carpet so torn and threadbare with the years of worry for his sins.
His bare feet feel the comfort of the necessary and familiar weave, such patterns that are woven underfoot in a day the way of the wind.
The paraffin drips as the water-core candles are blown out,
the late evening presumed to be enough to say farewell and good night to all.
His footsteps fade into the black echoing a presence far gone beyond the one who shuffles by.
The heads that turn and those comments that follow so sly...
bring the fluttering mariposa a rose,
she is tired and willing and may yet breach a stroke of faith so far stretched,
the flight attained a trembling and hesitant affirmation,
the unanswered question of landing another statistic to gain.
Dare us all to go it together, be it alone,
the holes in the carpet shall only grow deeper,
gathering all that is stone nearer and nearer to the surface.
Watch that patch of cold, his majesty considers it most grievous and begs your forgiveness as his house is not as well kept as it once was, his castle no longer the mastering fortress it used to be.
Strange how he steps onto the sand looking back at the open cottage behind and all that comes to mind is a pink bow, crass and garish in the early afternoon...
the autumn may bring peace come the late monsoons as the waves pound the microcosm into oblivion.
How cruel the flood.
How cleansing.
The taste of salt never so bittersweet.
The cry of seagulls settles a soul so covered in grit and thread bare, the winged creatures padding down the beach in troves. No one notices a flash of pink on the returning tide; a silent wish of good fortune and the setting sun...
The angel has arrived.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Neither, dear sir. LOL. Though I am a Poe fan (both the singer and the writer), I have not read any of his work in over a year, unfortunately. Also, while I do so love LOTR, I do try not to have any references to it in my paperwork...
I have had a vision of the king and his threadbare carpet for months now and I cannot get it out of my head. This has helped a lot.
I take it that it passes muster? LOL or at least passes the mustard?
good to see you Radar, I find myself missing you these days that I am not at home and/or able to come to the screen.
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by setaside2 I have had a vision of the king and his threadbare carpet for months now and I cannot get it out of my head.
Interesting.
I've had a vision of the Chiefs screwing up their Super Bowl chances in my head for months that I cannot get out of my head. I would write a poem about it, but it would merely be a collection of invectives. Oh, hell. Why not?
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK
STUPIDGODDAMMUTHERFUCKINGPIECEOFMUTHERFUCK
FUCK FUCK FUCK
OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT
THAT DOES IT
THAT DOES IT
THAT DOES IT
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK
Comments
fuck yeah
i am standing, suitably admonished
and i shall atone for my sins against language by reading War and Peace on the toilet all night
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
Felicity, our slang admonishing and wrangling queen, I bow to you. Though I have my dictionary of American Slang at all times, that site is new to me. Rock on to you sister mercy.
sultry, despite usage of old and tired cliches (and our known history between you and I) there is still love here. I promise.
seta
ps wow everyone. this one really got a response.
that he was the closest to humanity that an angel would ever get
that he walked in the darkness at the edge of the city forever
and questioned
to feel alive
the seraphim were robbed of all spontaneity
until the day they queried the lord: why he appeared to love his newest creations
far more than he appeared to love his first and most perfect
the unfortunate thing is that there is nothing to debate in the idea that god
created lucifer for the purpose that lucifer fulfilled...
And if that is the case
then there isn't a hell for those who question, merely another home for those without answers
if we've been locked out of heaven because of an apple
and yet by the grace of creation can continue to question
this must, at the very least, be purgatory and we're all in line
biding time
there is no hell without hope
there are secrets to be unlocked within us all
genetic
cyclic
millenia on a spiritual twirl
of you don't believe in reincarnation
stop eating fruit and watch the green that grows in the wake of it's disintegration
the rinds you left behind
you wasteful soul
how dare you attempt to wound me
i was given my ability to question
THE ability to forage and scavenge and infer
The singular humana persona
If it is wrong...
It feels too right to be wrong
questioning and seeking are the very basis of the myth of free will
I'll find my own way on any given sunday and, fuck the tie, I'll be dressed in t-shirt, jeans and hiking boots. My imagination will be my greatest weapon in the war to come and I find that I'll be far more prepared when the sky does in fact fall
than you'll ever be. I've been walking in the rain for a long time. To feel alive. It's fortunate that my fingertips have not gone numb.
The touch of god on a rainy day. As vague as the mist rising from heated streets.
you know, we hope for this and that
some of us use hope to motivate action
and too many times some use hope to keep from acting at all, like a prayer for a bicycle christmas morning...
nice writing seta
BRAVO! this is what i think each and every day, the idea of Spiritus Mundi, yes! you are right, you are right, you are right! though social systems must exist, their functions are only as adept as the humans who make them work.
imagination, the free mind, the ability to see past the veil of illusion, this is what must be taught to the new human. not the worship of money, but a way to use the tool to best advantage. staying by what's real, what's instinctual, where one feels love, compassion, and when one is able, to give it back freely, without emptiness or worry. love always fills itself up again, ALWAYS.
actually, you just sound like a dirt-suckin', tree-huggin', herb-smokin' hippie freak. just teasing you. i know this will be the philosophy my future partner and i will share with a passion.
brains, imagination, love, living up to human potential. oh, how we sometimes short-change ourselves. here's to a new year of continued hope, full of love for each other and compassion for those who could be so much more.
it does feel too right to be wrong, because it IS right, guaranteed. and doesn't it feel unbelievable that it is so right? there are hardly any adjectives to describe it. the feeling is akin to the waning tremors just on the other side of an orgasmic peak, where there is no consciousness of time, where the mind is blank of everything but sensation and pleasure, refreshed, flooding with hormones. you have a right to feel like that, oh joyous ones, it's all good and it's all about the love -- self-love and for others.
seriously, i couldn't have said it any better myself. Bravo to you too, Felicity.
Marc, i feel for you. you know i do. i'm here, no matter what. please promise you will do all that you can to keep your head up through all of this.
I have always felt that love was freedom based and the ability to give regardless of favor, want, need, intellect, race, creed, flavor flave...
it's all in the art of what I always called the humana persona.
Appreciation is borne upon opposites. As, in fact, is any knowledge. Hence questions/answers. Love/hate. Happy/sad. It's all so basic. etc etc etc.
I've been a tad intense of late and it seems to flow easily so the sledgehammer I aim with occasionally seems filed to a point.
I had no idea I even owned a pickaxe.
The preceding poem has since been titled THIS LINE I DRAW/dare you
I hope it lasts.
Seta, they say if you walk, rather than run in the rain, you won't get as wet and the sound is pretty too.
we miss you.
Soaked.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
as they say in every punk flick ever made:
fuck it all.
break my waves over the center of your heart
and spell out with wet words
and frothy bioLuminess Sent letters.....
you are an anchor,
you are the shore,
you are the tree we tie our boats to during the storm.
was the wordy motherfucker.
I wish I had such waves, gita. I dearly do. but this intensity burns so fiercely I cannot even begin to help myself.
it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS it burns it burns FUCK IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns....
ashes to ashes.
love you dearly
but God and I have our own little quiet time that does not require a church. And it never will.
and I never ever hate. ever.
I swear to that.
and chocolate cake sounds nummy, but at this distance I dare say your aim might be less than accurate.
love, seta
the band is never broken
but the heart often is.
there comes a point where a shattered heart and a wounded psyche must needs seek shelter in an area of silence and calm, away from the piddling mistakes of the one who pulled the knife.
I tried to duck, and I was successful the first 2 attempts. The third was mistimed and now I bleed.
Do I forgive my tormentor? Yes. But I must heal and I cannot do it around her.
I do not feel that I have broken a promise with god or any higher entity, I always try to consider the greater good. If the will is to love, then love I do, but it is not a healthy love and it is not easily saved.
The ring is precious, and I will keep it always, it has meant many things to me.
But our bond is broken and irreparably severed. Unfortunate but true and now we need to do what is best for the children. And staying together for their sake is not what is best.
Letting them know that the ability to seek happiness is by far their greatest gift and that they are still their own unique and wonderful human beings, despite the mistakes of those that rear them...
That is tantamount.
seta
Seta
I am looking in the mirror through you. I did it too. I wanted out of my marriage and I could not tell him why. I just didnt love him like i wanted to.
I
WILL
NEVER
FORGET
THE HURT
ON THE FACE
of the man i married. on the day he moved out into a nasty dusty room he rented in a neighborhood he didnt know.
my swedish mother in law hated me after that. she said.
"you made my son cry and i never want to see him feel that way again." she was write.
i knew if i stayed our child would suffer bad. so i made the choice.
hurt my husband.
my son was too young to understand.
my husband cried for 5 years and i went out and had fun and fucked people and spent my dead fathers money and drank and inhibrated my pain and used the disguse of my depression as a justification.
he went off to raise my child proper.
he is a saint.
i helped. but he was the dependable one.
no breakdowns dispite i tore his world apart.
i was the one with the guilt so i had the breakdowns.
and to this day i feel because i broke a promise to god, my heart will always hurt.
i think our children will tell us the truth later seta.
it was ok to love parents, apart.
bless you marc and know the pain does lessen
and in it we learn one.
Gita
xo
Thank you. It's only because i have tried to cry the number of tears he did and I have finaly caught up to his water level and sharing it here is why i feel so safe.
thanks for call me brave. people dont ususally call me
that.
do not curtsy nor bow before the king,
there is no necessity.
A payment of respect requires merely the nod of recognition from across the room,
a wayward wink that carries with it the secrets of all the world,
the voices that whisper in the wake of those who travel past,
the election of supremacy more an invite to the ballroom,
the glory a ghost of seasons gone,
the youth and effervescence a mocking gift to lay at the feet of those who worship you...
Did you fancy that pink bow as she walked by, I thought to myself...
it was garish and crass though the flavor seemed keen in the 2:00 sun,
these shadows ever longer as the autumn descends.
I envision her turning the corner though I have resumed my journey opposite.
Strange how the world allows the wings to carry home so many a persona,
those whispers heard are the bees taking flight to their latest hive.
Must the cave shadow so dark as the moon fades behind the regional lake and dancing district?
Why must the sonic wave of evening sonar turned wrecking ball devour me so?
those sand castles at your knee our microcosm,
crumbling to dust as they are lapped by the tide,
the useless pride involved in construct misconstrued and proven wrong.
Tiptoe the tide in temerity,
the time a tawny streak of tingle and twine,
you rush to meet the wave, bred crumbs in the wake,
your aftereffects my shockwave north.
I noticed my petals are wilted as though the weight of the salt in this breeze were the world upon the tip of a tongue,
the wait for the world to turn the flick of an eyelash on the air.
Why the metaphor must fail for free and direct speech when the art is lost is a killing thing.
The king pads his plush and faded carpet so torn and threadbare with the years of worry for his sins.
His bare feet feel the comfort of the necessary and familiar weave, such patterns that are woven underfoot in a day the way of the wind.
The paraffin drips as the water-core candles are blown out,
the late evening presumed to be enough to say farewell and good night to all.
His footsteps fade into the black echoing a presence far gone beyond the one who shuffles by.
The heads that turn and those comments that follow so sly...
bring the fluttering mariposa a rose,
she is tired and willing and may yet breach a stroke of faith so far stretched,
the flight attained a trembling and hesitant affirmation,
the unanswered question of landing another statistic to gain.
Dare us all to go it together, be it alone,
the holes in the carpet shall only grow deeper,
gathering all that is stone nearer and nearer to the surface.
Watch that patch of cold, his majesty considers it most grievous and begs your forgiveness as his house is not as well kept as it once was, his castle no longer the mastering fortress it used to be.
Strange how he steps onto the sand looking back at the open cottage behind and all that comes to mind is a pink bow, crass and garish in the early afternoon...
the autumn may bring peace come the late monsoons as the waves pound the microcosm into oblivion.
How cruel the flood.
How cleansing.
The taste of salt never so bittersweet.
The cry of seagulls settles a soul so covered in grit and thread bare, the winged creatures padding down the beach in troves. No one notices a flash of pink on the returning tide; a silent wish of good fortune and the setting sun...
The angel has arrived.
http://www.myspace.com/alotalotbetweenus
no... not so as to allow
well, maybe... in a way...
...bred crumbs...
...gathering stone to the surface...
oh, and so many more...
these words are wonderful, seta
beautiful in resignation to be nothing but the king
so much in that...
you wrote them all at the pc?
it is not natural for me and yet it works so well. I write completely differently when I type... and while both styles are decent, I like the typed one better. I don't know why.
This one is a love poem of sorts... or a poem of fantasy, which may or may not be the same thing.
I do so love his fortress within his cottage.
thanks for taking the time to read this stuff guys, I know this thread is getting loooooong but I just can't start a new one. This one has all our history on it. LOL it'd be like moving to a new state.
so it goes.
~Jeff Ament
kind of eliminates the middleman paper and pen can sometimes be
and the penmanship!
i see a difference between these new ones and the paper ones...
don't give up on paper, please... i like those, too
Or have you been watching too many LOTR movies?
I have had a vision of the king and his threadbare carpet for months now and I cannot get it out of my head. This has helped a lot.
I take it that it passes muster? LOL or at least passes the mustard?
good to see you Radar, I find myself missing you these days that I am not at home and/or able to come to the screen.
seta
I've had a vision of the Chiefs screwing up their Super Bowl chances in my head for months that I cannot get out of my head. I would write a poem about it, but it would merely be a collection of invectives. Oh, hell. Why not?
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK
STUPIDGODDAMMUTHERFUCKINGPIECEOFMUTHERFUCK
FUCK FUCK FUCK
OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT
THAT DOES IT
THAT DOES IT
THAT DOES IT
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK
ps
FUCK