Tag Archives: poetry

“The Survival of the Fittest”

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The Survival Of The Fittest
By Audrey Michelle, Spoken Word Artist.

sad_angel
“Sad Angel” — Photo by Nimiko Nara

Stranded in the ends of time
A mind that needs to unwind
Living too much within a past
That pain consumed and it still lasts

A view that still sees purity
Though only shown pure cruelty

Each and every person met
Is loved and proven a regret
They hurt a sore and beaten heart
While smiling as it’s torn apart

All shreds of hope and fantasy
Are sliced for crimes
Though not guilty

There is an image to pursue
Beauty viewed by any view
Beauty though has disappeared
Wept out and fallen with each tear

Assumptions made while viewing cover
Assumes there’s no more to discover

Forced each time by will inside
To try to force a truth denied
The goodness is seen, but then ignored
Beauty does not come with such reward

Others survive by turning bitter
While true of heart shall only wither

Though always just misunderstood
When saw the world as full of good
The sweetened mind can’t realize
A truth that offers its demise

Life would end with such resolve
So to bitterness, truth can’t evolve

Danger ahead.

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gate_of_nothingness
Gate of Nothingness by Pyrogas Sipo

The void beckons gently, quietly seduces
Mysterious and alien, glittering with the promise of answers.
I cannot resist and so against my better judgment I am pulled inside
I can’t fight its pull
and I don’t really want to

Broken shards of glass and mirrors jut from black depths
slicing my skin and stabbing deep into tender parts but still I keep moving
From back there the broken glass looked like glitter

From where did this void come? Who made it? Who put it here?
I go deeper inside to find the answers
but all I can find are more questions
I am confused and disoriented
Disappointment makes my sore feet drag in hopelessness
For I already know the source is unknowable
And yet I see something reflected there in the jagged glass

From whence does my vision come
when there is no source of light
I might be in a different universe.
I’m afraid
I want to flee

I try to twist around and fight the pull but still can only move forward
deeper into the nothingness.
I have become somebody’s puppet but who is pulling the strings?

The pull of the void transcends gravity and logic
Its physics are alien and make no sense to my earthbound brain

My mind begins to shatter like the glass
A billion broken mirrors blind me with their brilliance
even as the blood from my feet drenches the ground beneath me
I touch my bloody fingers to my lips and can taste its acridness.

A roaring, ill wind surges from far ahead
Somewhere a heavy door slams shut and I hear the click of its lock
From above me I hear a faint cry: “Leave now!”
This is my stopping place.

The wind curls around me
swoops me up and carries me on its crest back to where I began
It sets me down on hissing summer grass
My eyes adjust to an overcast sky the color of dirty sheets

There’s my world with its clouds and moon and stars and trees and houses
My world with all its ugliness and suffering and lies and broken dreams
mixed with truth and joy and beauty
Everything’s the same as it was
But it’s not the same
for within the void I found lost and broken parts of me
reflected in jagged shards of glass painted with my blood.

Poetry by Sam Vaknin #2

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dark_night_soul
I can’t get enough of Sam’s poetry. It takes me to a dark and desolate place, but it also draws me in. I can’t read too much of it at a time. When it comes to Vaknin, tiny nibbles are better for you than large gulps.

Cutting to Existence

In the Concentration Camp called Home

Prowling

When You Wake the Morning

Selfdream

A Hundred Children

Snowflake Haiku

Getting Old

There’s more of his poetry here: http://samvak.tripod.com/contents.html

I have always loved this.

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desiderata

Since I was in my teens, I have always loved “The Desiderata,” written by the poet Max Ehrmann. It was incredibly popular in the 1960s and 1970s, during the consciousness revolution (I remember seeing it on posters everywhere and I think someone even made a song out of it in the early 1970s), but since then seems to have lost its popularity and isn’t as widely quoted.

But The Desiderata is still so poetic, so relevant today and contains such sage advice for holding onto your integrity and dignity and living the life God meant for you to live. You also do not have to be religious to get something out of it.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.

© Max Ehrmann 1927

“Narcissism”–Poetry by Sam Vaknin

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trapped2

Sorry, but I can’t get enough of his poetry.

http://www.narcissistic-abuse.com/narcissism.html

The Toxic
waste of bottled anger
venomized.
Life belly up.
The reeds.
The wind is hissing
death
downstream,
a river holds
its vapour breath
and leaves black lips
of tar and fish
a bloated shore.

Strolling in the boneyard of my life:
bleached dreams,
mementoed ossuary of my insights.
On flaking fenceposts, impaled the child that I had been.
Peering from desiccated sockets, the Plague that’s me:
dust-irrigated, arid tombstones,
a being eclipsed.

Evil behind a pretty face

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Incredible poetry from one of my favorite bloggers.

Gale A. Molinari's avatargalesmind

Evil face

Such a pretty young face,
to hide such a dark heart.
To show no trace
Of her black art.

She weaves the pain
The heartless schemes.
Destroys the name,
And all her dreams.

Who knew such a vicious snake
Could crawl and creep
just for evil’s sake
Disturb the sleep.

Of other souls and beings
Just for a comedy,
To create the beginnings
Of tragedy.

All is lost now.
Nothing is left.
She can but bow,
and be bereft.

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Today I cried.

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bottleoftears

[My lame attempt at freeverse poetry, for whatever it’s worth.]

Softer, more buoyant than ocean water
Welcome as a warm spell in January
and sudden as a summer squall
hot floods of tears from some unknown cistern rise up and
caress my face like
the loving touch of the mother I longed for and never had and
my fears and doubts fade and dissolve

Relaxing, not scared and
Melting into this dark warm and unfamiliar place
I sleep but never forget.

Ascending to the surface through an ocean of dissolving dreams
I cry out to the stars: Where are you? Who are you? How did you know?
I wait and wait and wait and I
hear nothing but the endless silence of the stars and
the crashing of the waves on the faraway shore and
the beating of my heart and

I wait

moonset

Then the answer comes: I’ve always been here.
Look inside and then look up.
Loving arms reach down and lift me up and
hold me like my mother should have and then I hear these words:

“You have passed this test.
Now, armed with the twin swords of truth and light
the dangers you faced can no longer harm you.
You are strong, you are safe and
God anoints you
with every tear that falls.”

The Burnt Child

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Searing, powerful poetry from a fellow ACON. There’s nothing more I can add, so I’ll let her words speak for themselves.

Sam Vaknin’s birthday poem to his wife (Lidija).

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samlidija
Sam and Lidija in the documentary, “I Psychopath.”

Found a link to this on Twitter. I have little to add–I know next to nothing about poetry, so I’ll just let his words speak for themselves.

One thing that does stand out to me, is that Sam’s words show a man who suffers greatly from his disorder and at least a part of him wants desperately to be free from it. Lidija is his comfort and strength and he yearns to break free of the prison of narcissism to be able to return the love she gives to him. Such passionate words from a man who insists he has no ability to feel love.

I really hope he is a good husband to his wife, who seems very sweet and empathetic from what I saw of her in “I, Psychopath.”

http://samvak.tripod.com/herbirthday.html

Her Birthday
I. Apology …

My Wife:

Sometimes I watch you from behind:

your shoulders, avian, aflutter.

Your ruby hands;

the feet that carry you to me

and then away.

I know I wrong You.

Your eyes black pools; your skin eruptions of what is

and could have been.

I vow to make you happy, but

my Hunchbacked Self

just tolls the bells

and guards you from afar.

II. … And Thanks

In the wasteland that is Me

You flower.

Your eyes black petals strewn

across the tumbling masonry.

Your stem resists my winds.

Your roots, deep in my soil,

toil in murk to feed both you and me,

to nurture Us.

And every day a spring,

and every morn a sunshine:

you’re in my garden,

you blossom day and night.

Your sculpted daint feels

in my hands like oneness.

III. In Toronto

So much is left unsaid between us.

Your crests of silence

fallen on my shores of pain.

IV. Dedication (9th Edition of “Malignant Self-love”)

My Wife:

You are in every carefully measured space,

In every broken word

That we had mended with

The healing hyphens of our together-

-ness.

This book, the memory of us,

A record of survival

Against all odds.

Malignant Self- gives way to love, two points, we are:

Revisited.

V. Happy 2014 (dedication on the book “Macedonian Woodcarving”)

Carved in the wood of our togetherness, entwined,

the chiseled hurt of us:

sprawled in your arms, my wounds

and your iconic smile,

Madonna of leaves and angels.

Only one unicorn we are,

sheltered behind the royal doors

to our love. And you?

My own Iconostasis.