*Smiles with in Solitude* - Page 12

To her I say with honor and grace, Thank You.
A wave of clichés comes crashing down on me,
Yet not one quite captures the way you've changed my life.
Your moves and actions speak to me through inspiration.
Although not well known, my world has been transformed by your simplest touch,
And I thank you for that.

Adorned and adored by the swarm that surrounds you,
I can never get close enough to show my true self.
Yet as I stand in the corner and admire from a far,
You find several ways to move me and transform who I am.
You're priceless. You're timeless.
And a muse to my heart.
I thank you for everything, no matter how small.

The conference of the unknown makes people quick to judge.
They gather and babble, not quite sure what the topic is.
Comparing and sharing unrestricted thoughts,
As acceptable nonsense is deemed poetic.
The minds of the youth are not well developed,
Yet the ageless and mature aren't quite sure what the topic is.
Prohibited from using trigger happy words,
I am forced to engross my self into what is known today as the 'English Language'.
The Victorian tongue has been cut by the masses,
As the youth still refuses to see what the topic is.
The emotions of man are indefinable,
Yet the youth of today have managed to cut it down to a few common words...
And to that I say, and excuse my tongue:

To hell with you bastards. You think because mainstream music has taken out a few hits, which wouldn't even qualify as real music if it wasn't for you emotionally confused asses, that poetry as a whole has lost its ability to capture feelings? This modern age has really found a way to destroy the grace and beauty of poetry. And for what, to fit in? To be deemed cool and in the moment, hypocrites! It's funny how even now you're still clueless about the topic. Truly understand the purpose of poetry before you ever compare it to the crap you kids, now a days, call music.

Because, even though the muse whisper thoughts into our every breaths,
I'm still quite sure you know not what the topic is.

Bravo! I l love your last piece.

Ive always loved what both you and Vortex have written. Im sorry to hear Vortex may no longer be posting here. I hope he's alright.

Please keep writing Neutered, and please keep writing the way you WANT to write.

Reflections
Infections
Nothing changes
It's all the same.
Continuous cycles that blindside our expectation,
We state we'll be different but nothing changes.
Cries
Screams
Your pictures show me phases of me
My tomorrow
My today
My yesterday
Those sad expressions in your images transpire to my surface.
We are one
A reflection of your past
This cycle surfaces, no matter how much you try to deny it.
My experiences are your scars.
My truths are your secrets.
These reflections are never to be told.
Stored on my sleeve I hand them out like business cards.
I hold no secrets...
Why deny your cries?
Why deny your screams?
Let them out for the world to here
Because the only one you're hurting is me.

I've neglected those around me
As I journey through this quarter,
there are parts of me I have left behind.

My reflections left unnoticed
On a path to steep to see.
As I journey through this quarter,
there are parts of me that cannot be seen.

Formulas and mechanism become me
Matricies and vectors surround me.
As I journey through this quarter,
there are parts of me I cannot define.

I am growing and evolving,
Through a quest I cannot grasp.
Yet this quarter seems consuming,
And there are parts of me I will never find.

A week off from this reechoed thing we call school, there is no such thing.
The nights turn to mornings, I need to add classes there is no time to waste.
Welcome week is a joke, as the stress of making it in takes over your dreams.

"I couldn't get in, which means I might be here for a few more quarters, I'm tired."

The wind picks up, unable to lift the anchored stress of the students that pass by.
My one and only class for the day is starting in ten minutes, I doubt it will be fun.
Students watch my every move, they have seen me before so they smile.
Hypocritical smiles that'll get me through my day.

It's the first day of school and all I can think is, 'no good can come of this.'

The final act of the final performance draws to a close.
All my best efforts
Laid out for the waiting audience
On display for the world to see
As the last lines are recited, the music swells and the players leave the stage.
With the curtain call, my work is done.
My story, my performance.
I step out of the theater into the night to await the day when I might perform again.
Not here though,
New town, new theater, new crowd, only time will tell.
The curtain falls, the lights go up.


St. Jimmy

The crushing noise of the world around us brings serenity.
Can you hear it?
Only a few see the calming within the chaos
And even fewer here the echoing silence.
It's beautiful...

All you have to do is STOP.

I'm torn.
we grow and learn.
I'm scorn.
we create and fall apart.
I'm confused.
we interact and battle.
I'm infused.
we touch and feel.

I'm....I'm not we.

I've yet to interact with another.
I've yet to feel compassion.

I create words that make others fall apart.
I touch for the puspose of battle.
I learn ways of growing with out the world taking notice.

I'm not a "WE," and I don't want to be.

A sense of vulnerability falls before me.
I've choosen not to let any one see that,
A sign of weakness I'd rather not share.

I've been torn, and scorn.
This has left me confused and infused with facts.
I don't want to be a "WE"
It's me I'd rather learn to deal with.

*neuteredbynature:
i love reading your poems. every word fits in the picture, it's like watching movies in a 3d. your poems have moved me. inspired me.
keep on writing such beautiful poems.

I'm bored.
On stand-by in an ocean of disease and chaos,
I float without action.
They pontificate their words,
Only to come out looking like fools.
My eyes close,
I wake up to find myself in this shiftless world of 24's.
A borderline silence stands before me as I try to find the sand in my eyes.

An illusion is revealed.
A hero in the eyes of the public,
Yet all I can provide is air.
Restraining combative children,
As their eyes scream for help.
No regards for emotions,
It's all in a days work.

I'm bored.
The sand in my eyes accumulate,
As I float in an action less chaos.

We like to think that we've changed
Changed how we think
Changed how we act
Changed how we feel.

We are different.

We like to think we've grown
Grown into maturity
Grown out of habits
Grown into men

We are different.

Habits broken
Prejudices destroyed
Cynical thoughts silenced
Pessimistic views ignored

We are different...

Different,
Not because we've change
But because we think we have.
Not because we've grown
But because we think we have.

There is no change, no growth.
There is only CONTROL.

We are NOT different,
We just think we are.

Icicles.
Hanging down from the porch
over the mighty canyon,
a dredge through the earth.

Deep winter above,
the snow flies, the wind blows.
The time passes by
and the icicle grows.

Larger and heavier
the weight increasing
until finally, with a gust and crack
it snaps and falls.

Falling for seconds,
down into the divot
past walls of solid rock
that govern its path.

Then it crashes into the river below
into the foam, the cold currents
that smash against rocks and tree trunks.


Slowly it melts away.

But does it away? It's fundamentals
remain the same- the state changes.
Now that which hung in balance before
is part of a greater turbulence
that governs its path.

Further along, as time passes.
The river slows.
The grass alongside grows
and the suns rays warm the cool shallows
where children play.

But as the seasons change
the winds again blow.
and on a blade of grass
there forms a bead of ice- the same
as that which fell so long ago.

So are things the same? I believe
but there is a change.
Experiences of love, loss,
repression, regression, reversion to old habits
but new meters.

This is a different icicle.
But still altogether the same.
No longer dangling over a precipice,
now the waters are cool and calm.
We like to think we've changed.
But we are the same.

I'm loosing track of myself...
I've started to break apart. There's nothing anyone can do at this point. Going back to my old ways keeps others from harm--it's for the best. I've noticed my interest fading...I don't care.

I shouldn't care, its not like I ever had a hold of it. Though, I
can't say I didn't try. That's just not who I am...
A mythical appreciation of others, there's too many stories--never ending--why can't they just come to terms with the facts?

I'm at peace... Damn! There's too many words. Why can't I out run them? Like flies to a dead carcass, there're too many questions; too many assumptions. Why do I keep envisioning serenity, when I can't even capture silence?

I guess I haven't come to terms; even if I'm covered in facts.

Nice poems very impressive I write things liek this to but nowhere near as good as that keep up the good work