of deeds of mine, truthfully in fact.

I'm all of the things you say you want

but not enough to mend the hurt.

I know what it's like to be where you are

because I've been there before.

The bottom of the pit; cold and dark,

entices the soul to linger more.

The murky depths obscure vision

calling it freedom, it robs decision,

dangling the promise of a future overhead

it whispers again, relaying one's dread.

I know this because I've been there before,

the darkest pit entices to linger more.

I would say the most beautiful lines,

but you only ever listen for the signs.

I'd pull you close and hold you tight,

but you'd pull away, saying you'd bite.

I'm all of the things you say you want,

what if I said I could take a little hurt?

The world is a simulation,

a microcosmic reiteration

of cells sprawled across the cosmos.

The species is an infestation,

Its homeworld, a moribund cell.

Obsidian plasma seeps through the wormhole

Into the host of hosts.

Shot in the head, the universe is dead.

The world is a simulation,

a figment of one's imagination.

Civilizations can achieve no comprehension

of the scale and magnitude of its elaborate rendition.

Their species is merely a proliferation

sustained by a fleeting, transient ideation.

The entity's blink severs this link.

and

Poem text

Time spent with you is never lost,

The worth of a fortune obtained without cost

It's strange how cold it feels on a summer afternoon

when the silence of our bedroom relays your absence.

Why have you gone without even a note?

Your face, it fades now more than ever

I'd trace the constellations that tint your pores

if you weren't but a fragment that now inhabits my mind.

I dwell in those moments of evanescence,

Your face would hover mine, we'd exchange breath and more

I'd hold your porcelain visage in a cup of my hands,

and we'd lay, spooned, tethered to each other.

A sundered heart remains in the wake of your departure

Its remnants, attuned to a broken record-mind

every sudden reprise broadens the rift,

Leaving me tending to and rending wounds.

The days go by and the years pile up.

I still visit those moments in reminiscence,

Yet the time we spent together keeps slipping from my grasp.

Your face… it's gone now, l'm left with just a name In my clasp.

Prompt (kfc:>)

You make me linger in bed

Longer than i should

Strange how your warmth travels through

Sneaky as a snake

The affection quietly grew

Now tell me love,

Would it ruin you

If I stayed in your arms a little longer too?

—

Response

Time spent with you never feels lost

The worth of a fortune,

Obtained without cost.

Strange how cold it feels when the silence

Of your absence

Echoes at noon.

Hear me now, love, I'd choose ruin

Over losing you.

Prompt (ALEXandra Chase)

something to grasp onto

absence has no virtue

I turn the lock on every door

why can’t you visit anymore?

—

Response

Why can't you visit anymore?

Your face, it fades, more now than before

I'd trace the constellations

that tint your pores

If you weren't, but, a fleeting memory

that only resides in my core.

the morning sky's hue: its dazzling cerulean

paled in comparison to the dead of night.

To him, daytime was kryptonite.

Being perceived shriveled him to speck,

the gaze of strangers weighed hard on his neck.

His convictions were as firm as loose sand

He'd quietly sink in quagmire than flail his hands

He never raged, he never made a fuss

What right did he have to air his cause?

His whole existence was inconsequential—

He'd wager his worth on acquired credentials

He understood why it had to be him

always sought ways to be redeemed

he could lawyer for the even vilest—caught.

He's the very embodiment of ‘honest to a fault’.

People flocked to him like moth to a flame

he could tell their needs even before it's named

He'd settle theirs, neglecting his,

and rather cease to exist than stop to please.

He concealed his pain behind a mask,

numbed it down to a background noise

He dared not complete his given task

He'd become so blind to an obvious choice.

At every stop and turn he'd question his worth,

He'd regain his bearing in search of his true north.

He'd found it in time, just enough to be late,

Now he looks to his past with regret and hate.

Certainty in uncertainty.

The more I know, the less I think I know,

How do I maintain my sanity?

—

Life is a testament to unbridled curiosity

“I think, therefore I am”— but do I though?

I'm certain of my uncertainty.

—

Unity in diversity, but where's our humanity?

Toiling and foiling, saying “You reap what you sow”—

This is how we maintain sanity.

—

Questioning existence in the face of adversity,

hanging by a thread of hope, with the luggage of pain in tow.

Our certainty lies in uncertainty.

—

Science and religion proclaim veracity

when nothing can be proven to be absolutely so.

How does one maintain sanity?

—

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

Life is a multidimensional shit show,

and with all certainty, there's never certainty—

This is how I maintain my sanity.

Original

Certainty in uncertainty.

The more I know, the less I think I know,

How does one maintain sanity?

—

Life is a testament to unbridled curiosity

“I think, therefore I am”— but do I though?

Certainty in uncertainty.

—

Unity in diversity, but where's our humanity?

Toiling and foiling, saying “You reap what you sow”—

How does one maintain sanity?

—

Questioning existence in the face of adversity,

hanging by a thread of hope, with a load of pain in tow.

Certainty in uncertainty.

—

Science and religion proclaim veracity

when nothing can be proven to be absolutely so.

How does one maintain sanity?

—

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

Life is a multidimensional shit show,

Certainty in uncertainty.

How does one maintain sanity?

and two to manage impressions.

I revel in quiet spaces where i can be myself

not having to curate expressions.

I own multiple faces, three for occasions,

and four to stave my depression.

I retreat to secluded places, where i recharge again

and revel in my recession.

I own multiple faces, five for impersonal relations

and six to delay dissociation.

I confine myself to empty spaces, where I'm free from explaining

and allowed to dwell in imagination

I own multiple faces, seven to make decisions

on which face suits the occasion.

I look in the mirror and see faces, non of which i resemble

and am brought to apprehension…

These faces own me.

across the sky with intermittent departures,

an ear splitting crack follows

heralding the heaven's bellows.

A stormy gale lays siege to the city,

precedent to an impending battery.

The people have seen the signs,

they scamper in disarray like barbarians to a foray.

Yet the lesser ones maintain an orderly line

ungiven to dismay, resisting the fray.

Do they not see! what inspires such composure?

Perhaps a limited perception informs their inexposure?

If ants could see and perceive as people do,

would they be more alive than the life they're due?

I stand at the top of a hill

and witness the crowd below me still,

no less than ants they seem from here

as they swarm the capital, ungiven to care.

Perhaps it's such perspective

that distorts the monarch's gaze;

The cloudy mists of lofty heights

maintaining a perpetual haze.

Ants empowered, nay, corrupted by wealth and title

proclaiming dominion over the peers they belittle

Those esteemed to high altitudes

must take to maintain a grounded attitude,

lest they fall victim to the distortive vertigo

of staggering heights and massive egos.

Words being swords that tore chitin,

left calluses in places scarred,

making impervious a carapace

of the once tender, and now marred.

**

He learnt to always look beneath the surface

Testing waters, to decipher ridicule from praise.

She was born with a relic for heart;

no less value than an esteemed work of art,

but never appreciated, never held right.

Dropped and mended at every instance,

till was thus hidden from plain sight.

**

She learnt the cryptic language of avoidance—

a rarer artifact is better appraised, perchance.

Subscribe

Where words betray the description of landscape.

On a solitary excursion, by mental escape

to where rainbows drape along the coastal cape.

Time bends to subconscious will,

as reality claims novelty in the surreal;

The ever elusive horizon stands still,

even as proximity enlarges the tiniest hill.

Lost in the view of plains untilled,

Imagination pervades revealing what's concealed

as thoughts run amok taking an ungodly shape,

dream becomes nightmare and a smoldering hellscape

He awakens in realization to a haze of suffocating smoke

Fuck! He yelled, now all he has for dinner is coke.

Scheming Rhymes

Contrapuntal: Secrecy in Sacred Places.

Contrapuntal poetry seems complicated, and it actually is. Merging lines and meanings can be quite tricky! However, I’ve read several of them either composed of poems which barely hold up on their own or too short enough to be manageable, and in response to this…

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25 days ago · 35 likes · 18 comments · Brooklyn Crane

I

The Fall.

***

Vibrant verdant turns beige and brown,

with branching ligaments from sole to crown.

Untethered, adrift, carried by a gale's behest;

swaying to the motions of nature's request.

***

Suspended in descent as gravity takes the reins

In a decelerated decline, evading the drizzle of rain

with grace and dexterity against the odds—

A momentary triumph—abrupted by sodden mud.

***

In due season leaves become debris,

betrayed by the wind, and an inflated hubris:

mistaking buoyancy for flight, drifting for direction,

the fallen leaf acknowledges nature's discretion.

II

In pursuit of free will.

***

Fractures pulsate beneath my skin—

Proof of life, convinced of a will within—

I lust, I seek, I want, I desire

liberation in erudition; by the lore I acquire.

***

I assume control of my own inclinations,

blinded by knowledge, absorbed in an illusion

“Certainly with effort I can achieve all”

I utter in ignorance of an impending fall.

***

Life strikes hard as I hit rock bottom,

dispelling the notion with nothing left to fathom;

In the depths of despair, I am disenthralled.

Why do I aspire when I'd eventually fall?

Contrapuntal

The fall in pursuit of free will.

**

Vibrant verdant turns beige and brown

Fractures pulsate beneath my skin

With branching ligaments from sole to crown

Proof of life, convinced of a will within.

Untethered, adrift, carried by a gale's behest

I lust, I seek, I want, I desire

Swaying to the motions of nature's request

Liberation in erudition; by the lore I acquire

***

Suspended in descent as gravity takes the reins

I assume control of my own inclinations

In a decelerated decline, evading the drizzle of rain

Blinded by knowledge, absorbed in an illusion

With grace and dexterity against the odds

“Certainly with effort I can achieve all”

A momentary triumph—abrupted by sodden mud

I uttered in ignorance of an impending fall.

***

In due season leaves become debris

Life struck hard as I hit rock bottom

Betrayed by the wind, and an inflated hubris

Dispelling the notion, with nothing left to fathom

Mistaking buoyancy for flight, drifting for direction

Within the depths of despair I am disenthralled.

The fallen leaf acknowledges nature's discretion

Why do I aspire when I'd eventually fall?

as the sun retires for a good night's rest.

She lay on an empty bed, nursing an ache within

With hands clutched tight against her chest

The night sky hung a full moon

And its faint glow outshone the stars,

with a peculiar radiance that mirrored her scars,

on a night, when loneliness is in full bloom

She finds herself in the throes

of avoidance and affection; her ambivalent woes,

as her vessel-heart rings hollow, echoing sorrow,

overflowing with the yearnings that follow.

Hands clutched tighter and tighter

threatening to break skin.

The moon seemed to glow brighter

as she bled from within.

Seeking release from a cage of its own design

her heart spills desire, through fractured outlines,

longing for one whom she's never known

and yet her heart calls its own.

***

The life he lived was of little worth to him

what he sought exists only in dreams.

The world he knew had spat him out—

leaving a vacuum in his heart,

a murky depth carved by lonesome nights

devouring the warmth and wholesome light

that once defined his whole existence,

leaving him with nothing but a fading presence—

Like a broken pearl cast to the bottom of the sea,

where even daylight had forgotten his name.

His hollowed heart sought to consume, untamed—

an endless void rivaling infinity

He's tasted the bitter fruit of solitude,

and has trodden the very depths of its magnitude,

“for crowded spaces breed the deepest forlorn”

And so he resigned himself to an eternal sojourn.

In a world within a world, a dream within a dream

Where daylight is more than just sunbeams,

but also a resounding clarion call.

He awakens each day, only to await nightfall.

—

The moon tonight was oddly peculiar to her;

Its luminous lustre glinting off the streams

that rolled down her face. It cried forth a shooting star.

And with a wish upon her lips, she beamed.

—

The sky tonight was oddly familiar to him,

It rained stars; the world above producing outcasts.

He could have sworn a star winked at him as it streaked past.

In a drift, asleep—into the world within.

he journeys with his most acclaimed prize

traversing a world of length and breadth,

he conjures a third by the illusion of depth.

Seeing what's missed, he appreciates what's dismissed,

and elevates the appeal of a mundane scene,

with a single stroke and a touch of vibrant green.

He strives to recreate passing moments—

freezing time within the cell of a frame,

he preserves the beauty of a dame.

Mind not the strokes that stray,

the piece of art does not betray.

More often than not, they portray

a deep insight, or a fleeting thought,

which the artist sought to convey.

The fissure between imagination

and perception in artistic expression

inspires the painter's woes.

***

Saddled with an unbridled mind

He races against time and events in rewind,

transcribing sentiments into living testaments—

into tangible encapsulations of impalpable sensations.

He navigates the jungle of diction and vocabulary

chasing down memories that fail to tarry.

He strives to exonerate his burdened soul

by narrowing the rift

between affection and narration,

lost in translation—lost to the sift.

Mind not the odd ode

The chosen words do not corrode

More often than not, they encode

in passage, a message that mirrors

the artist's chaotic mental abode.

The limits of language

in artistic expression

inspire the poet's woes.

always listened to the wisest beard.

The tales they told, he always heard,

and never once dared, to leave the herd.

The things he felt, had always seared,

there once was a time he would have shared,

but his curiosity, was always misread,

So he grew scared that no one cared.

His sole companion amongst the herd

his most beloved, whom he revered,

lost her way from this witless herd

and not a shred of tear was shed.

Surrounded yet alone,

his wistful heart

sought escape from the dread,

beckoning him depart.

***

There's a story well told amongst the herd

A cautionary tale, to keep meek, and scared

It speaks of a sheep, ill raised, ill-bred

who never listened, and was thus poorly reared

He came and went, however he cared

Stubborn as a mule; he always dared

Ignoring warnings of predators—he never feared

till at last he departed and wasn't spared.

“It should have been me, not her instead”

Not a day passed that the thought didn't cross his head,

The lonesome sheep who feared his beloved dead

Always thought “there's more to the story than what's said”

Her sudden departure left him feeling betrayed

What went through her mind, when she strayed?

could she have fallen prey, his worried gaze relayed.

“Please stay safe” he solemnly prayed.

***

For days to weeks to months on end

Vast plains and endless groves he did tread

Sparing no time, not even for daily bread

In search of his beloved, and dear friend

Alas, he fell ill, weakened and impaired,

unable to proceed with the journey ahead.

Weary and spent, he fell like a shot bird

deep in sleep, as he lay on a mossy bed…

From beyond the plains, she seemingly appeared

and into her bosom, she cradled his head.

“Rest now, my dear” she whispered in tears.

“I'm glad you found the courage to leave the herd”.

I should probably end it here but the rhyme and symmetry addicted maniac in me won't allow it.

“I left because, you wouldn't any other way

I couldn't bear to see how miserable you were to stay

You so easily sway to what anyone says

And care too much that you'd give yourself away”

always listened, to the wisest beard.

The tales they told, he always heard,

and never once dared, to leave the herd.

The things he felt, had always seared.

There once was a time he would have shared,

but his curiosity, was always misread,

so he grew scared that no one cared.

His sole companion amongst the herd

his most beloved, whom he revered,

lost her way from this witless herd

and not a shred of tear was shed.

Surrounded yet alone, his wistful heart

sought escape from the dread, beckoning him depart.

To be continued?

to experience life once more through rose-colored glasses.

To be free from all worries,

all… but the dread of classes.

What would you give to be a kid again

so young and numb to the passage of time

too absorbed in the moment to see beyond each day

that each passing second isn't worth a dime.

What would you give to be a kid again

to be hopelessly lost in a haze of possibilities

to have your oyster, yet to be shattered

by the shrinking maze of opportunities.

What would you give to be a kid again

So young, so naive to hold impossible truths;

that “the stork delivers the child”

certainly never refutes

“touching her gives her a child”.

What would you give to be a kid again

to play in the rain, ignoring warning,

and learn of consequences

with the fever that comes the next morning.

What would you give to be a kid again

to believe the wayward promises of grown adults

innocent, untouched by the debt of disappointment—

of when promises hollow and bear no results.

***

What would you give to be a kid again

To experience the childhood you deserved

but never had;

to be loved unconditionally—unreserved.

To learn bravery and kindness out of adventure,

and not by enduring a home that feels like torture

To be free from the responsibilities due,

to ones responsible for you.

to be the eldest child and not the youngest parent

to embrace your difference

and not be shaped by their preference

to be gifted and quirky

and not called weird and nerdy.

What would you give to be a kid again

To chase dreams,

cut out of passion and merit,

and not the oversized seams

of those we inherit.

What would it take to turn the pages of your youth

without ripping them out with the strength of a brute?

Held in high esteem; a great teacher—

what it teaches, they say, is never lost to time.

They eulogize the good, and romanticize the bad.

Recounting events of the past through fractured memories,

they claim the present and give to the future.

They nurture ambition, seeking adventure,

and speak of possibilities, as events unfold.

They trim the threshold of what they behold,

as they seek the surface of what’s yet to be told.

In circumspect, they cry “a sign of the times”

in retrospect, they sing “ahead of the times”

The praises of legends never desist from their mouths—

of men who once walked the land of the living—

Mere mortals, immortalized by fame,

whose works and deeds inherited their name

Dragged from the grave across oceans and borders.

The living tell tales of imagination,

claiming the unique gift of creativity.

They paint a picture, born of inspiration—

pastel on canvas, a way of depiction.

They speak of worlds beyond the breadth of words,

translating emotions through works of devotion—

blood, sweat and tears mirrored by a perfectly flawed piece—

the sculptor tells tales of a broken race,

refining the contours of a drunken face.

The living conjure sentiments by way of immersion

into the alluring realm of prose and fiction.

They show, and don't tell, of what is felt—

the thrill of a kill, the ache of unrequited love.

They flaunt their privilege; the ability of thought,

and spin tall tales to those who dare pay mind,

cautionary tales also, they sell in kind.

Fabrication made tangible by skillful narration.

The living tell tales of adversity,

Of when life strikes with magnified intensity—

The grief of loss revealing value.

Adversity unveils what comfort obscures.

They wallow in sorrow, hoping a better morrow.

They seek testimony of those who survived

and resist the beckoning of those who succumbed—

The greatest stories are born from survival after all.

Shadows of the past who didn't survive the fall

whisper to the living a cryptic call…

The dead tell tales of a psychedelic realm

A place of infinite possibilities, and zero polarity,

A world beyond the scope of sensation, and emotion

They speak of experience as a figment of imagination,

and talk of imagination, as reality in ideation.

With the voice of a spectre, they say to the living—

There's more to death than meets the eye.

The dead tell tales of a dream called life.

the radiance of a new dawning.

Groan — his body registers receipt

of a hard day's labour yet to come.

Mind over matter, the busiest day demands.

The body laments its plight,

the soul rejoices despite it—

when the start of each weekday

holds the promise of her absence.

Longing for distance, of space and of time,

the mind takes off early,

leaving the body behind, awaiting flight.

Hours away from weary lies,

and miles from the constant nagging,

her inflated ego — relentlessly bragging,

testing his limits with words of deceit.

He finally arrives, seeking a favoured day.

Body catching up to mind, a new battlefront awaits.

His name becomes a thing to be handled —

tugged and pulled, back and forth,

a rag doll passed between floors.

Ascending, descending — first, second, third —

each flight of stairs extracting its toll.

Each conversation, every interaction

chipping away at what remains,

overclocking a system already strained.

The mind repents as the body laments.

Standing at the fringes of the highest floor,

the mind entertained a thought

which the body had always fought —

No. Not today. Lest the moment give way.

Later, rather than sooner, the day draws to a close.

The mind, in no haste for home,

retreats into the subconscious

as the body autopilots onward.

The drive back — oddly therapeutic.

Caught in a daze, he notices

the scarlet rays of sunlight

peeking beyond the horizon,

painting everything red.

Wind gusting, scenery shifting,

the vehicle motions through it all.

Sigh — his body claims relief,

receipt of permission to remain at ease.

Yet each passing second feeds the anguish within,

the mind grieving the moment, even before it's gone.

Hours collapse into seconds as home approaches.

The doorstep looms — hoping against hope

to be spared what's inevitable.

The mind, already certain,

quietly dissociates —

wandering hours into the future,

to when darkness descends

and the moon reclaims its place.

The only time of day

he is allowed simply to be.

When the mind stops racing and the body earns stillness,

he finds himself in bed again—mind and body in accord.

Wishing for a final slumber.