istoppedtrying
Beacon, Don't Fly Too High...
The hypocrisy of the gold standard
will bring you back to dirt
The bulldozers of black from which you hide
istoppedtrying
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Written by istoppedtrying in portal Haiku

Nothing More...

It is nothing more

then her and her demeaning

bloodied on the lane.

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Written by istoppedtrying in portal Haiku
Nothing More...

It is nothing more
then her and her demeaning
bloodied on the lane.


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Written by istoppedtrying

Peppered in Pressure

The petrichor pure

imbrication,

the monopoly

over a panoply. 

Silence,

who writes their words, 

from a sub-conscious 

palate,

brooding

outside the janitor's

bucket, subsumed by

the sloppy. 

White noise 

propinquity,

baptized

in the 

false purity,

the secrecy 

and the curtains to hide

behind.

Pretentious

preachings from

rhythmic tongues-

the masks

diaphanous

through my spectacles. 

Conflating testicles

are the shoelaces

finally tied-

the ends drowned,

purified.

 

 

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Written by istoppedtrying
Peppered in Pressure
The petrichor pure
imbrication,
the monopoly
over a panoply. 
Silence,
who writes their words, 
from a sub-conscious 
palate,
brooding
outside the janitor's
bucket, subsumed by
the sloppy. 
White noise 
propinquity,
baptized
in the 
false purity,
the secrecy 
and the curtains to hide
behind.
Pretentious
preachings from
rhythmic tongues-
the masks
diaphanous
through my spectacles. 
Conflating testicles
are the shoelaces
finally tied-
the ends drowned,
purified.
 
 
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Written by istoppedtrying

Furtive Glamour

Evanescent cynosure

through the labyrinthine

labyrinth.

Parallel adolescent bulbs,

ephemeral in my

reflection, what's

imbued

within my incipient

palimpsest.

Opulence riparian,

sensations forbade,

but not the scintilla

ripple.

Erstwhile, the

forbearance,

the ersatz wafture

falling

through the echoes

of susurrous cliffs.

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Written by istoppedtrying
Furtive Glamour
Evanescent cynosure
through the labyrinthine
labyrinth.
Parallel adolescent bulbs,
ephemeral in my
reflection, what's
imbued
within my incipient
palimpsest.
Opulence riparian,
sensations forbade,
but not the scintilla
ripple.
Erstwhile, the
forbearance,
the ersatz wafture
falling
through the echoes
of susurrous cliffs.
9
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Written by istoppedtrying

Title.

Write.

I find it funny that

an electronic

screen is detailing

my meaning

of life...

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Written by istoppedtrying
Title.
Write.




I find it funny that
an electronic
screen is detailing
my meaning
of life...
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Written by istoppedtrying

Nothing is Something

A puzzle

without pieces.

No.

Without colors.

A puzzle

without colors.

Is one of the reasons.

The accountant

stole

away the paper.

The green paper.

Except it wasn't green

to her.

It was gray.

Except it wasn't gray

to her.

It was less than nothing.

Yes,

less than nothing to her.

But nothing

was something,

and she needed

something,

so she

needed nothing.

But something

material.

Valued.

Something valued.

So she grabbed

value,

not to her

Not to her.

But to others,

it held value.

It helped her,

to squeeze within

the stereotype.

By trying,

she made the

walls smaller.

But it didn't matter.

Confined.

Chained to others,

who

attached,

something to nothing.

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Written by istoppedtrying
Nothing is Something
A puzzle
without pieces.
No.
Without colors.
A puzzle
without colors.
Is one of the reasons.
The accountant
stole
away the paper.
The green paper.
Except it wasn't green
to her.
It was gray.
Except it wasn't gray
to her.
It was less than nothing.
Yes,
less than nothing to her.
But nothing
was something,
and she needed
something,
so she
needed nothing.

But something
material.
Valued.
Something valued.

So she grabbed
value,
not to her
Not to her.
But to others,
it held value.
It helped her,
to squeeze within
the stereotype.
By trying,
she made the
walls smaller.

But it didn't matter.

Confined.
Chained to others,
who
attached,
something to nothing.
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Another 10 word micropoem challenge: write a poem that begins with the word TAIL and ends with the word TALE. Or the other way around! Tag me, if you wish! #ATailTale
Written by istoppedtrying in portal Micropoetry

Lasso Life this Once

Tail, lasso to

grasp life,

"happily

ever after,"

a tale.

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Another 10 word micropoem challenge: write a poem that begins with the word TAIL and ends with the word TALE. Or the other way around! Tag me, if you wish! #ATailTale
Written by istoppedtrying in portal Micropoetry
Lasso Life this Once
Tail, lasso to
grasp life,
"happily
ever after,"
a tale.
#atailtale 
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Written by istoppedtrying

morphing with morphine

Am I the only one who

finds

metaphors

transformative?

Or simply,

an attraction

to the insane,

synonymous

spirit of the

simile.

Would it be...

distasteful

if I

inhabited Mother Nature

and become Moses

and split the rift

between the bolts on

the subway seat.

Entrance the gum

on the side-

walk,

so many shoes,

who creates this wall

of

emotion to

divide

me from myself

and multiply

the rhyme

so I

can live the rest

of my life

in peace.

That the syllabic

quality is

maintained, so

the line breaks

can escape

the cage, while

I wallow in my own pain's

captivity.

Is this an equation,

the path for

pure patience

by the mathematician,

who'd never

try to turn on the

ignition without

the cold

comfort

of his car keys.

Am I the poet

too focused on abstract

words averse

to the ritual

of

subservient pity,

the speculation of a

existence erased

by a

pencil's obscurity.

Or do I prefer pen...

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Written by istoppedtrying
morphing with morphine
Am I the only one who
finds
metaphors
transformative?
Or simply,
an attraction
to the insane,
synonymous
spirit of the
simile.
Would it be...
distasteful
if I
inhabited Mother Nature
and become Moses
and split the rift
between the bolts on
the subway seat.
Entrance the gum
on the side-
walk,
so many shoes,
who creates this wall
of
emotion to
divide
me from myself
and multiply
the rhyme
so I
can live the rest
of my life
in peace.
That the syllabic
quality is
maintained, so
the line breaks
can escape
the cage, while
I wallow in my own pain's
captivity.
Is this an equation,
the path for
pure patience
by the mathematician,
who'd never
try to turn on the
ignition without
the cold
comfort
of his car keys.
Am I the poet
too focused on abstract
words averse
to the ritual
of
subservient pity,
the speculation of a
existence erased
by a
pencil's obscurity.

Or do I prefer pen...
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Written by istoppedtrying

"Define Random" #3

This is a series of special poems I'm doing. Basically, I pick a letter of the alphabet and think of a word starting with that letter*. I take the list of words and try to make a poem.

*words such as a, of, the, with, but, etc. are not counted.

words coated on

newspapers,

the unknown priests

of interrogation

wordscarefully worked

into a smile without a treasure

wind of a black tombstone

the leftovers of

his words

a noise on a frame

on the wall of a piano

finishing,

if you

fit my quivering companion

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Written by istoppedtrying
"Define Random" #3
This is a series of special poems I'm doing. Basically, I pick a letter of the alphabet and think of a word starting with that letter*. I take the list of words and try to make a poem.

*words such as a, of, the, with, but, etc. are not counted.



words coated on
newspapers,
the unknown priests
of interrogation
wordscarefully worked
into a smile without a treasure
wind of a black tombstone
the leftovers of
his words
a noise on a frame
on the wall of a piano
finishing,
if you
fit my quivering companion
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Written by istoppedtrying

untitled

He was the wall

on which the

ivy grew.

The rough stones

not as rough

as they

were before.

He was the curtain

through which the

lady strut.

The soft silk

not as soft

as it

was before.

He was the canvas

on which the

painter grieved.

The beautiful tears

not as beautiful

as they

were before.

He was the truth

from which the

girl ran.

The hidden truth

not as hidden

as it

was before.

He was the mirror

in which the

orphan searched.

The nebulous glass

not as nebulous

as it

was before. 

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Written by istoppedtrying
untitled
He was the wall
on which the
ivy grew.
The rough stones
not as rough
as they
were before.

He was the curtain
through which the
lady strut.
The soft silk
not as soft
as it
was before.

He was the canvas
on which the
painter grieved.
The beautiful tears
not as beautiful
as they
were before.

He was the truth
from which the
girl ran.
The hidden truth
not as hidden
as it
was before.

He was the mirror
in which the
orphan searched.
The nebulous glass
not as nebulous
as it
was before. 
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Written by istoppedtrying

More than Bloody

(a terrible piece of poetry)

This world equates charades

With the holy water

in which we bathe.

The location of our sanctum,

verbatim.

Our day of death down

to date.

The pleasure the lies

entail, the smiles, the

fabrication frail.

Quilts of guilt,

created, when

life's a little

more than stale.

The gravestone, never

visited, as blood seeps

into the pale.

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Written by istoppedtrying
More than Bloody

(a terrible piece of poetry)

This world equates charades
With the holy water
in which we bathe.
The location of our sanctum,
verbatim.
Our day of death down
to date.
The pleasure the lies
entail, the smiles, the
fabrication frail.
Quilts of guilt,
created, when
life's a little
more than stale.
The gravestone, never
visited, as blood seeps
into the pale.
3
0
0
Juice
16 reads
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