Yin-Yang: I Am Paradox

I am rash.
I am not.
I’m a Paradox.

I’m smart.
I’m dumb.
I’m wicked.
I’m fun.

I’m pure.
I sin.
I lose.
I win.

I’m cold.
I’m hot.
I’m down.
I’m not.

I hate.
I love.
Both hurt.
Very much.

I’m mean.
I’m kind.
Please don’t
Take mind.

But if
You do,
I’ll for.
Give you.

The benefit,
Not doubt.
This requires much trust.
Pain is a must.

I’m scarred at heart.
I’m afraid at heart.
I’m full at heart
Even when empty.
My heart is perfect.

Paradoxing is the only Doxing that’s really Rocking!

Unless you can
Summon another,
Sister-Brother
Enemy-Friend.

The Eternal Love Affair of Day & Night, A Multiplied Story:

Part 1. It started with an Emerald Green Empress in Disguise

She was The Empress of the Day and she had green eyes. Plain old greenish-gray, but not hazel brown or any shade of blue. The most remarkable thing about those Pits of Maelstrom were the bright Emerald green they turned when welling with Emotion (which was often, so with a little Imagination, they were fiery and spectacular always). The Fluorescing green could be seen by Blind and Sighted equally; everyone but the Empress herself.

Beauty-blind (and sometimes transcendence-blind), she saw only mouse gray, pond scum, vomit green, emoji vomit green – for she was modern, too – cannabis leaf green, browning leaf green, mold green, and the artificial of squalor green in her own eyes.

She was so upset by the Tides of her Eyes, she forgot she held two priceless jewels affixed perfectly on her face, her reflection, and in her presentation.

Next Chapter: The God of Night sees the Kryptonite-like Rocks on TV on an Antiques Road Show episode and immediately recognizes them for the Uncut, Undiscovered, Rare Emeralds that they are. Stay tune for the juicy details as we wander far from our Sweet Spot.

LOVER OF “HE”

(Thanks to @anniespratt for use of the image).

LOVER OF “HE”

He works behind the scenes,
Designing worlds of Magic
For his Precious Girl,
He sees the Princess in the Whirl
Winds her down to calm again.
His shoulder comforts at days’ end
Into nights where long
He longs to love-express
Be seen and loved for his Best Self.
He’s loved all day, it might not show
There’s just One Place he calls his Home.

LOVE OF “SHE”

LOVE OF “SHE”

Though her beauty is
unparalleled,
She doesn’t see herself.
More heart-on-sleeve
Than ice queen,
More You-ist
Than opportunist,
Unlike others but
Cares about others.
She’s extraordinary,
With a kind arm and
A soft word.
She’s superior,
A cut above the others,
She opens up to others.
She has a mango smell
And an intoxicating scent
Which compel
Towards her eyes,
Deep liquid sighs.
She shines too bright,
She’s filled with Light,
She spills it out,
She gifts, it spouts,
Transparency
She gives for free.
She’s beauty-blind,
She’s very kind,
She’s Femininity.

PSA: THE EMERGING STATE OF SINGLE INTIMACY IN 2022 📛


PSA: A MOVING SNAPSHOT OF THE STATE OF SINGLE INTIMACY IN 2022 ♨️♨️♨️

It’s not for the faint of heart,
So before you even begin to
CONTEMPLATE to
start the post,
I’ll
pre-advise you QUIT while still time;
That’s the most
WARNING I’ll provide.

I mean: I know it’s a Sunday,
But this Public Service Announcement
Comes at a high cost to ME,
So if you can’t withhold YOUR judgment
Or your morals to make the space
SO I can release the
Advice alien-ating out of
MY HEART onto MY PAGE,
Please keep your eyes on
Yours and Yours.

Not that any of respectful YOU
Has EVER even tried,
But in 2022,
Virtual and Reality are mixed,
And I’ve got a
Religious Persecution Complex
After a lifetime of abuse.

It all boils down to facts
As simple as this and that
I need be LISTENED TO!! So
“Grow up, You Old Idiot!
You’re as apparently as old as me,
So why can’t you see
That my telling YOU
Is an effort to relieve ME!?
I know ALL these pleas fall on deaf ears”
Pleads ‘Feels-Too-Muted’ Me.

Social Media; Being Simultaneously “Confusing” and “Therapeutic”

For the record, I didn’t even know there
COULD be more than two viewers
To a “Private Story!”
Maybe in your fantastical stories,
Laden with Rote Artificiality,
But not in mine, and at least for now,
NEVER in me!

LIFE SUMMARY: ABRIDGED


LIFE SUMMARY: ABRIDGED

At a very young age (around aged 3), I developed an “insecure attachment style.”

Then the pattern repeated itself.

Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.

Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.

Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.

10,000, 000 hours of therapy and “self-help practices” later,

The pattern is repeating itself.

The only difference is I’m aware The pattern is repeating itself.

It’s a GREAT START, though! It makes me feel more “sane and secure” when I’m aware History is trying to repeat itself.

The patterns color my history, but my awareness of them shows ME how strong I’ve been the entire time.

I’m not shooting for “happily ever after,” but rather “hopefully-awareful-and-content.”

SEEKING REFUGE


SAFE PLACE TO LAND?

You might not count the costs incurred,
But they won’t erase away.
They were much too great for me;
They show in line upon my face
And well within my eyes
When both are lost in pain.

I know that You can’t erase my costs,
But you COULD kiss my pain away.
At least for another day?
I’d be grateful either way.

THE TALE OF POST-CINDERELLA

THE TALE OF POST-CINDERELLA

She tired of being a step,
The toil and aloneness.
She dreamt of being a princess
Before midnight.
Sadly, only frogs arrived,
Their magic never tricking her,
Damning her to shine,
Under cloak of Darkness,
During Its wee hours,
Leaving her a pile of cinder
With the return of every sun.

She thought it was her only Ending,
Making It “The Only One.”
Now she’s been returned to Step,
Only below where she first begun.

It fills her mouth with ash,
Shreds her heart to trash:
This hope to be a part of Sum
Instead of “Only One.”

DAMNED BY EXTRAPOLATION

DAMNED BY EXTRAPOLATION

I recently discovered this technique called thought-stopping or some such, hold up!

Don’t want to lose that thought!

Whatever it’s called, I’ve lately become so PROFICIENT,

I’m able to greater silence my inner critic, or at least, since I live alone, vocalize it. Hey, I can’t dispel what I don’t realize in the first place!

So anyway, I recently encountered an anomaly in the regular processing of my thinking,

Somewhere along Life’s way,

Somewhere between Fairly to VERY Recently, I lost a connecting thought.

I went from number thought 11,000,000 to 11,000,002 and all of a sudden! Poof! Gone.

I don’t know what happened to 11,000,001, but it was life-altering!

All of the sudden, nothing makes sense, so imagine the outcomes! I’m literally overcome by the possibilities!

But I feel like I’ve lost a piece of the puzzle that connects me isn’t connecting the pops.

Everything‘s covered in film or foam or dust or some sort of virtual illusion, clearly-distorted, into who-knows-what by lost thought number 1,000,001.

It was significant. This single thought, and I don’t know how long it lasted, it could’ve been seconds – it could’ve been years,

It consumed so much of me, that without it, I feel lost and alone.

I can’t tell the heroes from the villains, so everyone looks like an enemy as well as my best friend!

I feel all sorts and out of shapes as well as too-pruned-growing-like-a-weed in full-bloom at the same time.

It’s startle’s one’s reality and forces it to choose another to replace it with for things to even make sense again!

It forces it one way, and makes it go every-way, often against one’s own wishes, belief systems, lifestyle choices, pro-nous, you-nouns-We-Now

and looping in circles of infinity,

Leading
To the Eternal Damnation
By Internal Extrapolation,

(Bitter with extra Rumination).

For My Ocean:

The Unveiling of An Odd-Against Elemental Love Story

FOR MY OCEAN

Fire started as a spark,
Went out & started again,
(No one thought she had it within).
Rising like a Phoenix,
Smoldering and burning
(you can’t see it).
She’s since re-grown
From Ash to Spark to
Raging Blaze.
Now she overtakes,
Then, she adds the Fuel
To return The Life in YOU.
It’s her LOT in Life,
This need to be Relentless,
Until only An Ocean
Could quench her.
I called you a Lagoon,
But I’m COUNTING on you,
To come to me;
To quell this need
For you to be My Ocean.

CHANGING MUSES

CHANGING MUSES

Since You were the only intended audience for my poems,
I guess that means You were My Muse.
The thought disturbs me.
Because, without a Muse,
How does one Make Music?
I couldn’t stand the quiet of
Loneliness any longer,
So I had to learn to Make Music without you.
In the process, I’ve learned to A-Muse myself.
I’m even making better music these days, oddly enough,
Enhanced after blowing through a Muse, and
Exchanging Muses.

SONGS ARE POEMS

POETIC SONGS & POEMS THAT SING

Songs and Poems are practically the same.
Except for the music,
Which, frankly, sets Music apart.
But they both tell a story,
And they both require the same degree of literary agility.

However, Poetry is making Poetry, and Song is making Poetry WHILE making Music,
So a song requires far more mental juggling to write than a poem.
But to Poem’s credit, it has to LOOK good
While Song only has to SOUND good.
Not only am I NOT Musically talented,
But keeping up appearances has become too exhausting over the last year.

So I write poems instead of catchy lyrics.
Carrots and peas, peas and carrots,
Please don’t get carrot away by my pun,
At the time it made poetic sense.
But for now I’ll just sum:

Poemwriters and Songwriters
Only want the same thing.
They want Someone who sings
When reading the words they’ve written.
The only tragedy is Missed Opportunity:
With MY word collection and YOUR incredible musical talent,
We could’ve made beautiful music together.

THE AGING PROCESS OF THOUGHT

Purgatory

THE AGING PROCESS OF THOUGHT

Of course, I can only speak for me and mine.
But my Thought Process tends to follow the following process:

Short-term memory begins at thought conception, includes all thoughts thought, and lasts for approximately 48 hours.

Should thoughts surface again
(Where have they been?
Don’t ask me, I don’t know!
Purgatory or another story?
)
To survive as long-term memories on Day 12,
They are completely viable AND guaranteed-returnable memories.
This “mystery” crucible period is brief, yet sadly only 2% of all thoughts survive to emerge as Long-Term-Memories.
Since they only represent 2% of
Everything l’ve ever thought in my entire life,
I’m grateful I have such a good long-term memory!
It holds all my golds.
It’s there for keeps,
It’s there for life,
It’s my closest and dearest friend,
A friend who’s loyal til the end.
Or unless Dementia or Paranoia steal all my friends.

POEMS ARE EASY

Painting of You

LIKE TAKING CANDY FROM A BABY

Writing poems is easy.
You start with an IQ,
You think a thought or two,
Then, once struck by Luck,
(The waiting is the worst part)
You capture one before it actually exits.
Now I know that part sounds easy,
But it’s just the starting point;
And think how often you change your mind!

So you take these few mundane thoughts,
And your brain must be damaged
“Just Precisely So”
You only CAN think mundane thoughts,
But you CAN phrase them in an
I’ll be damned! fairly clever way!

Meanwhile, you must skillfully and simultaneously juggle
At least FOUR of the following literary devices:
Metaphor (he’s the lead character in Poetry)
Simile (vice-president)
Idioms
Wordplay (a personal favorite)
Sarcasm (a LIFE favorite)
Irony (my life’s Reality)
Parody (often confused with Reality)
Alliteration
Intentional Factual Inaccuracy
Selective Capitalization
•Cliche (Avoid! Same shit, same way!)
•Allegory
•Dystopian Future
, and
Sentimental Memory (must be clouded by distorted past events).

But we’re just warming up!

Once you’ve translated your original two thoughts
Into a poem, using the skills listed above,
You must dip the poem in a
Rich coating of Hyperbole,
Fourteen times,
Backwards AND Forwards,
As well as “sprinkled lightly with”
And “threaded throughout.”

If any of this makes sense to you,
And equally-skilled are you,
Or even NOT,
(One can make virtually ANYTHING sound poetic),
Then you, too, can write poems and
A Poet Laureate are You!

MEN: A Song For Some


SOME ROMANTIC PARTNERS & A FEW “FRIENDS”

Some want to come over and “visit.”
Some I just want to stay home.
Some are clearly “My Type,”
Though I possess no type of my own.
Some can’t bear any weight,
But can rabble to throw a gravel of stones.

Some are always and easily-bored,
Yet Some are boring themselves.
There ARE indeed A Few of Some
Who are too-often tested
AND too-harshly scored;
But Some get fried because they’re stupid.
Some couldn’t pass a test if they tried,
And with Some, you can prove it!

Some think they’re ‘The Best in the Bunch,’
When they’re only ‘One of The Rest’.
Some are content to find
“Anyone Better than Any,”
But Most are searching for
“The Best Of The Rest”.
I think Some think too highly of themselves,
Especially since the sum of Some
Is less than the sum of Many.

Some enjoy to prowl and hunt,
Hoping to discover an indecent lover
Lurking under their OWN bedcovers.
Some steal your starry sighs,
Some “only” your moon.

Some steal hard-earned property
To proclaim it as their own.
Some will steal YOUR song
And sing it in THEIR tune.
Some treat Others properly,
But for Most of Some,
Kindness is an anomaly,
Not a regular quality,
So Most of Some are best disowned.

In short:
Some contribute Nothing,
But Most contribute Something,
And Gender doesn’t affect Contribution.

I know Most don’t concern themselves
With such silly matters,
But in Matters Concerning Me,
And in Matters Which Matter Most,
Most of these truisms
I’ve already proven,
So the truth of the matter
Leads to this conclusion:

If not for All, at least for Some,
Men are often a disappointment,
A fly in Life’s ointment,
But, in the end, and even when alone,
SOME are STILL better than NONE.

FOOLISH SKIES & FOOLISH NIGHTS


CONFESSIONS OF A STUPID FOOL

None of it matters,
None of it happened,
No one was hurt.
None of it did and none of it has;
The only “has” in this situation is “has-BEEN,”
Never was, isn’t now, and won’t be
Cut out for long-term memory.

No matter how you slice it,
In this minor situation,
I was major-league stupid;
I was a clueless fool,
And a clueless fool was I,
Practically all the time,
But at a minimum, start-to-end.

In Fact, I’d hazard-to-write-say
I played the fool in every game;
Whether Yahtzee, Poker, or Parchisi,
Over the last year or so,
Being foolish has never been so easy!

Under cloak and cover of darkness,
And everywhere under the sun;
From before soon-to-rise
Until setting and squinty-eyed,
Once stars are night-hoisted
Then I, too, can be foisted

Into a dark dunce’s corner,
To “get myself in order.”
I simply grew from an obscure fool
Into a legendary Fool,
The Unflattering Primary Figure
I stupidly assumed
You’d squeeze and stuff into
Your (quite frankly) boring story,
Which, since you never bothered to share it,
Frankly ever-quite bores me.

Once again and
I’ll say it again:
Your character simply isn’t convincing;
Not that you’ve TRIED to convince me,
Either simply or complexly.
It’s why I did all the time-gifting, me-giving, up-lifting, and emotional heavy-hitting.
Now I’m merely ashes-sifting.

But in order to buy it,
You’ll be forced to sell it
To increasingly-fragile
And decreasingly-agile
Mentally-Foolish states of mind
(How do I know?
It’s the same state as mine).

As for any fireworks shared,
They’ve grown so old and cold,
The only stars Memory barely serves
Were laid and laced into a Constellation I couldn’t find
Again or couldn’t find to begin.

I was also the sloppy-stupid subject
Painted as both Fool and Major Fool,
In multi-colored shades and hues of Fool,
ALL chosen by YOU.
I happen to know YOUR favorite hue
When painting me from Memory
Is “ghoulishly and foolishly,”

I also know your favorite shade of Degrade
For the egg on MY FACE
Is Neon-Marked by a Neon-Sign
Incessantly Blinking,
Endlessly repeating
“STUPID YOU,
STUPID FOOL”
HOW UTTERLY STUPID
IS FOOLISH YOU?”

But at least I BOTHER TO ATTEMPT
To win, show, or place
For the races which I never run,
Can’t ace, but show up for all the same (ok, not always).

Regardless, the situation is dire
And the hour is dour;
It’s time to do ‘Everything Required’
To free me from the extra Stupid I’ve acquired.

I’ve allowed myself to be foolishly situated,
And my mind forcibly evacuated
In order to grant to YOU
The Requisite Time & Space,
Since Somewhere between
Alone and Beside Someone Else
Is your all-time favorite
Hiding Place.

It’s the same stupid scenario
Every foolish place I go,
So I remain at home,
Retaining my shape
And staying the same:
Old Clueless, Fruitless, Useless, and
Foolishly Stupid

This Foolishness I’ve found myself in?
I think it’s time for it to finally end
So, as such,
I’ll sum it up:
I stooped too low,
I got too thin,
This happens when
I cut too close;
I always end up letting Stupid in.

It May Tell You Where You Are But Never Helps You Escape


TEMPTATION = an Immoral Compass

It leads the way and shows the how you often want to go sometimes (frequently NOW).

It seduces, arouses, amps the sound in, and baits clear through.

And should The Source be right?

It can make you high like birds wafting through star-soaked, bouncy, so-rare and so-fine, airy and shiny, glittered days and glamorous nights.

But should you find while still alive, The Source is wrong?

It will pursue and haunt you, eat your meat and sinew. It will flaunt and taunt you, crush and trash all that’s in you, until your Only Soul is gone,

All the while Selling You and Telling You “This PARTICULAR HELL is Where YOU Belong; your official condemnation, bought and paid for, Your soul not made for anything but torture.”

Then, “My, But How Unfortunate!” are Stupid-Dummy, Idiotic Wrong-Source Tempted You!

Cauldron Concoctions: Bewitched

UNCAST IT & TAKE IT BACK

Call off the hounds!
Call off the murder weapons!
Call of the cadaver dogs!
Call off the ghosts and ghouls!
Call off the spell-casters!
Call off the werewolves and vampires!
Call off the Conspiracies!
Call off the Theories!
Call off the Mind Control!
Call off the Astral Projection!
Call off the Ritual Sacrifices!
Call of the Evil Practices!
Call off the Illuminati!
Call off the demons!
Call off Lucifer Himself, Lucifer!
Call off this vexing and perplexing hexing!
Can’t you see I’m crying
Uncle! Tío! !Dios Mío!
You’re “Achtung,” Baby,
And I’m a Running Scared Lady.
So, ‘Please’ and “I must insist”
That you desist, so we can
Call off The Whole Thing!
And write it off at My Expense.

SCARS IN THE SKY: Beauty Incarnate

Photo location: Home

For record-keeps, my scars
Were formed in response to
Surgical knives with scathing scalpels
Hiding under surgical sleeves
Rather than a purgical need to
Purge Contained Pain
In order to pain-relieve.
(I’m not blaming or shaming;
I’ve known Pain and understand
You simply want Pain to leave).

But Scars all look the same to me,
Therefore, their source isn’t
Significantly significant to me.
So I can be fully free
To neglectfully and insignificantly,
Ignore scar-sources and
Scarce resources because
The WHY of our afflictions
Though it Greatly costed me,
Now matters snot to me.

Clouded by the stars in my eyes,
I STILL consider Scars
Beauty’s heaviest of hitters,
And why I personally believe
Scars rock, roll and rule, too.
In fact and in fiction, I’m SO moved
Each and and every Time I Take
And use to contemplate the issue,
I have to break out a box of Scar Tissue.