Donate coins to Finder.
Juice
Cancel
If you could give anything to someone you care about or to who you think deserves it, what would it give them and why did you choose that particular person?
Written by Finder in portal Stream of Consciousness

Because I do.

Forgiveness

rolls out of my heart

to no one in particular

not at all because they deserve it

but because

I do.

6
3
0
Juice
5 reads
Donate coins to Finder.
Juice
Cancel
If you could give anything to someone you care about or to who you think deserves it, what would it give them and why did you choose that particular person?
Written by Finder in portal Stream of Consciousness
Because I do.
Forgiveness
rolls out of my heart
to no one in particular
not at all because they deserve it
but because
I do.
6
3
0
Juice
5 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Vibha.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Vibha in portal Stream of Consciousness

As you sow ...

"Brethren we shall survive,

God is on our side!"

His voice was loud,

So cheered the crowd.

Alas he didn't know,

He was more mortal

Than any man.

What his Messiah did not tell him,

His new born was part of the plan!

When men decide in the name of God!

3
1
0
Juice
5 reads
Donate coins to Vibha.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Vibha in portal Stream of Consciousness
As you sow ...
"Brethren we shall survive,
God is on our side!"
His voice was loud,
So cheered the crowd.
Alas he didn't know,
He was more mortal
Than any man.
What his Messiah did not tell him,
His new born was part of the plan!

When men decide in the name of God!
#liveandletlive  #notthewillofgod 
3
1
0
Juice
5 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to wordSwork.
Juice
Cancel
Written by wordSwork in portal Stream of Consciousness

Sequel addendum to, It all began with rocks

     The universe, as far as the human eye can see and mind can fathom, is comprised of rock, gas and light emitted from stars. The planets are innumerable, ours is covered with water, filled with life.

     Any fool knows that all things man made have a source of origin. Consider an everyday item, a smartphone. It's creation, its evolution are both sustained and driven by man. No fool questions this truth. There's no point of argument, there are tons of more important things to argue.

     There's a NASA video displaying the splendor of the moon's surface from the perspective of the astronaut’s view. The crater pocked, grey surface rolls underneath as the horizon stretches far in the distance. The ever rolling miles move along. I am transfixed by the vast, repetitive scene, crater upon crater, large and small. The smoothness of the lunar soil as it appears at this altitude contrasts vividly with the craters. This is a world with only two landforms. Plains of lunar soil and craters.

     The atmosphere is black as there is no atmosphere, (an intentional oxymoronic statement).

     The blackness of the sky adds to the utter feel of loneliness. The term dead world is appropriate.

     It feels not so much dead, but utterly devoid of life. Although beautiful.

No ladybugs. No roses.

No moving, breathing thing.

Nothing moving. hostile in temperatures.

No air.

Beautiful and frightening at the same time.

     Other NASA videos show the earth on the moon’s horizon. You and I live on this blue and white orb, situated, floating in the stark blackness of space, surrounded by deadly radioactivity and space rocks. Makes the existence of our planet all the more wondrous.

Many planets populate space. My intuition tells me the substance of what they, the gases and the stars were made of, that is, all the elements that comprise the known universe, have an ultimate origin, or source. Intuitive logic, also known as intelligence tells me that their creator also created us.

     We are a lonely species. We know of no other beings near or as far as our telescopic eyes or radio wave sensors can tell us. Many of us ask ourselves, “where is our Creator?”

Many of us get lost in the million roads leading to forever, yet our lives are fragile and utterly temporal, filled with pain and disease. Life is fleeting. Many trust in money, fame, themselves or nothing.

     Astrophysicists tell us that most of the matter in our universe is invisible. Perhaps our creator is invisible they surmise. Due to this apparent trait, regarding what is referred to as, Dark Matter, some do not bother with further investigation. Others, having privy to the Cern Collider in Europe, pursue discovery of the infamous, Higgs Boson which they believe is the glue that holds the universe together, perhaps hoping they will discover the elemental structure of Dark Matter in process.

     Regarding the possibility of a creator, most dismiss its non feasibility and delve into other elements of physics. Some boldly argue that the existence of God cannot be proven.

This is like saying the existence of Dark Matter or any invisible elements the universe is replete with is undiscoverable. 

     Nevertheless, history written by various accounts of the world’s inhabitants over centuries past, holds generous proofs of the involvement of just such a being, or creator of our worlds and of life. There are specific events which occurred upon specific geographic locations of our watery sphere of rock.

     One such event is known as the parting of the Red Sea.

     Another one is an event whereupon the earth stopped its rotational spin of orbit for at least one full day.

     It took intelligence for such events to have taken place. Power usually accompanies intelligence. Events such as these are referred to as supernatural events. Most of the scientific community fails to acknowledge the paranormal or the supernatural. Denial does not preclude the occurrence of a phenomenon.

     One other event which broke into the natural world of rock, gas and stars was when the creator sent his son Jesus the Christ to intervene into the affairs of mankind with words of love, truth and eternal life.

3
1
1
Juice
16 reads
Donate coins to wordSwork.
Juice
Cancel
Written by wordSwork in portal Stream of Consciousness
Sequel addendum to, It all began with rocks
     The universe, as far as the human eye can see and mind can fathom, is comprised of rock, gas and light emitted from stars. The planets are innumerable, ours is covered with water, filled with life.
     Any fool knows that all things man made have a source of origin. Consider an everyday item, a smartphone. It's creation, its evolution are both sustained and driven by man. No fool questions this truth. There's no point of argument, there are tons of more important things to argue.
     There's a NASA video displaying the splendor of the moon's surface from the perspective of the astronaut’s view. The crater pocked, grey surface rolls underneath as the horizon stretches far in the distance. The ever rolling miles move along. I am transfixed by the vast, repetitive scene, crater upon crater, large and small. The smoothness of the lunar soil as it appears at this altitude contrasts vividly with the craters. This is a world with only two landforms. Plains of lunar soil and craters.
     The atmosphere is black as there is no atmosphere, (an intentional oxymoronic statement).
     The blackness of the sky adds to the utter feel of loneliness. The term dead world is appropriate.
     It feels not so much dead, but utterly devoid of life. Although beautiful.

No ladybugs. No roses.
No moving, breathing thing.
Nothing moving. hostile in temperatures.
No air.
Beautiful and frightening at the same time.

     Other NASA videos show the earth on the moon’s horizon. You and I live on this blue and white orb, situated, floating in the stark blackness of space, surrounded by deadly radioactivity and space rocks. Makes the existence of our planet all the more wondrous.
Many planets populate space. My intuition tells me the substance of what they, the gases and the stars were made of, that is, all the elements that comprise the known universe, have an ultimate origin, or source. Intuitive logic, also known as intelligence tells me that their creator also created us.
     We are a lonely species. We know of no other beings near or as far as our telescopic eyes or radio wave sensors can tell us. Many of us ask ourselves, “where is our Creator?”
Many of us get lost in the million roads leading to forever, yet our lives are fragile and utterly temporal, filled with pain and disease. Life is fleeting. Many trust in money, fame, themselves or nothing.
     Astrophysicists tell us that most of the matter in our universe is invisible. Perhaps our creator is invisible they surmise. Due to this apparent trait, regarding what is referred to as, Dark Matter, some do not bother with further investigation. Others, having privy to the Cern Collider in Europe, pursue discovery of the infamous, Higgs Boson which they believe is the glue that holds the universe together, perhaps hoping they will discover the elemental structure of Dark Matter in process.
     Regarding the possibility of a creator, most dismiss its non feasibility and delve into other elements of physics. Some boldly argue that the existence of God cannot be proven.
This is like saying the existence of Dark Matter or any invisible elements the universe is replete with is undiscoverable. 
     Nevertheless, history written by various accounts of the world’s inhabitants over centuries past, holds generous proofs of the involvement of just such a being, or creator of our worlds and of life. There are specific events which occurred upon specific geographic locations of our watery sphere of rock.
     One such event is known as the parting of the Red Sea.
     Another one is an event whereupon the earth stopped its rotational spin of orbit for at least one full day.
     It took intelligence for such events to have taken place. Power usually accompanies intelligence. Events such as these are referred to as supernatural events. Most of the scientific community fails to acknowledge the paranormal or the supernatural. Denial does not preclude the occurrence of a phenomenon.
     One other event which broke into the natural world of rock, gas and stars was when the creator sent his son Jesus the Christ to intervene into the affairs of mankind with words of love, truth and eternal life.
#blogishness 
3
1
1
Juice
16 reads
Load 1 Comment
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to ALifeWitArt.
Juice
Cancel
Written by ALifeWitArt in portal Stream of Consciousness

...

I am fading ...

Outside your peripheral

Barely intelligible

With lines blurred and --

I am caught below the surface

Watch me.

As my shadow dissolves

It isn't personal

Because:

You can't see my face.

14
4
2
Juice
33 reads
Donate coins to ALifeWitArt.
Juice
Cancel
Written by ALifeWitArt in portal Stream of Consciousness
...
I am fading ...
Outside your peripheral
Barely intelligible
With lines blurred and --
I am caught below the surface
Watch me.
As my shadow dissolves
It isn't personal
Because:
You can't see my face.
#poetry 
14
4
2
Juice
33 reads
Load 2 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to sleepingheart.
Juice
Cancel
Written by sleepingheart in portal Stream of Consciousness

fluid

I look for signs.

I look for signs in your texts. When you start a conversation. When you turn to me while laughing at something that someone said. When you look to me to hear my opinion. When you tease me.

When I watch two people pretend to fall in love on my screen, I look for you and me in him and her.

I feel like I'm headed towards heartbreak with neither the will nor any way to stop. 

12
6
0
Juice
37 reads
Donate coins to sleepingheart.
Juice
Cancel
Written by sleepingheart in portal Stream of Consciousness
fluid
I look for signs.
I look for signs in your texts. When you start a conversation. When you turn to me while laughing at something that someone said. When you look to me to hear my opinion. When you tease me.
When I watch two people pretend to fall in love on my screen, I look for you and me in him and her.
I feel like I'm headed towards heartbreak with neither the will nor any way to stop. 
12
6
0
Juice
37 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Kimba.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Kimba in portal Stream of Consciousness

PIECES

Perhaps she was constructed

of all the pieces

others were too weak

to carry

20
2
4
Juice
19 reads
Donate coins to Kimba.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Kimba in portal Stream of Consciousness
PIECES
Perhaps she was constructed
of all the pieces
others were too weak
to carry
#poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #wisdom 
20
2
4
Juice
19 reads
Load 4 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Soulhearts.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Soulhearts in portal Stream of Consciousness

Love is always never enough.

I have given it the best I can.

The way I know how.

I thought that as long as I give love truly, wholeheartedly then it would be all that it takes to make you better, to make me better. But I was wrong.

Love was never the answer.

Love is a bully. It pushes you to give

and give until there's nothing left of you.Why do we love then when the only thing it gives back are broken souls and tears —hurts that never heal? We are all damned and death is the only thing waiting for us in the end.

What's wrong with love?

What's wrong with loving?

Love be kind, please be kind.

19
8
9
Juice
51 reads
Donate coins to Soulhearts.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Soulhearts in portal Stream of Consciousness
Love is always never enough.
I have given it the best I can.
The way I know how.
I thought that as long as I give love truly, wholeheartedly then it would be all that it takes to make you better, to make me better. But I was wrong.
Love was never the answer.
Love is a bully. It pushes you to give
and give until there's nothing left of you.Why do we love then when the only thing it gives back are broken souls and tears —hurts that never heal? We are all damned and death is the only thing waiting for us in the end.
What's wrong with love?
What's wrong with loving?
Love be kind, please be kind.

#nonfiction  #life  #love  #opinion  #notapoem  #arantatlove  #arantatlife 
19
8
9
Juice
51 reads
Load 9 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to GhoulCircus.
Juice
Cancel
Written by GhoulCircus in portal Stream of Consciousness

I. Artisan

                                                     All dying stars rest

                                            in the coil of a crescent moon,

                                          broken, waiting for their artisan;

                                           The hands of time tick to cure

                                           Hours, minutes, seconds assure

                                           what any proficient clocksmith

                                              may advise in the recovery

                                                     of a celestial soul:

                                         Three hands are better than some,

                                            two hands are better than one,

                                          and one hand is better than none.

     Time is fickle coincidence.

     In my earliest months, I had already come to accept its wry harmony. Teething on the bitter brass of an antique timepiece, my infantile bonding skills nurtured a rather amicable relationship between gear and flesh. An acquired taste for continuous measurable sequence shadowed me with age, a taste I would eventually come to embrace as a vital peculiarity.

     Fickle coincidence, indeed.

     It's a baffling parallel, a rarity of sorts, to be born with the flow of time in your veins, a heartbeat synced to the ticks and tocks of a second hand. Should a clock spontaneously break in the same room as a time-born heart, the result might be fatal. It was for this very reason that I kept my timepiece suitably close, tucked safely in the pocket of my vest. Though weathered by years, and an oblivious infant with an affinity for brassy palates, never once had its gears failed to twist and turn. One would expect such a persistent device to have an elaborate story behind its acquirement, but its story is simply this:

     It has no story, and the mystery of its origin inspires tales far more imaginative than any pen could bleed upon an empty page.

                                                     

                                                     A city that sleeps

                                                   is a city that dreams,

                                              yet even the quietest nights

                                            are eclipsed with the madness

                                                     of wakeful souls;

                                              Haunted by restless travail,

                                            dreams are forged from reality,

                                         a bitter duality of heart and mind.

                                               It is from this very madness

                                                   that artisans are born,

                                                      come to rebuild,

                                                             renew,

                                                        and replenish

                                                      the fractured sky.

     Blood moon, copper eye, flooding its butchered light over desolate boulevards and slumbering abodes. From the heights of decrepit rooftops burning red with lunar rage, the Basilique Notre-Dame concealed the city's better half in somnolent shadow, leaving a ramshackle massacre of moldering slums to suffer the grisly spotlight. A monstrosity it seemed; cavernous alcoves stained in harvest glow, the contours of its grand structure cutting menacing shapes into the gradient surface. Paltry in comparison to the basilica, yet still unrivaled by its neighboring vicinage, was the square chapel. Eyes fixed and following the minute hand of the chapel’s astronomical clock, I hooked a finger around the chain of my timepiece and slipped it from its velvet sheath. A familiar taste of metal soured my mouth before the chapel clock struck twelve.

Tick. 

         Tock.

                   Twelve.

     From the moment I learned how to count, I'd tally my age as I would hours in a day. But on this rare, devilish midnight, I no longer had the luxury. I say this not with resentment or fear, but with a curiosity of what lies beyond the twelfth hour. What is to come at the age of thirteen? Hopefully, a dwindling desire to place innocent gadgets between my now fully developed teeth.

     I'm getting better, surely.

                                                    

                                                    The inevitable consequence

                                                            of time is change.

                                                      An artisan welcomes change

                                                         the same as they dread

                                                          its turbulent nature;

                                                             With a curiosity,

                                                              with a madness,

                                                               with a dream.

     I am one such artisan.

Without a thirteenth hour, I've means to create my own. What is to come at the age of thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen? Twenty? Mystery is the root of all inspiration, and as it continues to wash over me in waves, I shall spend my nights surveying the skies for dying stars.

18
10
21
Juice
62 reads
Donate coins to GhoulCircus.
Juice
Cancel
Written by GhoulCircus in portal Stream of Consciousness
I. Artisan
                                                     All dying stars rest
                                            in the coil of a crescent moon,
                                          broken, waiting for their artisan;

                                           The hands of time tick to cure
                                           Hours, minutes, seconds assure
                                           what any proficient clocksmith
                                              may advise in the recovery
                                                     of a celestial soul:

                                         Three hands are better than some,
                                            two hands are better than one,
                                          and one hand is better than none.


     Time is fickle coincidence.

     In my earliest months, I had already come to accept its wry harmony. Teething on the bitter brass of an antique timepiece, my infantile bonding skills nurtured a rather amicable relationship between gear and flesh. An acquired taste for continuous measurable sequence shadowed me with age, a taste I would eventually come to embrace as a vital peculiarity.

     Fickle coincidence, indeed.

     It's a baffling parallel, a rarity of sorts, to be born with the flow of time in your veins, a heartbeat synced to the ticks and tocks of a second hand. Should a clock spontaneously break in the same room as a time-born heart, the result might be fatal. It was for this very reason that I kept my timepiece suitably close, tucked safely in the pocket of my vest. Though weathered by years, and an oblivious infant with an affinity for brassy palates, never once had its gears failed to twist and turn. One would expect such a persistent device to have an elaborate story behind its acquirement, but its story is simply this:
     It has no story, and the mystery of its origin inspires tales far more imaginative than any pen could bleed upon an empty page.

                                                     
                                                     A city that sleeps
                                                   is a city that dreams,
                                              yet even the quietest nights
                                            are eclipsed with the madness
                                                     of wakeful souls;

                                              Haunted by restless travail,
                                            dreams are forged from reality,
                                         a bitter duality of heart and mind.

                                               It is from this very madness
                                                   that artisans are born,
                                                      come to rebuild,
                                                             renew,
                                                        and replenish
                                                      the fractured sky.


     Blood moon, copper eye, flooding its butchered light over desolate boulevards and slumbering abodes. From the heights of decrepit rooftops burning red with lunar rage, the Basilique Notre-Dame concealed the city's better half in somnolent shadow, leaving a ramshackle massacre of moldering slums to suffer the grisly spotlight. A monstrosity it seemed; cavernous alcoves stained in harvest glow, the contours of its grand structure cutting menacing shapes into the gradient surface. Paltry in comparison to the basilica, yet still unrivaled by its neighboring vicinage, was the square chapel. Eyes fixed and following the minute hand of the chapel’s astronomical clock, I hooked a finger around the chain of my timepiece and slipped it from its velvet sheath. A familiar taste of metal soured my mouth before the chapel clock struck twelve.

Tick. 
         Tock.
                   Twelve.

     From the moment I learned how to count, I'd tally my age as I would hours in a day. But on this rare, devilish midnight, I no longer had the luxury. I say this not with resentment or fear, but with a curiosity of what lies beyond the twelfth hour. What is to come at the age of thirteen? Hopefully, a dwindling desire to place innocent gadgets between my now fully developed teeth.

     I'm getting better, surely.

                                                    
                                                    The inevitable consequence
                                                            of time is change.

                                                      An artisan welcomes change
                                                         the same as they dread
                                                          its turbulent nature;

                                                             With a curiosity,
                                                              with a madness,
                                                               with a dream.


     I am one such artisan.
Without a thirteenth hour, I've means to create my own. What is to come at the age of thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen? Twenty? Mystery is the root of all inspiration, and as it continues to wash over me in waves, I shall spend my nights surveying the skies for dying stars.
#minuit  #lyon 
18
10
21
Juice
62 reads
Load 21 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Kimba.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Kimba in portal Stream of Consciousness

THE CHANGELING

He changes her

by letting her

be herself

27
8
6
Juice
47 reads
Donate coins to Kimba.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Kimba in portal Stream of Consciousness
THE CHANGELING
He changes her
by letting her
be herself
#romance  #poetry  #philosophy  #love  #spirituality 
27
8
6
Juice
47 reads
Load 6 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Fortbruce.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Fortbruce in portal Stream of Consciousness

The Poet

In life he often composed in rhyme,

Or occasionally in proses,

Buried now with eraser in-hand,

He quietly decomposes...

(c) Bruce A McCausland

1
0
0
Juice
6 reads
Donate coins to Fortbruce.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Fortbruce in portal Stream of Consciousness
The Poet
In life he often composed in rhyme,
Or occasionally in proses,
Buried now with eraser in-hand,
He quietly decomposes...

(c) Bruce A McCausland
1
0
0
Juice
6 reads
Login to post comments.