The Write Frame - Poetry by Nab.

Inspired by a quote by Dr. Manhattan. Heh.

HE 1523-0901.

The stars remain at every turn
it’s only a question of visible quantity but
thing is, I tire myself
looking at these lifeless forms of existence
and trying to think about the irony of it.
To see the dead, dusty lights in the sky
and muse about life.
We’re all a bundle of oxymoronic displays
with a penchant for dreaming up
our own futures.
Stuff made of myths
- the ones we know might just
remain in the shades.
Unlike the bright plasmas we usurp our
minds from, the talked-about and the looked-at,
the ones giving a seemingly guiltless insight
at life the way we want it,
life after killing ourselves
life after our death.
We're always killing ourselves.
Always wishing and stumbling.
And then always thinking and
looking up at dead things.

Two-Hand Gesture, Mimic A Person In Peril.

This is the universal sign for danger,
Of confines and calluses and slipshod entities of a human heart.
I can ruin many things, but only if I’m told to;
This time, it’s the story of escape to a wary suburb.
But I like what it entails,
like a rescuer with half-hearted efforts and
limited attention to detail.
I’m not safe anymore, but there’s only room for comfort.

This is the universal sign for loyalty.
Of suns and moons, and making me twice the man that I’m not.
The only reason why we speak is to prove something
to ourselves. So I’m speaking to prove
this to my past: you’re not the best you can be.
And we’re the only ones who can reach out to the perfect existence
we tell ourselves we’ll have. So I’m proving this
to prove that I can: I’m not the best I can be.

This is the universal sign for loss.
Of mourning and grief over dead souls when all we feel,
is pity and regret; and then the occasional bout of gloom.
And we don’t say ‘I wish I had’ more than we would now
because we’ve trained ourselves with
actions we’ll eventually lament over. There’s nothing
we’re doing now we’ll ever be content with.

This is the universal sign for
‘Always wanting what we can’t have’
And forgoing the simple notion of life we’re familiar with
And while we’re all sitting and worried
losing what we thought was immortal,

we raise our heads and wish the rulebook had mentioned

a line or two about the universal sign for
‘There’s one of us’.

Or ‘It’s over’.

Or choking.

Or help.

crimes in the mosh.:

HE 1523-0901.

I thought most of it wasn't flowing just right. The starting of it was... rather mediocre for a poet like you. But you know what? I loved the ending. You just kind of snuck up on the reader and shifted their perspective and that's what made me like this poem.

Unlike the bright plasmas we usurp our
minds from, the talked-about and the looked-at,
the ones giving a seemingly guiltless insight
at life the way we want it,
life after killing ourselves
life after our death.
We're always killing ourselves.
Always wishing and stumbling.
And then always thinking and
looking up at dead things.


That's my favorite part. I like your thought process here, it's unique and different and something I really love about your poems. :]

Sometimes you have to die and live again, to stop your
irrevocable death. You have to cry; you have to lose.
Sometimes you have to perform the sin.
Sometimes you have to give up to
never give in.


I haven't been on here for so long, but this was just magical...
You get better and better every time i come back here.

I've missed so much!!!

Deadline.

When you’re done digging the front porch
for something a little more benign and of meaning,
take the rake, and
put on your worst show yet.
We’re all at the prime of our lives with
our hands creating dream webs;

or, flimsy tales,
or

whatever is left of fantasy these days.
These days, we all enjoy the pig-out
sessions and the
“blooming into nothing”, knowing
full well it’ll be something eventually.
If we try enough.

Five minutes is all I’m left with before I stop
sitting around,
not picking up the pieces.

MORE PLEEAAASSSEEEE????

I need my fix of awesome poetry

xx

Beautiful, as always.
Every talent we hone, we want to sell.
We fall in love with our past, and our future

Forget dignity.
Pin courage on mobsters who try
to drag us. Give them time, and
effort you would hardly bless the
rest with.

Let the commercial
clandestine
take over our youth, and fight
with the spark they never searched
for. It’s up to us to
convince,
it’s up to us to
understand and
relate. To try,
to commit, to change.

We’re the right ones.
We’re the ones letting everything in.

________________

Headless Weather.

You go to coffee houses to sit down, and stare, and wait.
You stir each mug with resolute dramatics
and just the right pinch of self-conscious pity.
Pick nickels off the streets.
Assure them as signs.
Call common occurrences oddities.
You look between books;
You stay tucked inside them, flitting between one and the other,
eyes to the dense of the sky and
cringe at the sentence structures of weeds.
Sighing, and liking it, then
Hurting, and feeling the pinches of being alive, then
Feeling the words shrivel and die inside yourself, trapped
only by your insistence of muse-searching and a lack of initiation.
You sit,
your bones and your teeth to the coffee mug,
your skeletons as a burdening legacy in the corner couch,
your reliance on drugs and poverty for a trip to nowhere.

You walk along dull corners.
You stir the plain liquids and let your words melt in its heat.
Then you stare.
Then you wait.

Wow. Some of those sentences were just gorgeous.

eyes to the dense of the sky and
cringe at the sentence structures of weeds.
Sighing, and liking it, then
Hurting, and feeling the pinches of being alive

I love the self-absorption depicted - the slight enjoyment everyone gets from being miserable and dramatic.
Love it. Well done, Nab.