Names do not matter;
Beyond our mere existence -
God is still the same.
Love SongDon't choke the love out of meLove Song by Filosofia
prodding incessantly for words and expressions;
I know you hoped my love for you
would move me to speak in gushes of verse,
but if the river were to dry
neither you nor I
could force it to do otherwise;
your frantic pales of spilling water, your harrowing spades
would only deepen the wound in the earth.
Lifeless it will flow
still it will die.
If gravity should command a different course
who are we to argue with the earth?
In vain, they hurl their should's and should-not's
wrapping their minds in shroud upon shroud
their hearts, pulverized -
cast in casts of error
infests the darkness; a fear of pain.
The sight of blood to the eyes is fine -
but the mind
(seeking refuge in the blind)
refuses to see hearts bleed, and die.
Don't choke the love out of me;
the love is gone, and you're choking me.
SpeedSpeedSpeed by Filosofia
is distance over time.
Distance is separation
the crack, the void,
a pain to be savored.
Time is passing
there's not enough to waste
in circular definitions;
time is a line, without a curve.
speed is the wind
blowing through your hair
not the numbers you stare at
as the world passes by.
...Your warm hair's a sonnet,... by Filosofia
Your scent is a song
Your smile is a painting
Of where I belong.
Your voice is my prayer
Your lips are my wine
Your heartbeat, my temple;
Pristine and divine.
Your eyes a deep well
A sweet ode to glee
Your confident gait;
Yet these words are naught
But insult to Time
For you are a poem
In no need of rhyme.
BlindMaybe her voiceBlind by Filosofia
Whispered through your ears
(in your mind)
Feels like her silky wisps of hair
At your fingertips
Maybe her smile
Brighter than the sun
Reflected in her eyes
Melts the world
Into the palm of your hand
Leaving you lost
In a space-less void
Sweet as honey, intoxicating as wine
To you she's all that is pure and divine
But I swear by the star where our fates intertwine,
No heart could ever love you as mine.
Therefore is winged cupid painted blind
Bury me in a graveyardBury me in a graveyard.Bury me in a graveyard by Thiefree
No two the same
Inscribe my name
Bury me in a box.
Grow flowers overhead
Visit me in the sunlight
There I'll make my bed
Bury me in the sunlight
Where squirrels run and leaves fall
Bury me in a graveyard
Don't burn me up and throw me away
But put me to rest and there I'll lay
Pushing up daisies with a smile.
ManuscriptI have written us down, typed us up, and sent us out.Manuscript by nonamepsalmist
they will edit us, and say some parts are no good.
but I want your run-ons, your lack of punctuation; and you are so easy
on my weak binding, my damaged spine.
New beginningTwo wheels on eight feet rumblingNew beginning by x-outsider-x
handhewn rails holding me
crying under straw
looking from the blanket into new dawn
their older eyes wider than mine
an everspeeding trip out of persecution
Rutted roads hold wooden wheels
mud flips and slops my dark hair
It's almost over
we're heading far from home
soon I shall fade into a new existence
and nobody will remember me
I will become a stranger and forget
(but not forget)
When they came in the day
for the boy with the visions
he was long gone
out of the town, out of the country,
out of time
he awoke into darkness after flight
awaiting a return to himself.
Boris the Ever-So-LargeBoris the Ever-So-Large by Paul-Cooper
I met Boris the ever-so-large
On a bridge between two thoughts,
Dangling his feet into the water.
Elephant-footed and walrus-nosed:
Boris the ever-so-large.
You are ever so large, I told him,
And his large chest swelled with pride.
That, he boomed, is why they call me Boris
The ever-so large.
He splashed the water of the stream,
And words scattered like dreams.
All around dried leaves floated groundwards,
And each one was a scribbled page.
What are you looking for? he yawned.
Words, I moped. Sounds. Stories.
Pictures in my head.
Boris stood up to the full extent
Of his ever-so-largeness,
And tendrilled marker-pen flowers
Blossomed; feltplastic violins,
Wherever his feet landed.
There are more words and stories
Here than you could ever conceive,
Boomed Boris, throttling a tree,
Shaking the pages to earth.
But which should I use?
I asked, overflowing armfuls
Of poetry. There are so many!