The CivILL Step

20/30

Sat, 20 Apr 2013 03:14:18 -0400

Art Theory
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

When contemplating how to create
often times the blankness would be stared upon
in bewilderment at the science and nature
of birthing masterpieces

Supposing there is a stride in skill involved
technique is composed
of meticulous edits to the finest detail.
Every fascination would have to be predicted
with the clairvoyance of a clapping sensor.
Or, at least you’d need to stir lemons and onions
hurt, joy, pain, bliss, tragedy, success
in a cauldron of hearts
to give a nice serving of sour-faced tear-jerkers.
Every delicacy displayed an intricate intention
meant for marveling.

However, if the formula is meant to be more relaxed
where interpretation is encouraged,
The insight can be, monumental in other ways.
Morals crafted from the core in passion.
Adorned and lathered
then poured into matter.
Movements are invoked
infused with hope
to combat abusive folk
with the muse of the soul.
A vibe of cruise control
allowing concerns to interject with priority.

Perhaps a philosopher’s endeavor is required
where blueprinted theories are encoded
beneath the seam of the product
and its patches inquire of one’s scholarly pursuits.
Civilization and culture
take shelter beneath its wings.
Language is formed
transformed and morphed
from its colloquial hymnals being whispered
all the while illustrated by those most observant
or, is it most subservient?

Maybe, we’re just conduits
projecting that whichever stirs our vibe
oblivious of its message and impacting effects
seeing us cocooning ourselves into
humility’s nestling properties.
Just our own worst critics
finding the very interpretations we give to be
just as foreign as accredited murals
meant to be recognized and scrutinized from afar.

Constructing the mold of a militia
in the confines of the sweetness of meekness.
These two, combined ‘til it reeks of completeness
displaying its compliance deep in its features.
Seeping in its fiber
were the oils of thinking and being wired
to provoke the release that needs be required
for such a beautiful piece to have been ironed
into the psyche’s wardrobe.
By the seam of the cloth’s ire
births the expression senses could perceive
from the emotions of relief to desire.
Food for thought is given
like “what’s belief to a liar?”.
Definition is established
like “I don’t dream, I inquire”.
Wisdom is imparted
like “Don’t just teach, but inspire”.
Clues are given
“when dry, decrepit and deplete,
add-mire.”
It can be brief
or go on ‘til you tire.

But what continues to remain
is the constant connection needed to be made
and attempted
until familial cords are stricken
amongst inquisitive audiences compelled to applaud…

… and its called humanity.

Cardiac Inquiry

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 21:54:15 -0400

Haven’t you finished yet?

Tending to the whims of your frozen impulse I mean.

Where you cough old oughts to infected ears

spitting slurred speeches to the offence of health

Aren’t you done yet?

With that unintrusive digger’s pamphlet

encouraging hypothetical excavations

so as not to disrupt unionized labor laws

Y’know, you have “vacant” inscribed on your forehead?

Written in a graffiti riddled with manure

So as to enrich the texture

And not fade away with the disposable nature of time.

Your care, is perhaps the most economic thing about you.

But you know that already right?

It invests in nothing but the arts of decomposition

Being feast upon by flocks of missed opportunity

Why is your heart so muzzled?

Only allowed to beep sluggishly

As though being alive was an incovenience.

Just a series of repetitive blood pumps

But you know all these things

Don’t you?

I’m just a foolish old man

With the persistence of madness.

10/30

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 23:33:52 -0400

Dust Collector

By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

We overdose on advertisements

Then underdose the ad that’s 5 cents below its first price

As its birthright entitles its depreciation once the next generation is established in fine print

Old models drink from coke bottles sitting, watching soap operas since they last had a bold throttle when they were once so unstoppable

Now the top dollar pop collar rock star’s a rock bottom feeding rot squatter.

The game was hot potato man they sold like hot cakes

Crocs & Bapes

Some pot and Jay’s

and Pac tapes

But as time elasped the hype relaxed. The mind pushed back the idol status brandished past its lavish lattice

Now they’re the latter.

Afterthought back up data that matters as an ice breaker to bridge awkward kinds of flattery

“Have you seen that casualty casually scrolling past the scene whom used to be the majesty

But forgot all his mastery?”

He’s now seen in underdeveloped photos half-asleep

A placid king

A lowkey, OG Homey with Shattered dreams

This has to mean that after the hardcore encore

He must consort with how he pored himself into a drinking gourde

‘til nothing else squeezed from his pores

Hunger, he can’t afford

Or rather can’t implore as boredom scores

He’s forged of nickels in royalty forms

Cyclical intervals given for classical venues

Sent through for sinew sentiment

Tissue for Tissue intimacy

Leniency seeped in his sheets and sweetened his teeth

Breathing a speech that breeds a beast bereaved of its heat

It’s almost like he’d beseech and bequeath someone to succeed

But he’s too much of a leech to leave

He wants to sleep in his seat

Wishing his limited gimmick was able to befriend a center of attentiveness

With interest from the penniless and withering consistency critters

Consensus, non-conscientious libelous stipend givers

and skeptics who at first didn’t consider

Now whether they’d wither in the dead of the winter with incredulous splinters

and a head full of blisters by the edge of the river

Solely depends upon dependency

An Impending “LARGE CONTINGENCY” sweeps and bleeds into the most self-conscious psyche

With wealth botched and unlikely

And self promises of denial

Dwelling on a product he can’t compile.

He’s better off settling

With the morning regimen of an old veteran

With medicine in his cupboard

For support for when those thoughts enter his head again.

He often deludes how he’ll find a new horde

Willing to claim him as the best again

Wishing for good news where he’s cited as source

He plots to get them to invest in him.

“Maybe if I do this, I’ll be less irrelevant

And if I’m less irrelevant then I’ll have more to sell to kids

And if I have more to sell to kids, I can then buy 10 sedatives

get me some wine, chilled by the sip

then I’ll get high, tickled while it’s lit

And I’ll go dine, with my pencil writing tips

Oh, that was the life

It’s simpleness I missed”

So fickle and so bliss

Nimble and remiss

Engineered in a gift he was too pimped-in to equip

Thus his grip slips and replenishment doesn’t exist

Just evidences of trips

From stardom to “remember when this..”

Before boredom was a bit of a prick

And forlornly invented the ditch

And was the thorn in the brunt of your hip

Bringing Scorn at a wondrous width

And his lips twist with gnashing teeth

His energy’s split emphatically

The industry jipped him by having him sweep at the event where he was the pageant king.

But now he’s just a dust collector

And he wants to let you know

That show business has no justice ventures

Umble's Cloth

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 04:20:29 -0400

Try as you’d might
To sustain a pulchritude.
Hints of cataclysm seep through
Ruining the fabric

Yet as it settles
So too your inquietude
To wear the garment proudly
Along with other unkempt habits.

Miranda Writes

Wed, 02 Jan 2013 02:25:50 -0500

Hold your breath and fold your fingers
close your mouth and quiet your thoughts
adjust your clothes, make-up your hair
change your diet, stamp your priorities
organize your hobbies, edit your pasttime
write your dissertation on social servitude
maximize your wallet with pretty degrees
get married to a trophy possession
clean up your room in meticulous fashion
embrace a mutual entertaining form of engagement
observe popular articles without arousing inquiry
daydream of a cliche role of a movie star
purchase products that guarantee proficiency
skim the pages of the words you say
with an unfocused pair of eyes
don’t stay up late, don’t change the channel
don’t wear scuffed shoes
don’t engage in longterm not-so-instant life changing decisions
form only popular opinions of trailblazing trendsetting notions
and ALWAYS wear a fresh suit to church.

For you are about to be thought policed.

A case of Whooping Writer's Block...

Thu, 17 May 2012 00:07:07 -0400

Drivel

Have you ever once stood in a blatant
cripple of a silence?
One so bold you’d fold and grown
And implode to your toes from
the woes
nibbling its ire
I’m talking one that engulfs
at a pulse’s embrace
while you froth at the painstaking aches
chastened to
tickling the iris.
It’s fascinated at your lacerations
your rapid pacing
& rabid berating towards a masked elation
in a grasp of hatred by a gasp of anguish
where you harass in a language
that the pain is
crippling the mind

A tablespoon of jibber

Mon, 14 May 2012 00:07:50 -0400

In the centerfold was envisioned hope
gold, miracles, and a living soap
coated in the bliss of knowing
the goals you hold would sow
in you a different mold
The clay of spirited folk
Now glazed and pickled and polished
and sprinkled with glittered tones
as if it were dipped in potions in
vats of intrinsic wholeness
buffed and waxed of the fleshly
acts, thus perhaps it is holy
Though its innards bring a livid
message that says “Please hold me”
And the void is fed with poison
dread in the form of soul cleaving
To that which just lacks
life enough for growth and feeding.
Suppose this seeking is detrimental
to development, clothed in grieving
gnashing teeth and other embarrassments
posed as traching you or insulting
your intelligence, Its hold is
breaching your retort
inviting in reticence. Do you let it in
or is that option really of your authority
silly, you can’t afford to be willing
to even plausibly pillage the thoughts
that’s bossing thee, reel it in like
a carp and be spilling its guts
apart to see if it were a
real hardened beast.

FM Tuning (Underscore point Underscore)

Mon, 03 Oct 2011 12:07:29 -0400

In-between-Stations
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

All that could be heard outside was static
The fuzz of phonetic fashion

It was a coveted earmuff
Drowning out each moment of silence we’d got accustomed to
It was a cozy hiding place with tantalizing acoustics
seducing the very drums too
uninspired to play since the heart’s beat broke
It was a mind boggling, awe-inspiring
oxymoron of simple complexities
that could arouse the envy of child prodi-geniuses
Because its tunes played notes of rage

It was an honest pastor’s sermon detailing
the bruises he inflicted on the flesh that wanted to consume him
like wrung out brains used to wipe down rock-bottom’s feeders
It was a filthy rag where all men saw themselves
and what righteousness they thought they had
It was a symphony
Because its tunes played notes of rage

A lapse of irrational wrath fed the orchestra.
Professionalism, Ettiquette, Lowkey,
mattered not to the sounds we heard.
Only the feasting on the disproportions
the imperfections
the woes that stabbed deeper than lingering insecurities

Then the sun rose…

The Primetime of a Teller's Vision

Sun, 02 Oct 2011 21:54:14 -0400

Sitcom(ed).
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

So long as our stride is tucked
within the casings of limp egos
pierced by the critique of Pinoccio noses
Leaking the blood of a once healthy morale
With no novel incisions to resuscitate its
Now pathetically pretentious build
Nothing will ever change

I know we asked for this last week
But if we could just have 30 more minutes
Just 30 minutes
We could explain to you ourselves
Our plans of conquering the woes of a (recycled alloted) time
where everything was Prime

The glamour of our mishaps, we despise
And out of spite, we repackaged them
Dressed them up to fit any style
entertain any bored face
And nothing changed

We were still the same hollowed out puppets
Drowning out crickets with unwarranted encores
Dressed down in spoiled flower-collared tuxedos
Reciting the famous lines of our bland scripts

I will I will I will
I am I am I am
But nothing changes

We did however feel renewed with each seasoned resolution
We made speeches and declarations once again

Awaiting the signal to act when the nothing is changed

But when will the nothing change?

...yo

Sun, 26 Jun 2011 00:55:30 -0400

Of Delicacies
by: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

The first chewable morsel of my nonchalant opinion
was swallowed by a web-weaving monster known as the blogosphere

The last was nibbled upon carefully
as though deadpan flavored quotes needed to be savored
on the tastebuds of communal gossip
before the dessert of warm-hearted apologies contributed
to its malnourishment

10,000 hour investment

Fri, 24 Jun 2011 02:24:47 -0400

Remember that…

O(cean) Shell

Thu, 26 May 2011 20:52:40 -0400

O shell. Why do you mourn in the sand? You are the design that man can’t fashion with twindling thumbs. Nor polish like calcitic marble. Your genetic mold is of a genius display of interwoven molecular pattern. The monotony of calm lives bounds you not to a leash. Yet something bounds you. I saw it as if you were to invite its stranglehold. It was as if your beauty was suffocated by the waves of the sea once your arms grew too fatigued to stop its scream. And your tears not only reflected pain but peace after your shoulders gave out from covering your impassioned trails. In your eyes was a mist too translucent to feed the clairvoyance that was perceived of you. The concerned is left to assert its curiosity. Why do you oft mourn when summer shade dawns? When each out of sync clock would strike to a moment not to be waisted, why then would you reminisce forthcoming splendidness? What was that blackened heart chisled by vinegar that you proclaimed? Why do you mourn in the sand with such an embrace? Could it be that the cracks and chips you suffered from you began to admire as if they were the stripes and badges to establish the credibility of your journey? Or perhaps in waiting to be excavated from the mouth of such a desolate shore, you began to play hide-n-seek with archaeologists who knew not of your existence. And thus the delusion of covetous woes injected the glamour of a will to be caressed. Like a keychain because you’d open up the doors to another world. Or like a ring to be showcased in its unique dimensions with you firmly nestled with a grip. Is that why you mourn in the sand? The wind echoes your sobs and the waves cover your hits. It was the kind of music the veins would sway to. I enjoyed it too much I suppose. Inviting my arteries and capillaries to join and dance the night away. Heart like a locomotive with stowaway versions of the sounds you made. Identifying with your dirge logistically wishing it could be played with an ensemble of encores. What it was with this tune, I can never seem to place. My silence appeared to be of a greater description and honor. O how I marveled. In whatever boldness that had become of me, I reached out with the joy of a child in hopes to take you with me to the decor of what sounds I sing, but now I know that that’s just a silly wishful whim. For in an instant you returned to the lips of that which spat you out, leaving me to mourn in the sand. I would hope to see you again, with a chance to hold and carry you. We could whisper our songs the way the birds do and let the flat notes drown where the lone, lost & forgotten love to be. And forgive the sudden forwardness but I’m jumping in as well, in hopes to find you to say my farewells o shell.

Dirge for Youthfulness

Tue, 03 May 2011 15:57:21 -0400

Dirge for Youthfulness (Left-Brain with Poetic License)
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters: The Escribe Adventurist

1, 2, 3,
4-walled and chained to locked doors and carpeted floors
Hard at war with bored dreams
Singing blues from muses grooming tunes with no new news
The soul’ll peruse but won’t bloom
It’s tainted

With garrulous merriment
Never hinting your embarrassment
Its feral hits tear the limbs
with each slit
The psyche’s endeavor cleverly severed by nefarious settlements tell the kids of television’s recantation

Radio’s daily odes with some cheerios gets really old
The internet intercepts intellect (So I’ve been told)
It swindles it ridicules and its interludes are sick-infused
Spreading a sedative with several hits across the nation

Gaming’s enslaving babies with rage and odd propensities
Stapling raving racy pixels to eye-lids
and Music’s the inclusive nuisance spewing tunes of lewd cluelessness
Boosting Grooving Toothing children to find “rich elation”

One four oh, One four oh, multiplied by Twenty-Four Oh Oh by Seven
in sections to see who follows
Exhaustive, obsessive gossip sessions to topple restlessness
often beckons odd receptions calling to dwell in anguish

Text me past 8 PM and I’ll respond to it verbatim
Greetings, speaking sweetly, breeching the silence
LOL ellipses LOL dot dot dot LOL
Meditating on LCD screens with a keyboard language

There’s so much involvement lodged in “AWE”
Like Awesome’s a virulent antidote with homogenous froth
Whatever’s described by this adjective exists in activeness
Folks who use it cannot live at all, without its sanction

Thus ripping and running geared to the supplement of mediums
Becomes common. What’s admonished is freedom
Free time is too scarce, down-winding, too rare for quick breathers
There’s an OT worldwide playpen for children where nothing changes

Time can past by cycles and eyes will widen to vital news
Band wagons will breakdown where new ones start (And by heart)
The semi-circles of friendship close and then lock on complacency
Aimless feelings and needs of refreshments begin arranging

But repetition’s indepth incision stresses this vision
With extra snippets and sips of (what do I do)
And when effort kicks in to bless the mission with breadth and provision
It’s hexed with rhythms and hits of a high-value laziness

Its strike is like heaps of lightning coarsing our veins
With our nervous system then immobilized
And our conscious felt the shock and tried to run but running’s prohibited
Simply because the impact has left the whole body pain-drenched

If we were to escape the bonds that latch us and dent us
And stab us with vicious pricks on the arm
Would we want to stay on our cots made of Wi-Fi fabric
Or rather would we insert into art our own creation

The fulfillment of purpose given to you can only be fulfilled
If time is taken to hearken the brew that you’ve been engaged in
And after considering what energy you’ve extended
Then kindling this finished piece should bring to peeps what God gave us

So waste not your time on follies and vices of addiction please
That took all your nights for “audience bribery”
But learn to turn off those offers that bother your intensity
Take some breaks, it fades away yet you shall go many places

Exhausted Metaphor

Wed, 27 Apr 2011 17:17:09 -0400

Falling. Not Flying. Just Falling.
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

Let’s stay up countless nights and ask
How often we leak anymore

How often is it that we ever slip past solid hills
and fall?
Tumble
Like the weeds we were before half-mast?
Leaping dimensions with shaky legs,
Stinging cuts and milky beards
Not hoping that someone would catch us
Or bandage up our prosthetic wings
But just jumping
Believing our arms would grow 100 yards long
to give God a high five for letting us touch the sky
Where we’d have enough elbow room
to establish the personal space needed for
a hearty self-hug

How often is it that we trip
Knowing we’ll glide to safety
Landing in foreign havens for our
infant eyes to explore
Like Groves and Ravines
Caverns
Before we become too disgusted by its scuff

One of the greatest fears in the world is heights
Falling from them
With no control of the angles
Yet theorizing as mathematicians our chances of
survival

The square roots of our pores multiplied
by our surprised faces equals
humility in lethal doses
Face on the floor
Smooches to holy ground

I was scared to fall once
When I was tipsy from rationale
Calculating distances and set-backs
Wacky positions
Gasped breaths
Pointed Fingers
Helping hands
Fixing Apparels
Playing it off

But then I thought to myself
Why can’t I just laugh about it?

Clumsical nature is a great comedian
More skilled with a sling than David or Cupid
Slapping the napes of our necks with an
awkward jealousy
The jest of our imperfections
Are taped to our backs classically
And our own lackadaisical ways are the
butt of a joke it does not understand

“What happened?”
“You had to be there.”

But what would it be like
to chuckle with the chuckle at’ers
Finding a grace in the floating recline
you meet before the body makes impact?
Is it crazy to take off knowing
gravity doesn’t agree with your actions?
Knowing you can’t defeat it
and knowing you aren’t trying
Is it still crazy?
Is the carpet that’s being pulled from beneath
our feet a ticket to a delusional playground
where reality is a worst-selling dust collecting
generic fictional tale of
excessive frill and pomp and glamorized
glitterati slaps to the cheek?

Why?

I tripped one time and noticed it was nice outside
Another, i slipped into a puddle and attempted to make
snow angels.
Not the right element I know but, perhaps
I can make the silhouette of one
That way any one who passes the puddle
could reminisce school being out on
a rainy day, complete with water ball fights.
Such a succulent dream to have
To which I go head over hills for
Each and every passing momentous occasion
As if I’d be dropping eternally.

A few thoughts from a fan.

Tue, 26 Apr 2011 16:50:26 -0400

Wii Delude
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

The same characterizations
Lorded themselves over us
Over me
Supposed to be over we

With the prominence of our council fading
To casual strolls in the park
Passion dwindled to Retro dates
Virtual foreplay
Strenuous classical assertions
Limited praises of limitlessness

The fun is of corroded amusement parks
Chipped paint on the handle holds
Advertising beautiful matrimony
From afar
Dare I to object to such frozen arms?
Not so long as those arms give the slightest appearance
Of consoling me

Leave Luck to Heaven
We always say…

1/1

Mon, 25 Apr 2011 19:01:45 -0400

So, I definitely have not been participating in 30/30 this year, just reading. I do however want to contribute at least one piece before the month left us, so I give you this.

Treasured Visions in the Eyes of a … Confidant
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

The pupils of my peers house museums
Accented by unique Irises and tears
The depth of their sight seeing is a temptress to their mouths
To which often times their lips must perform it in a shout

WOW!!!

But as seas of skys spiral to and fro
And the seasons find a time to bloom and to doze
So goes the cascading of the lids
A vast fading in the lens
Taking breaks in dark slumber
From the masquerading images

Spurts of rejuvenation from eye candyland
and seizures with delusions of grandeur
and jaundiced galore Corneas
The eyes sleep

The I’s would speak of pulchritudinous wonders
Vivacious in the essence of their syntactical structures
Relieved of the ulcerous legions of lesions they intercepted
They would wring out of their ducts
A Puddles worth of tales
That by each rolling dew
A slew of sip-sup-sobs would imbue the trails
The mechanics of their woes and wails
Crystallized in turpentine cones of pale
Turned their faces into portraits of autumn
Until what blossoms in the gloss of their twinkles
Projected on the palette Oh So Radiantly

however,
Recently they insisted on wearing shades

Dusting Off an Oldie

Mon, 21 Mar 2011 14:23:35 -0400

Liquids of Time
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

Where I must look is where I must go.
I hear many ticks, high-pitch while the tocks are low.
Clockwise bound, the time buds begin to grow,
Giving plenty of nourishment to a man’s afro.

Second by second is how I see it.
The minute reaches its tip.
Click-clock numbers fall into the pit.
Dewdrops roll down my face, past my lip.

A showering array is what time is today.
There is so much of i,t it can fill a pool.
Too much of it on our hands is what I can say.
It’s messing up the place with spills and spools.

I feel creativity is lost in this time.
Has it become so rainy that you have nothing in mind?
One’s mentality is compared to that of a stadium.
Better to have it full to avoid being the lonely-one.

Now, time can flow with you, it is like water,
Just look at it with each passing of the clock.
Do you wish it to go by that of your order?
Then enable your ideas by each raindrop.

*************************

Okay, so I’ve been writing poetry since I was 16. In less than 3 months I’ll be 21, so give and take 5 years. I noticed in my journey as a poet, I sort of only pay attention to my fresh, new novel poetry. It’s like after every 3 months or so I have a whole new catalog on display whilst unfortunately not looking back. So I decided to let everyone read some of the archived pieces that I myself haven’t visited in a long while. I wrote this particular piece when I was 16. So distant I feel now from this approach in writing.

Some miscellaneous language to help start off your weekend

Fri, 18 Mar 2011 01:45:06 -0400

A Poet’s Little Piece of Kindergarten
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

A handful of metaphors told me they were tired of being saviors and slaves to rappers.
So I let them spend a day with me.
We doodled with look alikes and tests of cognition
then pasted each one on the walls
A poet’s little piece of kindergarten

*************************

Ink yourselves and let oil vandalize your insight

***

Bitter lips taste of
Libel
The gloss of sidewalk lecturers

***

White collared hounds growl at the stench of the blue collared ones
And at the fact that blue collars aren’t electrically charged

***

The infamous fingers play the universal blame game
Too stiffened to not abuse the point

***

My conflict is of a softened pump
Pulse tapping instead of beating
Not as gripping nor prone to feeling

***

There’s a garment of ice clothing my veins
I often cough its smoke violently

***

The sugars of lust weren’t sweet enough
To soothe burnt taste buds
Only dissatisfaction with each realizing bite
Give it a day or so

***

Since Air conditioning became obsolete
Microwave sunbathing is now the new cool
Conform to it

***

Words speak louder than action with the aid of a microphone
… and procrastination

***

I try not to judge a book by its cover
But aesthetics are important when education becomes
A mere aristocratic accessory

***

Brains and Hearts should be treated like stomachs and genitals
Prone to hunger pangs with an unequivocal thirst that calls for frequent meals to be tossed its way
‘til satisfaction is reached.
You don’t have to smoke afterwards though.

***

I venture to say the occupation of the celebrity has forcibly become “professional idol.”
May humility be their grandest salary

***

It’s tough to find the difference between open-minded people and hollow-minded people.

***

For everyone’s sake,
It’d be best not to make movies based on an actor’s life.
Because then it’d just be a movie about making movies.

***

This is what happens when Planet Pluto channels David Ruffin:

“Gon’ tell me I’M not apart of the group no more? … must be outta yo damn mind!”

***

When your eye twitches, that means your eyes want you to read something.

***

One time
I ate a lemon
And understood what it meant to be
deep

*************************

When we ran out of room on the walls
We colored the rest into our fabric
Then wrung our spongy brains over our lips
Thirsting for novel ideas
With flamboyant whims
Pretentious grins
And whatever else makes a sentence blend
With the rest of its playful paragraph
A poet’s little piece of kindergarten

Note: What I was trying to assert earlier was “Actions DON’T speak louder than words.”
Because poets have powerful lungs.

A thought when stripped of its pomp and frill.

Wed, 09 Mar 2011 13:41:31 -0500

Provoked Waters
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

Willing to drive a dagger in his logic
In hopes that his brain would be the red sea

But dogma barks too loudly
disturbing each wave with riots of heresy

First piece of March

Tue, 01 Mar 2011 13:15:27 -0500

My First Statement After Kissing an Existentialist
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

For anyone who has been
Asking
Wondering
Brainstorm Forecasting
Heart Plundering
Thunder Stealing
Truth Throat-Shoving
Love Philosophy-ing
Year-Book Perusing
Incentivizing
Swaggering
Lecher Leech Lecturing
Bucket Kicking
Mind Gaming
Bull Jiving
Jargon Pooping
Eye Ejaculating
Tongue Twister-ing
Present-less Gift-Rapping
Non Sequitur Newsletter-ing
Confession Soliloquy-ing
Monotonous Stanza Mime-ing
Pulchritudinous Nature Detailing
Non Indoor-voice Slam Shouting
Label-Maker Ranking
Plebeian Ridiculing
Vocabulary Enforcing
Lyricism Orchestrating
Hype Proliferating
Emoticon Bandaging
Ye Olde English Tale-ing
Non Particularly Notion Attending
Crowd Alienating
Heritage Stapling
Desperation Fist-Pumping
Misadventure Rationale Considering
Monumentous Movement Framing
Empathetically Teeth Biting
Dramatization Simulating
Hyperbolic Style Stage Gracing
Identification Re-establishing
Low Key Wall Flowering
And/or Obsessively Puzzle-Solving
As to the true definition of Poetry
Look no further

For Poetry is simply “A Collection of Poems”
Archived like the forgotten inmates of Spiral Asylum

So perhaps all of us can contribute to it
That is if we have any more tasks to spare