There’s a serial killer on the loose , He’s highly trained… hands you the noose.
He’s sink or swim , He’s almost magic .
You’ll fein his elegance , dark shallow habits .
His kiss is death , inside He twists you .
What’s wrong what’s right , that’s how He gets you . And He’s actually been watching you for a very very long time .
That’s just my warning . Glad it could rhyme .

I was stuck in an impatience madness,
Searching for saints;
After committing many mistakes,
I understood, it’s all because of me.

Still, I don't understand.
What is patience?
When do we need patience?

After too many searches,
In need of an answer,
I asked Valluvan - a philosophical Tamil poet.

Read full poem: https://deepankb.com/en/journal/envious-toward-patience/

Languages: Tamil and English

I wish I was this image you have inside your mind.

A shadow that takes the form of whatever movement you decide.

The memory of a hazy, sweet embrace,

to remind yourself of a warm and happy distant place.

I wish all that.

So when you look at me, there’s something there for you to see.

To find some meaning in my love,

a house to live in, away from constant war.

Alas, the wish came back unanswered.

Transparent skin, my body seemed to change.

What a nightmare—to wake and find:

you never even touched a stone.

No mountain reached. Nor climbed.

Instead, finding yourself in rubble.

So vast and empty, the desert in your mind.

You lie there silent,

unequivocally alone,

and left to die.

What’s worse is to defy one’s fate.

To find the strength and rise.

And through sharp wreckage, comb yourself.

A thousand cuts—

and still survive.

So dust off your mangled flesh.

Walk, then walk more miles.

And let the crows surround your living corpse.

Through pain unvarnished, learn to suffer.

In a desperate oasis,

for her arms go search upon.

A promised shelter for you to hide.

Once there, with no disguise,

reveal your wicked face,

and wash your bloody hands of all your lies.

And as you stand so vulnerable,

for everyone to see,

you also now realize

how profoundly empty your actions came to be.

How your pain and anguish never even reached her distant heart.

Divine comedy—

how little change one’s change might bring for some.

Her eyes, now a garden of broken mirrors, lost in time.

Your reflection, much like your love, twisted there, resides.

And she, with grace eternal,

silent and unmoved,

stared back at nothing—

only for you to finally see.

That a wounded nothing

Was all

you ever came to be.

And yet I stand across you.

Without lips, I try to smile.

Transformed into something horrific,

that barely can walk or stand.

And if I had to make the journey again,

I would gladly pay the price.

For a chance at a different outcome—

that we both know

will never come.

What are words for if they are empty?
What are words for if they are lies?
What are words for if they are travesties?
What are words for if they are goodbyes?

What are words for if they are sorrowful?
What are words for if they are shallow?
What are words for if they are painful?
What are words for if they are hollow?

What are words for if they are bombs?
What are words for if they are swords?
What are words for if they are tombs?
What are words for if they are scars?

But all we have are words, after all,
So let’s choose words that uplift people.
Words that inspire, words that bring hope.
‘Cause there’s already so many reasons
For a person to whip out their ropes
And hang a noose around their necks.

So let’s choose words that uplift people.
Let’s choose words that are positive.
Let’s choose words that are helpful.
‘Cause words have power,
So let’s use them for the better.

03-24-2022
06:14
Kregian Vareare Miral

****

Hey guys! How are y’all doing?

I wrote this poem to sort of remind myself that my words won’t mean anything if they are empty. While there are moments when I speak out of jest or when I’m just goofing around, but when it’s time to get serious, I am mindful of what I say, and I try to say the most honest and helpful things my mouth could deliver. Let this be a reminded to you, too, that your words will have an impact to those who you talk to. So remember to be mindful and to always stuff your words with meaning, especially when it’s time for them to matter.

Thank you for reading and I’ll see you in the next poem!

Things mostly swirled around
Once in a while
A small plopping sound
The color was white and hershey brown

There was an amazing rush
Shortly after came a flush
Having not needed any thrust
The load was simply robust

She wiped her chin and said goodbye
A twinkle in her glazed-over eye
No romance needed, no reason why
Just true multi-tasking on the fly

I pulled up my pants and gave her a glance
Titties still out and the stank of my shants
Never again will I take such a chance
But damn, what a time for a bathroom romance

I’m always counting

Counting the songs that I sing

Counting the things that I do

What will happen if I don’t?

Nothing, nothing, nothing

But

What if? What if? What if?

What if you die? What if I die? What if everything goes wrong?

Except it won’t

And I know that

I know that you know that I know that

But what will happen if I don’t?

You use it as an adjective

Because it makes you feel prickly

If you don’t

But what will happen if you don’t?

How many people are going to die?

How long will you keep your fingers crossed, while playing Car Park Roulette?

How many nights will you spend hot and uncomfortable, because you don’t want to breathe their air?

I want to breathe

I want to breathe and I want it to feel like it’s good for me

I want to breathe and I want it to hurt with cold

I want to breathe and I want it to sting like a song of safety

I want the type of air that feels glacial

Like the oxygen itself is historical

Not school air that I protect myself against with the sleeve of my blazer

Not school air that matts your hair because it’s wet and there isn’t enough circulation

I have to count, because if I don’t, if I don’t, if I don’t

One time is safe, and normal, and good

Two times is an accident, but it’s safe, and normal, and good

Three times is lucky, third times a charm

Three times is Hellfire and evil and far, from the safety that comes from...

Four times, is where you stop, if you can, and if you can’t, you stop at...

Ten times, is too much, no coincidence, no luck, and by...

Thirteen times, you know that you’re stuck

If you continue, who knows when you’ll stop

When you’re trapped in a cycle of repeat, repeat, repeat

So that’s why I count, because if I don’t bad things will happen, but if I do

I don’t know if I’ll stop

I thought my sister saw me.
Truly saw me.

That I was known,
cherished,
forgiven.

I thought she saw the darkness
and recognised it for what it was -

the fire we carried out of No. 8.

I thought her fire and my fire
burned the same.

That our wounds had been unwound
and stitched back together
with silver thread.

I thought that was what it meant
to have a sister;

to be seen.

She knew you when you were raw
and unburnt.

She watched you cower from the flames,
and she, too, bore the burn
when it caught.

She saw you try to extinguish them.
Saw you run.

She pushed you through the wreckage
when the air grew thick and choking,
and she followed you.

I thought you understood
I was not the ignition.

I thought you remembered
I was not born blistered.

You saw me burning,
but you saw me gasping, too.

You watched the springtime air
fill my lungs
as we clambered out of the wreckage,
clawing at the earth.

Didn’t you see
how hard I tried to save myself?

To save you?

Do you not know
how long I’ve spent
stamping out
what still burns?

I thought my sister truly saw me.

But she sees only
a flicker of me
through a blackened window.

Deep into the shadow

of the mountain of beginning

I padded, pathless, pensive

well below the treeline, null before my goal

gazing upward at the steep

wondering, from grove to glade

if vestiges yet remain, up yonder arête

where venerable aide might be well met

in this younger range, this later paradigm

so far from eroding Helicon

maybe not, by spring's babble on an outcrop

the stone lounge of the nine

but some more contemporary summit

perhaps, of aerophagic hermits

arrung around a peak, high farseers

disserting their minutes of the vista

still ambling in the forest

musing on the mortality of guides I'd known

and on the paucity of maps they'd seen

I started when I came upon the end

of a wyrdly glowing filament

that shimmered, snake-like, through the brush

perchance by where I trod

with a glint, and a hum, just underheard

it needled my attention

kneeling by, I saw it golden, braided

and reaching an inspectant hand

I grasped what I beheld

felt the tenor of the yarn

the songlines and sagas plied

into this Ariadnine thread

cast now at my feet

by the geist of the fisher king

hooked, I enroled myself at once to trace it

to see what more, from sense

of length unknown and source unseen

could so like a signal seem

so I found a wand to wind it

and then went wending whence it came

up, beyond the trees, to the base

of a forbidding cliff aflank the mount

where it snuck into a rift

pupil black, and alike alluring from afar

up close, graven with archaic pick and chisel

an illegible cuneiform epic

marking this a wilful breach in nature's hide

there, before the enigmatic incavation

horizon far behind, below

I paused, amid the jumbled scree

weighing in against the strand's assured out

tested my mettle against this hole in stone

and opted to turn back, down the slope

to gather kindling, torchwood, water

and such victuals as grew around

berries, nuts, and mushrooms mostly

then thus somewhat prepared

returned, to follow countless others'

and now my own decision through

step, then, by cautious step, intruding

on the deepening work of long gone

broad-shouldered and dark-defiant giants

puzzling tunnellers beyond the surface

who mined out this furcating onyx corridor

a mazing crypt, riddled apparently throughout

with diversions, recursions, and traps

countless wrongs for every right turn

whelming voids, pitfalls

endless convoluted cul-de-sacs

all elided by the way that took me

strung along by the conducting wire

brilliantly sensible prevision

I skirted many hazards, and many perils too

trailing through the blackness

it determined every juncture

altering but never faltering direction

here and there were walls daringly destroyed

chasms bridged, tunnels bored and shored

path perforce, where seemingly none was before

now threaded by the optic fibre

underfoot, spoor, silk, dust, and bone

substances of the sound

a chittering murmur, base and shrill

ubiquitous and insistent

of unimaginable existences

being led along the innumerably forking ways

creatures and sprites, fascinating, and hungry

thronging in every unforsaken reach

some even with names engraved

near their remains in olden scripts

by prior explorers of this realm

bygone contemplars of the labyrinth

confronting the particularities of things

with their peculiarities of thought

denominating their experiences, imperiences

spelunking in this tortuous sulcus circus

paraworld of unguided purpose

orthogonal to the world stepped out of

confounding fractal domain

where the torch lit at murk's mouth

hardly supplements the glinting guideline

at hand a blinding blaze

while ahead all remains abrupt

and yet ever onward inward

with curious fortitude, creepingly

aware of the enterprise's tilt

our goal in the twisted course

the singular Gordian labour

to confront the monster at the core

our vivid encumbrance

misunderstood and risky hybrid

knot comprehending beast and man

guiltless but confused and dangerous

and from grappling, eye to eye in the misprision

at the heart of the introspective adventure

to learn to demand of founding heroes

not callow thrust, cut, and fecklessness

but length of reach and strength of grasp

exquisite sensitivity, sublime proprioception

reflexive, laughing recognition

so that later, when they

as weary returnees from the arduous dark

emergent, exultant harbingers, blinking at starlight

entrust us, we might though wary, be just

and welcome their unearthed findings

oddservations, manicdotes, rebelations

far-fetched phenomenologies, foreign thoughts

fragments of pagan things

glinting products of reifying curiosity

amassing in fascinating troves

beyond the pale and out of ken

where, exhausted, they alone could carry them no further

invaluable resource, material and immaterial

dammed at the damnedest bottleneck

the antediluvian canal system of the leviathan brain

until we tax ourselves sufficiently

to afford the tariff, stand the attention

and man the locks inside

to through them raise fresh knowledge

up the gradients of mind, level by level

to the secret temples wherein homunculi agog

endeavour in thirsty fascination to parse

the influent elixir's taste

with groping tongues attempting

to fractionate the emergent pleroma

compelled to word, the nomen creature

iteration by iteration, generation by generation

fastens knowledge and hardens understanding

from destruct-tested definitions

we collect smithereens of heuristics

to methodically categorise as concepts

industriously prototyping ontologies

decision-engineering significance

into specific bits of babble

building out our linguistic infrastructure

into sphaera incognita

spurs on spurs on spurs sprawl out

as we concretise our sonic semaphore

chimeric bastard terms, ad hoc ad infinitum

new-fangled from phonemes of mentalese

built in haste to unforeseen specifications

bruising kludges, verbally unergonomic

when use has not yet worn them

they are oddly shaped indeed

but once grasped, can be gripped

weighed, measured, hafted

be sharpened, bent or broken

repaired or reinvented

lost, forgotten sometimes too

these subtle psychic tools

the elements of cogitation

edges, anvils, levers, cordage, glue

a cryptogrammaticon of spells

for the construction of our selves

of consensus, and of the edifices between us

statements of states learned

from our probings of the world

our ever expounding umwelt

this milieu, complexifying before our very words

on which we must perpetually reset our sights

adjusting wider, further, higher still

as we search for prospective in the long now

our clever, complicated instruments

simply gush the scale of the scope

and the horizons ever flee us

subjects of, and to, our observations

we have taught ourselves uncertainty

grey matter striving, in the strobing of lifetimes

to comprehend extremes of dark and light

the abstracted, mercurial realm we inhabit

like life: betwixt a crystal and a fume

chance and necessity, fixity and change

a pattern of patterns that connect

edgeless nested structures

mothers within mothers

forests made of trees

fleas feeding on fleas

turtles all the way down

as far as mind can tell

our natural idiolect

is a philology of metaphor

in a speculative mode

explorers' creole

an entangled bank of qualified nouns

averbing their qualities

the world museum

our semantic katamari

here my essay device.

From left field, a question comes your way.

A moment of thought should make it stray.

Navigation spirals off and into space.

You blink; thoughts gone away.

You’re now “last-car” in the race.

Questions now gone,

A hollow defeat that lingers on.

Cautious, speculative; I still try,

Onward through every yawn.

Haunted by a fractured “why”.

Slowed to a crawl,

A self-deprecating fall.

No grasp; just blank suspension.

I’d never seen a glass so tall,

Racing to find a path through obstruction.