Reflections on the Dying of the Soul by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
Reflections on the Dying of the Soul
There is a still lump of putty
floating in a pool of cherry kool aid.
If you focus and unfocus,
you can make everyone else go away.
My exhaustion is numb,
The sweetness bothers,
but there is no other flavor in sight.
Give panic away for a spot in the cold,
slimy sea of tranquility.
There is a light in my vision,
It is distant, visible but ethereal.
I may swim toward it,
but it is only there in my imagination,
and it has not been settled
if what does not exist
is worth chasing.
Reflections on the Nature of Boredom by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
Reflections on the Nature of Boredom
Time rolls on.
If he's lucky, time rolls by,
but eventually, time rolls over him,
as it does for us all.
The Earth stops spinning.
Nobody knows what to do.
All jobs seem trivial.
The morning coffee becomes bitter,
where no sucralose can sweeten it.
Their cars run out of gas,
so they walk down the side of the road,
unsatisfied by the sounds of nature.
Those in slumber have their dreams
interrupted, replaced by visions
of blank walls, faces replaced by
the empty canvas. Minds replaced by
empty gears and soulless machinery.
Poetry is replaced by words.
Words are replaced by definitions.
Definitions are replaced by inst
Reflections on the Nature of Futility by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
Reflections on the Nature of Futility
Have you ever seen the bottom of the abyss?
There are black walls, smooth to the touch,
with just enough of a matte grit as to
remind you that those walls are still there.
They have collected dust, as no wind has
reached the bottom in its entire existence.
Nothing falls into the abyss. One can only
get there by floating down. It must be a
gentle float. So slow that you don't notice
until you're there already. One thousand
years of dust and darkness. One thousand
years without the touch of fingertips. I
will drag my fingers across the sides of
this pit, just a little, so that this pit
will remember I was here for one thou
Reflections on Achievement by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
Reflections on Achievement
What finds the mind might never reach the soul,
just as what finds the soul might never reach the mind.
The two live on separate planes, both immortal.
Not at odds, or even wholly separate, but stranger.
They exist as a testiment, not of man's desire to live,
but out of man's desire to understand life,
for as pettiness and rage will not exclude you,
neither will they alone propel you to true greatness.
Just as a young bird must learn
that to survive requires not the loudest crow,
but to open the new wings provided it,
and to, beyond all reason, dive toward oblivion.
My fingers hurt.
Too much hurtin. Everything bleeds,
but sometimes things bleed inward.
Your eyes bleed inward.
Your tongue bleeds inward.
Sometimes you move too little,
and the veins get lazy,
so they bleed when you use them.
Sometimes, the nature of existing hurts,
but everyone does it regardless.
Everyone keeps going despite the hurtin.
And there's no excuse to complain
since everyone else does it.
I see others pass,
and I wait for the bleeding to stop,
one way or another.
It takes a long time.
It takes all the time there is.
Maybe it wasn't me doing the bleeding.
Maybe time did the bleeding for me.
I'd like t
Give my song to play the reeds,
in your heart we'll find the seeds.
Gone to Yorkshire, gone to play,
everyone's gone the other way.
No one's given this old bird
enough to speak another word.
Rally in the maze of mud,
you dig deep down, you'll find a bud.
It grows into a plant of song
you play it right, it plays out wrong.
The garden drops your pillow peas,
and strings your bedroom in the trees.
The sky is falling, and it's dead.
You stab the sky in shades of red.
It cannot spell your mind in ache.
It only takes a single flake.
The ground has nothing more to say.
Send the sky to pale grey.
Parting words will soon depart,
Hea
Modern Malaise Of The Perfect Man by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
Modern Malaise Of The Perfect Man
There is no want in front of you.
There's nothing you could want to do.
Your play is work and work is play,
there are no limits on your day.
No real threat of death alone,
There are no sins you can atone.
Explore desires when you can,
the modern malaise of the perfect man.
Society's a perfect strait,
and if you bend, you might be late.
Your life is free, yet you are dead.
The cages come from your own head.
You feel the urge inside your brain,
the urge to finally go insane.
There's no outlet for your plan,
the modern malaise of the perfect man.
Smash the windows, cry out loud,
Your flaccid ego does you proud.
No shape, no tho
For a moment, the Earth forgets that
it is a cruel and desolate place,
and on that day, human beings ventured outside again.
They viewed the rust coating their tools,
their tools that they exposed to the elements.
They take stock of their broken machinery.
they measure the divots in their sunken pathways,
and they smile.
They cry to the heavens in joy,
these broken trinkets are merely trophies,
trophies that prove we have survived another winter.
Show me your broken things,
and I will fix them in the sunlight.
I will fix all of them with my sore, leathery arms,
blowing away the sweat from my drenched brow.
Now is the time to
Oranges are bad
for your eyes. You should never
use them as eye drops.
I have a small bear.
He looks like he is praying.
Now he prays for me.
My fans clog with dust.
They make rattling noises.
But they're still my fans.
I own a safety
razor. I use it to cut
through orange peels.
I am out of room.
I need additional shelves
for my DVDs.
White rabbits look like
q-tips, but they don't have the
stick in the middle.
My thumb is shaky.
I suspect it's to do with
genetics. Thanks, dad.
Every chair I use
squeaks when I sit down, but at
least they don't collapse.
My eyes are itchy.
I should turn off both my fans,
but I am stupi
The Monster's Breath by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
The Monster's Breath
Bark of monster's poisoned breath,
sing a song of dance and death.
Conjure eyes and children's cries,
Fight between the fruit and flies.
Shine a dark into the light,
hide the dull in luster's sight.
Part the grey in every way,
find the statue in the clay.
Giant calls across the land,
cover ears with force of hand.
Fingertips can hush the lips
easier than damming drips.
Cast the breath on all that breathes,
Let them see what really seethes.
Stick your pin in heart of sin
and find that you have stabbed within.
Reflections on the Dying of the Soul by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
Reflections on the Dying of the Soul
There is a still lump of putty
floating in a pool of cherry kool aid.
If you focus and unfocus,
you can make everyone else go away.
My exhaustion is numb,
The sweetness bothers,
but there is no other flavor in sight.
Give panic away for a spot in the cold,
slimy sea of tranquility.
There is a light in my vision,
It is distant, visible but ethereal.
I may swim toward it,
but it is only there in my imagination,
and it has not been settled
if what does not exist
is worth chasing.
Reflections on the Nature of Boredom by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
Reflections on the Nature of Boredom
Time rolls on.
If he's lucky, time rolls by,
but eventually, time rolls over him,
as it does for us all.
The Earth stops spinning.
Nobody knows what to do.
All jobs seem trivial.
The morning coffee becomes bitter,
where no sucralose can sweeten it.
Their cars run out of gas,
so they walk down the side of the road,
unsatisfied by the sounds of nature.
Those in slumber have their dreams
interrupted, replaced by visions
of blank walls, faces replaced by
the empty canvas. Minds replaced by
empty gears and soulless machinery.
Poetry is replaced by words.
Words are replaced by definitions.
Definitions are replaced by inst
Reflections on the Nature of Futility by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
Reflections on the Nature of Futility
Have you ever seen the bottom of the abyss?
There are black walls, smooth to the touch,
with just enough of a matte grit as to
remind you that those walls are still there.
They have collected dust, as no wind has
reached the bottom in its entire existence.
Nothing falls into the abyss. One can only
get there by floating down. It must be a
gentle float. So slow that you don't notice
until you're there already. One thousand
years of dust and darkness. One thousand
years without the touch of fingertips. I
will drag my fingers across the sides of
this pit, just a little, so that this pit
will remember I was here for one thou
Reflections on Achievement by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
Reflections on Achievement
What finds the mind might never reach the soul,
just as what finds the soul might never reach the mind.
The two live on separate planes, both immortal.
Not at odds, or even wholly separate, but stranger.
They exist as a testiment, not of man's desire to live,
but out of man's desire to understand life,
for as pettiness and rage will not exclude you,
neither will they alone propel you to true greatness.
Just as a young bird must learn
that to survive requires not the loudest crow,
but to open the new wings provided it,
and to, beyond all reason, dive toward oblivion.
My fingers hurt.
Too much hurtin. Everything bleeds,
but sometimes things bleed inward.
Your eyes bleed inward.
Your tongue bleeds inward.
Sometimes you move too little,
and the veins get lazy,
so they bleed when you use them.
Sometimes, the nature of existing hurts,
but everyone does it regardless.
Everyone keeps going despite the hurtin.
And there's no excuse to complain
since everyone else does it.
I see others pass,
and I wait for the bleeding to stop,
one way or another.
It takes a long time.
It takes all the time there is.
Maybe it wasn't me doing the bleeding.
Maybe time did the bleeding for me.
I'd like t
Give my song to play the reeds,
in your heart we'll find the seeds.
Gone to Yorkshire, gone to play,
everyone's gone the other way.
No one's given this old bird
enough to speak another word.
Rally in the maze of mud,
you dig deep down, you'll find a bud.
It grows into a plant of song
you play it right, it plays out wrong.
The garden drops your pillow peas,
and strings your bedroom in the trees.
The sky is falling, and it's dead.
You stab the sky in shades of red.
It cannot spell your mind in ache.
It only takes a single flake.
The ground has nothing more to say.
Send the sky to pale grey.
Parting words will soon depart,
Hea
Modern Malaise Of The Perfect Man by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
Modern Malaise Of The Perfect Man
There is no want in front of you.
There's nothing you could want to do.
Your play is work and work is play,
there are no limits on your day.
No real threat of death alone,
There are no sins you can atone.
Explore desires when you can,
the modern malaise of the perfect man.
Society's a perfect strait,
and if you bend, you might be late.
Your life is free, yet you are dead.
The cages come from your own head.
You feel the urge inside your brain,
the urge to finally go insane.
There's no outlet for your plan,
the modern malaise of the perfect man.
Smash the windows, cry out loud,
Your flaccid ego does you proud.
No shape, no tho
For a moment, the Earth forgets that
it is a cruel and desolate place,
and on that day, human beings ventured outside again.
They viewed the rust coating their tools,
their tools that they exposed to the elements.
They take stock of their broken machinery.
they measure the divots in their sunken pathways,
and they smile.
They cry to the heavens in joy,
these broken trinkets are merely trophies,
trophies that prove we have survived another winter.
Show me your broken things,
and I will fix them in the sunlight.
I will fix all of them with my sore, leathery arms,
blowing away the sweat from my drenched brow.
Now is the time to
Oranges are bad
for your eyes. You should never
use them as eye drops.
I have a small bear.
He looks like he is praying.
Now he prays for me.
My fans clog with dust.
They make rattling noises.
But they're still my fans.
I own a safety
razor. I use it to cut
through orange peels.
I am out of room.
I need additional shelves
for my DVDs.
White rabbits look like
q-tips, but they don't have the
stick in the middle.
My thumb is shaky.
I suspect it's to do with
genetics. Thanks, dad.
Every chair I use
squeaks when I sit down, but at
least they don't collapse.
My eyes are itchy.
I should turn off both my fans,
but I am stupi
The Monster's Breath by Quippers-United, literature
Literature
The Monster's Breath
Bark of monster's poisoned breath,
sing a song of dance and death.
Conjure eyes and children's cries,
Fight between the fruit and flies.
Shine a dark into the light,
hide the dull in luster's sight.
Part the grey in every way,
find the statue in the clay.
Giant calls across the land,
cover ears with force of hand.
Fingertips can hush the lips
easier than damming drips.
Cast the breath on all that breathes,
Let them see what really seethes.
Stick your pin in heart of sin
and find that you have stabbed within.
I’ll question your motives
In the interest of the child
Still living in the crumbling kingdom
Of my long broken heart
I’ll fight for her
And her virtuous wonder
Like nobody fought for me
I still remember in detail
The way the Earth crumbled
Beneath my fragile frame
Lost in the disparity and the horror
Unfathomably alone in the thickness of night
With demons much grander than I
Tiny hands grasping desperately for salvation
I crave your attention
To feed this child in my chest
For all her years of hunger
But I can’t let you past these fragile walls
Because all I’ve known is war
And when I say R
The Promise Made by Rosalind's Grave by Chezzy-Am, literature
Literature
The Promise Made by Rosalind's Grave
Whilst the tender breeze, autumn leaves aloft
Left us to gather where none would be free
From above, I heard your voice, soft
Like a whisper, 'twas meant to be
The promise made by Rosalind's grave
A thousand dreams, by a thousand streams, rivers
Of time which bind us, as it hears us shrivel
In bidding our farewells, to see us wither
Grey clouds, benign; neither rain flows nor drops
"For thee, my soul, was destined and decreed"
Gently, whispers beseech - aloft
Their sadness, craving to be freed
The promise made by Rosalind's grave
Of woes forlorn, from a heart torn, and splintered
Blissful reveries, now nightmares, to ponder
Of where your sou
Silent Night, Holy Night by Michel-le-fou, literature
Literature
Silent Night, Holy Night
Silent Night, Holy NightThe night of Puabi's (re)birth
In the deep stillness around,
When few stars shine from above,
And few souls may be found,
Then the true meaning of love
May be realized in hearts.
On such a night as this,
When they speak of a holy birth,
They mean only a boy1;
But what of a girl?
For my heart is very sure
That then, and now,
A holy girl2 was born;
Born to be loved.
1. Jesus
2.Puabi