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#introspective articulations
theperplexedpoet · 3 days ago
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a spirit divided (the saint and the sinner) - a new poem
the saint and the sinner two sides of one coin both fail to deliver when asked to rejoin their roles reconsidered as dawn breaks the day the saint or the sinner which one shall he play the saint and the sinner two worlds far apart where neither's the winner acting with no heart just constant beginners with nowhere to start the saint or the sinner as each stay the part a spirit divided set against itself with discord invited it cannot be helped the saint and the sinner two halves never whole the poet lays splintered as each break takes toll for each they deliver hits right at the heart and each is a killer yes, each cut an art a spirit divided set against itself destruction incited no picture of health the saint and the sinner two sides waging war they never considered that there could be more (4/12/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 3 days ago
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dreaming in color living black & white each line a cover an absence of light there goes another this ongoing fight dreams, they're in color life lived, black & white (4/12/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 7 days ago
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the collective (the pawn wandered aimless) - a new poem
the collective it gathers here in the power of words they come to share what matters here where they can all be heard as all the blocks get shattered so the dream it gets preserved the collective it gathers here in the power of words so the pawn wandered aimless through this web, widely woven pain and pen set to frame this scars borne out in the open but he knew there must be more than this cold path tread alone magic he had touched before and that he had once called home but that was before the storm broke what will he had within when it then became his norm to retreat into his pen from there he heard a choir singing a familiar verse then he approached the risers just as he had once rehearsed the collective it gathers here in the power of words they come to share what matters here where they can all be heard as all the blocks get shattered so the dream it gets preserved the collective it gathers here in the power of words so the pawn wandered aimless through this web, widely woven pretended he was blameless as each retreat was chosen still he knew there must be more when he heard the chorus sing magic he had touched before when his voice had little ring back long before the storm clouds gathered intent to break him too cold to ever warm crowds with sentiments forsaken and so he turned defeated from the guild's gilded tower here, ever the retreated no hero's quest or power the collective it gathers here in the power of words they come to share what matters here where they can all be heard as all the blocks get shattered so the dream it gets preserved the collective it gathers here in the power of words as the pawn wandered aimless through this web, widely woven for a chance to re-frame this knew he must remain open for he knew that there was more and it was empowering magic he had touched before that kept him from cowering that he had too long ignored in these waves of suffering so he sang again once more with the choir's offering he stepped up on the risers just as he had once rehearsed new counsel, new advisors and that old familiar verse the collective it gathers here in the power of words they come to share what matters here where they can all be heard as all the blocks get shattered so the dream it gets preserved the collective it gathers here in the power of words here the pawn found direction through this web, widely woven in flames of resurrection where a new fate was chosen (4/8/2021)
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theperplexedpoet · 11 days ago
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the child (for once there was a darkness) - a new poem
it comes down to the child forever hidden within who came to tame the wild and who first picked up the pen for once there was a darkness fate had bound it in a cage the child, he felt this heartless felt it belonged on the page believed this would be humane bring about a sense of peace with his pen he set his aim and the darkness was released well, more like it was transferred taking root within his well with questions left unanswered as the child woke in its cell it comes down to the child forever hidden within who came to tame the wild and who first picked up the pen the path of the reviled was left traced upon my skin the markings of a child who waged a war he could not win for once there was a darkness fate had caged for its reasons yet none tried to impart this how a child could conceive them so acting without regard or thought of consequences he opened up to the dark a child with no defenses slowly it began feeding on the child's will and his heart believed he needed bleeding that he must suffer for his art it comes down to the child forever hidden within who came to tame the wild and who first picked up the pen the path of the reviled was left traced upon my skin the markings of a child who waged a war he could not win for once there was a darkness caged in pain none could negate though resilient, regardless, the child would come to share its fate (4/4/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 24 days ago
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the crown - a new poem
the pawn he sits a tattered throne the crown ill-fits tis not his own a tangled wood that he calls home for his own good a king alone world gets colder torn at the seams verse is over no time for dreams snow is falling so goes the crown knew his calling he wrote it down a tangled wood found in retreat for his own good to be complete world gets colder torn at the seams verse is over no time for dreams the pawn he sits a weathered king the crown ill-fits just not his thing (3/22/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 26 days ago
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belonging (the imposter) - a new poem
I find a place always feels wrong touched by its grace I don't belong the imposter his wicked sin see how he falls upon the sword hope was fostered thereby his pen for it was all he could afford the imposter this sickly twin see how he fails to measure up his accoster a broken pen with words that pale just aren't enough I find a place always feels wrong touched by its grace I don't belong comfort erased one woeful song the line's retraced I don't belong the imposter his fragile skin see how he fucks himself over fate, he cost her with word and pen for one corrupts souls not sober the imposter this wretched sin see how it takes more than it gives hope was offered with weighted pen that simply breaks his will to live I find a place always feels wrong touched by its grace I don't belong comfort erased one woeful song the line's retraced I don't belong the imposter his wicked sin see how he falls upon the sword hope was fostered thereby his pen for it was all he could afford (3/20/21)
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theperplexedpoet · a month ago
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how much more will you take from me how much more have I to take no one account, comes from sundry thinning each until they break one by one, foundation cracking with each straw, til falls the last picture's locked, the image tracking victim now of shadows cast fading storms burn in the distance lightning strikes close to the heart and where once they met resistance now they pass without remark how much more will you take from me how much more of me remains with each cost rendered unto thee I find my truth being strained one by one, the lights extinguish that have kept me from the dark as such my grip is relinquished and I succumb to the spark fading storms burn in the distance lightning strikes the heart so hard but where once they met resistance now they pass without regard how much more will you take from me how much more have I to take no one account, comes from sundry pressure building 'til I break one by one, the tide's are turning each rising, set against me too much not to be concerning with pain so unrelenting fading storms burn in the distance lightning strikes close to the heart and where once they met resistance now they pass without remark how much more will you take from me how much more of me remains with each cost rendered unto thee heard the darkness call my name (3/7/21)
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theperplexedpoet · a month ago
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now I lay me down to break I pray the pen my rage to take but if I die in this refrain must be bled dry to excise pain a fated path, that I once chose the only way I'd know repose then now I lay me down to break knowing full well what all's at stake I step onto this battlefield the hungry beast it waits to feed baring fresh scars that have not healed and yet I'm here again to bleed it rips and tears, no time to waste such greedy teeth and no regard it takes its pound, no sense of grace and once more I find myself marred I step onto this battlefield where I have walked a thousand times knowing it's here, my fate was sealed a fee leveraged for the rhymes but there's no one to blame but I always was this fate's director facing greedy teeth, hungry eyes I stand before its collector now I lay me down to break I pray the pen my rage to take but if I die in this refrain must be bled dry to excise pain a fated path, that I once chose the only way I'd know repose then now I lay me down to break knowing full well my all's at stake I step onto this battlefield the hungry beast death in its cry without a weapon left to wield perhaps this time, I came to die fall to my knees, with my throat bared to greedy teeth with no regard it takes its pound, as it was dared as was long told of in the cards now I lay me down to break I pray the pen my rage to take but if I die in this refrain must be bled dry to excise pain so said pain will not be imposed find fertile fields with seeded rows then I will lay me down to break may peace be found within my wake (2/28/21)
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theperplexedpoet · a month ago
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was just a word - a new poem
there was a word he held it tight it guided him through endless nights was just a word would set days free but as they'd break well, so would he there was a word he held it tight it strengthened him imbued with might he knew not peace could not he heard yet owed a debt to pen and word was just a word for all intents it could offer no recompense beyond all that he had inferred it was only ever a word there was a word it was his world a tattered book with pages curled so tightly gripped in his clenched fist tendons rose upon his wrist there was a word it cut him deep his wrist lay bare the price was steep his fingers gave hand laid open the word was gone still unspoken was just a word for all intents it could offer no recompense beyond all that he had inferred it was only ever a word there was a word that he revered which also birthed his greatest fear didn't ask much but took his core was just a word yet so much more there was a word he held it tight upon a time an endless night without regard for consequence made it his world that just made sense was just a word for all intents it could offer no recompense beyond all that he had inferred it was only ever a word there was a word it was his world a tattered book with pages curled lost to the day broken, disturbed without his world without a word (2/25/21)
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theperplexedpoet · a month ago
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my destiny what's left for me I won't abide it cannot be these dreams collide to be set free as I arrived despite the fee and welcoming this entropy for it's to be my destiny it took my hope it took my hue power to cope it took that too my destiny what's meant to be I won't survive its plans for me thought I could thrive despite the fees another lie I could not see so here we are tragically this killing spree my destiny it took my seams it took my core power to dream took that and more my destiny what's left for me without pieces necessary when caprices transform the fee which increases the costs to be and to be heard the costs of me this entropy my destiny it took my will it took my grit power to drill took all of it it took my hopes it took my sum this misanthrope's what I've become my destiny what's meant to be I won't abide its plans for me stand idly by accept its fees that they've applied despite the pleas and so it goes with certainty pen as I please my destiny it took my hope it took my hue power to cope it took that too it took my aim it took my track but I am game to take it back my destiny it's mine, you see and I will fight accordingly (2/20/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 2 months ago
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this world is infected
its toxic notions of nation...of self so unaware spread
strikes of lightning in the dry forest undergrowth
once thirsty for a blessing they've been too long denied, now ignited against a dying backdrop with the reflections of misdirected rage and the echoes of unheard anquish
flames that move without regard...without hesitation or consideration for what was
and will never be again in this enflamed wake
here there's sympathy for the devils
here blood's the currency that levels
up or down?
well that direction was decided generations ago
why are you asking me my preference now...you wouldn't listen anyhow
my world is infected
that sanctuary of self where the globe's pooled edges comfortably contain choas' rain
all now piled at the top of a world turned upside down
yes, the winds of change have stilled here
no longer blowing through a landscape equally stalled
lingering in the moments before
breaths held tight in preparation of a next that never comes...that never could
the sacred stands polluted and inverted
the text's meaning's been perverted
black or white?
why does this deficient binary still believe in its own relevance in a world of grays
what would you like me to say...would you hear this truth anyway
this world is infected
its unchecked environmental aggressions seeded into a blossoming endemic tomorrow
one that arrived yesterday unseen, took today unchallenged and builds its cues from the days before
before we cared...before we could...before we dared...before we stood
for something greater, or what was right
discarded for exaggerations of might
once seeing more in the scope than just reflections of ourselves
the me generation produced the generation of me squared
social soundbites shared in clever bits of code
comic sans the comedic
...it's all too real to be funny anymore
(1/30/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 2 months ago
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at one a.m. the hour's empty
as is this casual observer
by two this abundant horn of plenty
becomes a weighted life preserver
dragging me deeper through this limbo
as I'm here struggling to breathe
I find the clock hands all akimbo
in this hour of my reprieve
in the hours after midnight
in the lost hope of the dreams
set the pyre, watch it burn bright
still not knowing what it means
at three a.m. the tower closes
for the thief has taken all the watchers
by four that old known rhythm imposes
accordingly adjusting postures
as it pulls me through all the motions
while still here struggling to breathe
watching the surface of these oceans
just getting further from my reach
in the hours after midnight
in the lost hope of the dreams
set the pyre, watch it burn bright
still not knowing what it means
at five a.m. the power ceases
but one of many notices unmet
by six the day breaks down into pieces
and the sun rises on this sunset
as I slip further from the surface
the pressures ripping through my chest
having all but rendered me worthless
never again to catch my breath
in the hours after midnight
in the lost hope of the dreams
set the pyre, watch it burn bright
still not knowing what it means
still I'll bleed as is commanded
'til the pages have been filled
for the poet's pen demands it
where I once sought to rebuild
at one a.m. the hour's empty
as is this casual observer
by two this abundant horn of plenty
becomes a weighted life preserver
(1/28/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 2 months ago
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when the dark gives way
to the light of day
and the dreamer wakes
to its potential
knows without a doubt
this is their way out
and they look on it
so deferential
but the fallen sees
there beyond the trees
to the risks now held
in the forest's keep
to the waiting beast
with its hungry teeth
and its appetite
that will never sleep
it's a new day
with a new threat
to teach new ways
for our regret
to consume us
with a new fate
one that dooms us
to this failed state
when the dark gives way
to those distant rays
the dreamer sees it
as the tunnel's end
a means to escape
all the nights that ape
life that cannot be
more than just a trend
but the fallen sees
from their own bent knees
the lie that lives there
upon the surface
one that hides the beast
with its endless feast
knowing it's their place
their flesh that serves it
it's a new day
with a new threat
to teach new ways
for this reset
to consume us
with a new hate
one that dooms us
to this failed state
when the dark gives way
to the bright of day
all the dreamer knows
is the edge of light
lost within the flash
missing all that's cast
there in the shadows
of the perfect night
but the fallen sees
all that the light frees
into the expanse
beyond its reaches
yes, they know this beast
the rip of its teeth
and each lesson that
its dark fate teaches
it's a new day
with a new threat
to teach new ways
for our regret
to consume us
with a new fate
one that dooms us
to this failed state
when the dark of night
gives way to the light
how much of the world
ends up left behind
(1/26/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 2 months ago
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from the edges of obscurity
comes a verse of circumstances
where the sinner quests for purity
with a hope of second chances
but the saint has designs of his own
built upon these furtive glances
and with no intent to share this throne
once the sinner's place advances
the year of vision, yes, it broke him
a man of letters, split in two
his only hope was to invoke them
and maybe they could get him through
perhaps this moment, would unite them
once more bringing them together
so that no matter what incites him
whatever storm, he could weather
but as he lay among the fallen
no sense of comfort, warmth or peace
he placed his bet there, going all in
hoping his suffering would cease
and yet, the distance, just grew further
between the sinner and the saint
a sad and foreboding precusor
to days the dark knew no restraint
the year of vision, yes, it broke him
man of letters now divided
he held to words that went unspoken
never meant to be recited
from the edges of obscurity
comes a verse of circumstances
where the sinner quests for purity
with a hope of second chances
but the saint has designs of his own
built upon these furtive glances
and with no intent to share this throne
once the sinner's place advances
the year of vision, yes, it wrecked him
a man of letters, without form
the two halves rendered, he had beckoned
to try and return to the norm
when harmony just was expected
perhaps a figment of its own
the whole would always be rejected
for each the two halves act alone
and as he lay among the fallen
no longer able to see hope
he had no means to try and stall them
as each went for the other's throat
and so, the distance, it grew further
between the sinner and the saint
a sad and foreboding precusor
to days their hate knew no restraint
the year of vision, yes, it wrecked him
man of letters not respited
he held to words that would infect him
never meant to be recited
from the edges of obscurity
comes a verse of circumstances
where the sinner quests for purity
with a hope of second chances
but the saint has designs of his own
built upon these furtive glances
and with no intent to share this throne
once the sinner's place advances
the year of vision, yes, it broke him
a man of letters, split in two
his only hope was to provoke them
as roles reversed and costs came due
(1/22/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 2 months ago
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the smoke, it clears
and the screams begin
the gnawing fear
that I cannot win
their constant ring
beckoning this flood
the chorus sings
as it wants for blood
bled from this source
arterial grace
the pen's life force
that this poet wastes
on verses burned
to pages unread
where nothing's earned
all but left for dead
here lies the poet
an unmarked grave
his words echo it
he won't be saved
the smoke, it clears
leaves no defenses
giving voice to fears
no pretenses
each nerve crying
beckoning this flood
with each dying
as it wants for blood
bled for the sins
committed to page
arterial cleanse
of this wasted sage
with verses burned
into my being
where tables turned
away from meaning
here lies the poet
an unmarked grave
his words echo it
he won't be saved
alas, he knows it
yet on, he braves
here lies the poet
an umarked grave
the smoke, it clears
unmasking the ends
that keep me here
where the darkness wins
beyond the reach
of both peace and place
though I beseech
with each line I trace
bled from this source
arterial grace
the pen's life force
that this poet wastes
on verses burned
here beyond the pale
where nothing's learned
just doomed to fail
here lies the poet
an unmarked grave
his words echo it
he won't be saved
alas, he knows it
yet on, he braves
here lies the poet
an umarked grave
the smoke, it clears
and the screams begin
(1/22/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 2 months ago
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in echoes of the coldest night
the dead are given no respite
no recompense to make it right
no final chance to touch the light
the cadence of a broken heart
cannot sustain the song of truth
this dance, it was doomed from the start
these verses were left here as proof
so sing them out, these words of pain
the chorus of the beaten bard
and lose it all in this refrain
as fate, she deals the final card
and where it lands is where it lies
it does not alter circumstance
tis not a hand the cards decide
it's not that sort of game of chance
in echoes of the longest day
the dead are given no delay
no chance to run, or turn away
no words to mourn their battle's fray
the cadence of a broken heart
cannot sustain the song of life
this dance, I now know every part
the steps were learned through each day's strife
as the rhythm set the movement
the chorus stumbled through the verse
leaving no room for improvement
for fate, she deals from bad to worse
and where it lands is where it lies
t'was only ever to entrance
tis not an end the cards decide
it's not that sort of game of chance
in echoes of the coldest night
the dead are given no respite
no recompense to make it right
no final chance to touch the light
the cadence of a broken heart
cannot sustain the song of will
this dance, it would never be art
would only ever be the kill
so stab the pen into the vein
and let it feed the final verse
just bleed the beaten bard's refrain
into the card as fate rehearsed
and where it lands is where it lies
it does not alter circumstance
tis not a hand the cards decide
it's not that sort of game of chance
in echoes of the longest day
the dead are given no delay
no chance to run, or turn away
no words to mourn their battle's fray
the cadence of a broken heart
cannot sustain the song of truth
this dance, it was doomed from the start
these verses were left here as proof
(1/17/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 3 months ago
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push...resist...struggle...strain
pulls...tearing...fractures...pain
push...resist...struggle...strain
pulls...tearing...fractures...pain
Sisyphean cycling
through this boring dystopia
history recycling
a rotten cornucopia
crumbs tossed to the masses
from these paper towel runways
dismissed by our classes
so we might find god on Sundays
push...resist...struggle...strain
pulls...tearing...fractures...pain
Sisyphean cycling
through these dark days of division
crowned a hapless viking
with a purpose of revision
and of exploitation
where coercive seeds have rooted
and sacred foundations
have been betrayed and polluted
push...resist...struggle...strain
pulls...tearing...fractures...pain
push...resist...struggle...strain
pulls...tearing...fractures...pain
Sisyphean cycling
through this boring dystopia
history recycling
a rotten cornucopia
(1/5/21)
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theperplexedpoet · 3 months ago
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dig your way out of this hole
just to stand on unstable sands
hear the pleas for your survival
“suicide is no answer”
instead walk into this world
a pandemic of waking death
for the convience of normal
“suicide for capital”
now, that's more like it
forgo those you're holding,
give these dice a roll
and play our game
not your own
economic depression
the climate changes on Wall Street
but the only reports we see
push business as usual
bury your head in the sands
for the public eye works better
when it is shielded from the truth
not seeing the body's plight
what they've done to it
we “decide” the “rulers”
but don't set the rules
and play their game
not our own
from frying pan to fire
must life always be lived to burn
semantic choices over terms
ending in the same six feet
so is this my plot or yours
and whose ends is this end serving
that's the query that breaks the code
serving the final error
and shutdown begins
prompted for a command
not a commandment
we built altars
for worship
coded gods in the script
to live as hypocrits
and play their game
not our own
and now when we need answers
we're told look upward, not inward
turn from the script to the scripture
from author to follower
no longer shepherd but sheep
flocking to this power transfer
just so we don't have to answer
to or for what comes after
now it's in their hands
whose game are we playing
for it's our life at stake
(1/3/21)
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