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the words of revelation fall from your lap to mine,
god. it’s perhaps that i’m the wrong john or jacob,
but superfluous was not in the universe’s law.

job asked why the righteous suffer,
and i was sated by your wisdom before it led to me.
you held the blood and you sew them to stars
raining memories of jerusalem, of
an innocent mind turned against you.
i threw your book out and it soaked out
the iron garden, as did i.

we lived in a city enclosed in adobe.
by itself, i hear the procession of children crusades
pillaging broken windows
playing the seven trumpets of solitude
plied within. god, they say
you are right. i know, before adam and eve, that
you do not imply fair.

jerusalem was a city,
and it became a citadel where the walls
grow and i am ripped at your endpoints
by moving stones of forgotten
childhoods, forgotten graves.
i shed feathers of ink on easter monday,
finding where i am on your number lines only to find

you penned the word of the world
in six and gave all we would be. inside, time withers
as i am carted away to churches
and there, we are taught to walk on your road away
from you. all roads lead to rome, but you are jerusalem.
so i follow no road, but know the cobbles itself. 
i unproof each hint scattered across of your emptiness,
only to lose the faint starlight of each insight
that you have written with the ink of my sight.

some people know you as real.
the agnostics don’t know, and the atheists know.
but there is nothing to know about you.
god, you are love pulling me out
the windows six feet down.
you are the unanswered telephone calls to a matrimony
slipping through my inside before the broken cups
of coffee spills emptiness to the milky way.
you are the celestial pages of scripts
thrown to hard ground
eluding this verse i scribe. 

maybe i may be grasped at the seventh hour,
at the fixing of the seventh angel to nights. i pray at sabbath,
when you are asleep. 
god,
i do not comprehend the silences today.
your poetry are bricks calling me at the pane
but all i only knew was how to lie in your name.

seven eras at your end
A Facebook status does not indicate the systematically beautiful and emotionally ugly intricacies of a relationship. 
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twelve.

took the midday train going nowhere
and i look at the solstice
of the sun and think of a similar word
before my vision of the world turns to a solar abyss.

sons, that is a luxury for the young,
when nowhere meant anywhere.
i embrace your memory when all the voyages goes on. 


one.

by one, i am stream of consciousness
in your empty bed listening
to mumford and sons.

well, that is something i’d wish for.
something you thought you
won when your mom was weaved in cosmic rain at
the grass, at time pressed against your earthen breath.

 

two.

little lion man,
you are a pair guarding the broken gates
to my bank accounts.

but the sight of two comes at the new moon,
when the eclipse of twilight spew
out tragedy, when you lose control,
when there is suppose to be me and you
bleeding out policies of time.

as long as you like it, so will i,
but your light has already burst
and i’m not insured.
 

three. 

leo could have been a name
for the things we’ve never had.
you blew up your womb like a balloon
and we’d be in africa about now, but
then we'd be like icarus crashing
in nights to your hammock pinned to the celestial lion. 
flaubert is drunk, baudelaire is high and
a girl would have been fine too though.

  

four.

four is chinese for death.
four is the number of girls that lived
there forever, when there's one now
out the street by the forensics car. only men pass names,
but you were sure no one would remember yours.
 

five.

first world problem:
i wish lectures would end at five.

second world problem:
over-production of buildings for
sunsets. then you jump off
because time is precious money?

third world problem
is a disease of the first two worlds
beginning without your chronology.


six.

i recite an ancient prayer on the sixth hour
even though i’m an atheist. the city lights
talk and even if you are rowing the boat with him,
i would not know what to do. walk.

  
seven.

the party last year forgets who are we, when we are
held in poetry department. when minutes
pass from earthly heaven, i am reminded of your
song telephoning in for a slice of brain pizza and
i push her away and fuck off by the third.

 

eight.

i ate the text messages
and i’m running out of things to say.
because seven ate nine,
i walk because i’m afraid of you.

 

nine.

missing time by previous theorem
as nine is infinity, indivisible by zero.
age strolls between our doors
and i sprint endlessly on its treadmill.

 

ten.

is the end of singles,
and the beginning of doubles.
digits of our tennis game
fly as its starry balls, passing
by as a comet. the odds of impact
increase with each point effervescing
in my continuous head.

 

eleven.

my ribs are railways
marked in the fiery world when
it did end with your bang and
not a whimper. the doomsday clock rises from
the feet to your mantra

in my continuous head.
and i sprint endlessly on its treadmill;
i walk because i’m afraid of you.
i push her away and fuck off by the third
i would not know what to do. walk.
no word for self homicide?
but you were sure no one would remember yours.
a girl would have been fine too though
i’m not insured.
the grass, at time, pressed against your earthen breath,
i embrace your memory when all the voyages goes on.

hours
Cause I can't get you out of my head, you bastard. Also, reading Elliot tells you how high the curve is set.

(Also, read this on my first poetry slam night this Monday. ;_; is basically my internal reaction. I need to stop saying also.)  
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five things are all i can mutter when
ten are required.

finding me is a riddle meant to be loved
although no one deduces my eyes. look
closely, closer and his hair cuts open; it
exfoliates like an onion.

everyday has been taken care
and already, my time has come. no one thinks i listen like a boa
remembering each implicit fear.

nearing my mouth, the desert lips
own my face and my ear like foreclosed estate. my skin
shouts the pulling words and the oarsmen at my brow  
ebb like crying tides, but the ocean

smells like
home. dive in
or be pushed.
underneath, i am the arms of  
light bubbling to your ear. listen, you ask?
darkest days imply only light and
events do not occur as coincidences like elbows that rub.
respire and believe.

hints grow on my shoulders
in the blizzard of spring while
pi is a constant in which
all squares go around and round.

lest you rationalize,
embrace your thickest thighs.
good is relative to words people
say, though it cramps and cramps.

freedom is an enslaving engima
existant without limits. there
exists your face, ear, nose, shoulders, hips, legs and
toes and so too will you.
deconstruction on principles
I have to be honest: I wasn't on board with the self-image thing at first. I wasn't a fan of poetry about myself but truthfully, I never really wanted to admit that I cared for myself even though I kept lying about it simultaneously. But after chromeantennae wrote this,

5'7'', 176 LBS (170 CM, 80 KG) 

it set off a huge response in here. (which you should go take a look)

This Deserves a Feature On Its Own

I was still hesitant to go on board because it wasn't what I usually write, but somehow I ended doing it? I am actually surprised by how well it turned out.

Thank you, Ricky. You're incredible at inspiring people. I would never have thought about this without you starting. (:   
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The soft anthem of twelve sylvan soldiers
guards the swaying of our glass halos
moulded on amber windows of churches.
Most people hear only wind breathing
like walking steps echoing into infinite positions,
but I don’t see why it’s wrong to surrender
to the everyday. Each morning, the autumnal songs of  
Time hangs on the gibbet of your pendulum lips
as arctic winds growing from a sweating tree.

I snack on Kinder bars while watching leaves
diffuse to a random state. Look close;
it reveals a different of colour of time.
Maple eludes to the shade of dawn
when my eye breaks its fast of you, while elm
is the golden glimpse of night when we ran like children to
the forest. Imagine a storm of candlelights
carried by the river of gales and I am carried
with it. I am brought away to city
in the rapturous prayers of all citizens.  

Everyday, I wonder to God that I don’t believe
of the chances, and I believe in them. The first tree
releases its flames and the woods follow the falling auburn
trailing like a map of epidemic paths.
Let them scatter in pretence and degenerate into spirits,
and you let them believe and the momentum
carries itself to pass over moments.  
Silence is borne on the entropic trees, but I am
lost in your branching labyrinth.

It’s strange how we met. Do you remember?
We walked past the town clock each day on
the melody of an orange earth. People headed to different places,
I wonder the chances of one evening when the autumn
lethargy claimed us under the thirteenth hour,
when we said our first and last hellos. The sun stopped.
The hour or Vespers and Matins stood watch
when visitors came and the feathered leaves came to rest
their flying days. Sleep, old months and years.
You are the solstice of time
enlightening each orbit as every person is locked around.
Everyday, I wonder the chances of you
and each time, I believe in their wonder.
Years under the orange earth
This is a complete rewrite a poem I submitted for a contest two years ago for Halloween. Most of the themes of the original have been discarded, but I kept some of the ideas of it and reworked them into this new one. Looking back at it, it reminds me of how much time has gone by. I'm also trying to go a different direction and detach myself more from the personal perspective and create something more abstract. I would love any feedback, criticism you have. (:

1. Kinder- refers to Kinder chocolate bars
2. Vespers and Matins- the even song and morning prayer respectively
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Although setting other people's asses on fire is generally undesirable, you managed it.


‘Pffz. ZzzphewwwweZZZZZZZZzZZz
Until the volcano erupted. I feel like myself burning in snow. Yes.
How lucky it is! Pffz. The terrorist, too, murdered
Someone outside it. Not insid
e.’

-Mint Lee  ‘The pen, the bloody pen’


There are times when we don’t have sense. This isn’t one,
but two fucking homicidal stanzas imploded with multi-coloured Biros.
Breathe the invigilated air carefully: you are watching me want. Tick-
Pffz. ZzzphewwwweZZZZZZZZzZZz

Wasabi bombs will atomize my lungs.
Your algorithm diagnostic: ‘not good’ with an evil explosion.
Gasping, you’ll drown in the icy coffin your tongue vibrates
while I curl up like a rainbow. Cool, but not just yet.
I stay in school on the last day, passing notes to you, dreaming of Pompeii
until the volcano erupted. I feel like myself burning in snow. Yes.

I want to be a Roman. They don’t have meth there, but it’s ok.
There are times when we don’t make sense; this isn’t one.
Soon, I’ll serve my Face time, where a : ) is meaningless, but it’s
the only road to you. Let us race down the Appian Way
and we’ll watch the concrete glaze in flames as the graduates march!
I am Sol, shooting the fuse and you, Luna, mooning whatever
(though you’re too moony, a little loony devising a bomb).
How lucky it is! Pffz. The terrorist, too, murdered

your words and mine. Before he shall be taken away,
he’ll think on the things you and I did when
crayons wrote bucketlists. Zzzphewwzz-
I dream of you blowing bubbles of plasmas,
whispering auroras in my prison sky as I sing you two stories to Canto-land.
One:  you proved 1+1=4, penning twirling strikes on each thing we’ve done.
Two: remember the last thing there, get in and break out of jail?
Cross that out. Let each stanza and story grow each moment we are apart.
We are firebirds perching free on faces of clocks looking up to the infinite.
Someone outside it. Not inside.
Although setting other people's... (abbreviated)
Actual title: ' Although setting other people's asses on fire is generally undesirable, you managed it.' simply because dA does not allow long but completely logical titles adapted from another one of his poems.

Ok... so just what is this? Well... to give you a simple answer, it's based off the glosa form (tutorial found here: fav.me/d4jqoa8).

A glosa contains four lines by another author (in this case, one of my best friends) in the beginning known as a cabeza. In each of your stanzas, you must end with the corresponding line in that cabeza. Traditionally, your poem is supposed to be in 4 stanzas of 10 lines with a rhyme scheme, but this is a modified version where the stanza lengths are different. 

To give you the complicated answer: :iconcannotevenplz: ;). Mint, you are possibly the craziest genius I have ever met. This is for the years that we've had, and for the years that we will have. Maybe you'll learn some Cantonese in Hong Kong, who knows?

This is for IrrevocableFate and DreamingAutumn Bestest Friend Contest. I'm not counting the cabeza as part of the maximum 30 lines. 
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reflectionsinwater
Jack
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Malaysia
Props to :iconwolfclaw97: for the image and for helping me create an account :).

Everyone just calls me Jack, so you should call me that. Currently a math undergraduate with a passionate interest in anything and everything.
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:iconjade-pandora:
jade-pandora Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2014
Hi, Jack!
FireWorks by 0Josh0 Time for me to celebrate by thanking you for faving my poem "No Matter Love"/
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:iconreflectionsinwater:
reflectionsinwater Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
No problem. (:
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:iconilyilaice:
ilyilaice Featured By Owner Oct 7, 2014
Hello. How are you today? (:
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:iconreflectionsinwater:
reflectionsinwater Featured By Owner Oct 8, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Hello (: Thanks for asking! I'm perpetually excited about the wonders of everyday which we do not understand. What about you? Anything on your mind?
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:iconilyilaice:
ilyilaice Featured By Owner Oct 8, 2014
lots of things on my mind because i'm studying for my midterms. at this present moment, legal history is bouncing round my head. not the most exciting thing, so i enjoy making random convos online while i'm at it. :heart:
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:iconreflectionsinwater:
reflectionsinwater Featured By Owner Oct 8, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
What do you study? (and if you wouldn't mind sharing where would also be nice). 
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(2 Replies)
:iconaprilwednesday:
aprilwednesday Featured By Owner Sep 27, 2014   Writer
thanks so much for the watch! :)
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:iconreflectionsinwater:
reflectionsinwater Featured By Owner Sep 27, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
No problem (:
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:icond-e-l-e-t-e-d:
d-e-l-e-t-e-d Featured By Owner Sep 20, 2014  New member Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much for the watch! :heart:
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:iconreflectionsinwater:
reflectionsinwater Featured By Owner Sep 21, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
No problem. Thank you for the watch. I look forward to seeing how your writing style can develop. :)
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