classystudentclown

[classystudentclown]

I find myself often alone. Consumed by a loneliness that questions if human interaction means more growth.

I dip my head out of the cave and know I would rather be left alone. Surrounded by hateful people who try to deny their soul.

Sometimes, I look out my window to sow the seeds that humanity needs to grow.

You aren't different, deranged or colored the wrong way, and race doesn't mean anything more than human.

It causes contusion and breaks. We mistake incredible personal moments as great.

We try to embrace fate in lonely worlds. With amateurs and twirls of wrists. You missed a few strands in the scope of the agenda and get tossed into the Abyss...

Epstien and Trump are the signs of a world amiss. I'm not intelligent enough to explain that your everlasting life depends on how quickly you can recognize evil.

My mind is a landscape of trampled people that died, who had no equals.

I cannot sell my soul for tragedy and woes without using my voice for good.

We should hold the oligarchs accountable, strip riches from pedophiles and give wins to victims throughout the world.

[classystudentclown]

I have to be a ghost in a world full of verbose fools who can't practice humanity.

Neglected and experienced is tragedy, almost like I can see the cost of God.

Ice unleashed and babies lost. Tossed down familiar paths families once walked.

Alligator Alcatraz has a ring to it, but who controls the bells that cost America her dignity and humanity it's loss.

They say a trumpet, but prophecy can't be bought.

Nor subdued in chains.

If you believe we should have concentration camps and mass deportation in the U.S.A., we aren't the same.

[classystudentclown]

Sometimes I know I owe someone special a gift.

I'm trying to understand the personality that exists

[classystudentclown]

Why do I find myself so twisted after a lifetime of suffering and loss? Lips curled up with the memories those losses bought. Brought about by tragedy and bonds that can never be tossed.

Or anchored, anymore. Eternally lost. Froth with a type of ambition that comes at net loss.

Hide Jesus.

This generation would hang him on a cross.

[classystudentclown]

Sometimes we have to stand our ground to be brave, while American lives are supposed to accept shackles to be enslaved.

And, we know who to blame.

We look in the mirror. We divest opinions like leeches and disappear into anonymity.

But, I can only be me.

I can only be free if everywhere I look i see a landscape to be lived in without screams. ICE, mass deportation and separation of families can no longer stand to be a lawful order.

We can't accept the injustice of a fraud in office in dictating our streets. We don't want Mormon, Presbyterian or Catholic blood running free. A country of Muslims and Jews that appear on the same T.V.

I'd ask please, but i don't want sycophants to preach like disease or think they scratched the surface of what God's words were meant to preach.

[classystudentclown]

I slip through diadems to exist without benefits or help.

One chin and ten toes, only trying to be my best self. Unlooked for competition is suicidal to self.

Seek help.

[classystudentclown]

Some of the most powerful words worth reading.

He came into my life like a forgotten hymn—

not sung, but remembered.

There was nothing grand in his entrance.

No flash, no trumpet.

Just presence.

Like the weight of a soul that never left.

I was all sharp edges and glass thoughts back then.

My ribcage was a cathedral of broken hymns,

my breath a whisper of poetry not yet brave enough to be spoken aloud.

I wore my trauma like a velvet cloak—heavy, regal, misunderstood.

He didn’t look at me the way people look when they want to fix something.

He looked at me like a forest looks at fire.

Not afraid—

but curious.

Ancient.

“Be here now,” he said, as if those words weren’t already carved into the marrow of every life I’d ever lived.

I tried to answer in metaphor—

I reached for confessional stanza,

for Plath’s oven,

for something that could trap the ache and shape it.

But the ache evaporated.

In his stillness, it had no air left to breathe.

He didn’t teach me how to escape.

He taught me how to stay.

Not in the body,

but in the moment.

Even the painful ones.

Especially the painful ones.

I used to think healing meant transcendence.

Rising above.

Lightness.

But he taught me that real transcendence smells like earth—

like the damp breath of the now.

It has weight.

It has texture.

It has teeth.

I asked him once, “What do you see when you look at me?”

And he said, “God… forgetting.”

I laughed.

Then I cried.

Then I disappeared into myself.

He showed me that love is not an offering,

but a state of being offered.

Not by another—

but by the cosmos, endlessly unfolding in your own damn chest.

I used to write to bleed.

Now I write because silence leaves too much beauty unspoken.

He was not my lover.

He was the bell that told me I had always been married to the Divine.

And somewhere inside,

beneath the poetry,

beneath the cracked mirror and the wine of old sorrow,

beneath the scar-tissue temple I used to call me,

there is a flicker.

A small flame.

A voice.

It whispers only one thing,

over and over again,

until I can no longer tell the difference between pain and prayer:

“I am here. I am now. I am Love.”

[classystudentclown]

Somehow I forget my abyss and the trauma I went through as a kid as I do something as simple as build a door. Lift a wall or lay a floor.

Abhorrent manual labor to ignore the disparity on the Earth.

It is worse now than when I was birthed.

How deep are we cursed?

[classystudentclown]

It could be fun to be loved. To dig our toes in the sand and mud.

To have fun. To run into life with a smile, face to the sun.

In a world full of guns, like explosions are fun.

But, wonder if I get hit? Wonder if I fall off the porch and get split?

What would it be like to be loved in a world that doesn't know how to miss?

[classystudentclown]

Just a kiss.

After we confess sins and promise bliss.

Or what can be past bliss in a world that's dismissive and insignificant.

We can find a little life. A little love among the strife.

Destroy the ride and slide into the afterlife with people who might have dreamed about being on your side.

Inspire the next kite flyers and cave divers because you dare.

Challenge the norm because you care.

[classystudentclown]

I find myself between twilight and dawn, songs and wrongs and sins that can't be repressed. Confessions are lessons that are blessed like therapy. The mind is uneasy to reach. It's hard to preach a Gospel that Good Men preach.

Wash yourself in the water, let go riches and be meek.

Just for a week.

To change the views, poor men, put on makeup and go to work in a ruse. Disillusioned by this Hollywood nation in draft dodger shoes.

[classystudentclown]

I know I'm a twist on an abyss most civilians can imagine. Tragedy packaged as maddening intrigue.

A true believer.

Between the ring and middle finger.

Where is the American zing? I don't support the current administration, not a thing.

And I won't trade nature and science for billionaire bling.

Impasse or seam.

Poetry rides through dreams.

[classystudentclown]

I was told I’m breaking my fathers heart

Having let distance and isolation overwhelm my existence

“He feels abandoned”, she yells

My thoughts say, “welcome to the club”

I hold a mixture of grief, guilt, shame, and anger

I know I’m not who people need me to be

But people aren’t who I need them to be either

It’s why I stay away

It’s why I hide within myself

I know I’m not enough

I know I let people down just by being myself

I think my fathers heart would break regardless of my actions or the lack thereof

My hearts been broken for a very long time too

Perhaps that’s just how life is

Everyone with broken hearts

Isolated and hurting

Unable to heal themselves or others

I’m sorry I’m not a good daughter, sister, aunt, friend, etc

The world made me cold

And warmth is too hard to find

[classystudentclown]

Inside of existence, I split between indifference and mist. Paradoxical, between altruism and sin.

The luxury of skin on skin beneath open skies.

It's hard to close my eyes on mysteries that never wait for second dates.

[classystudentclown]

Esc

I am not an activist: Only got two hands — too little use for fists; Too few enemies To sustain any hatred, And too many flowers To maintain and nurture.

I am not an activist: Only got one voice — too little will To raise it, For its weight will remain exactly the same To those who'll drown out Its whispers.

I am not an activist: Only got one heart — equally too little, and Too big; It closes and opens For the sole reason That I get to keep it.

I am not an activist: Only got two shoulders, And if they are broken By this weighted world, Who will I carry Home, then?

I am not an activist: Only got one life — too short to futilely fight What cannot bleed; The same ideas and delusions Which cause history to repeat; Only got two eyes And the fact they can see this Would sooner make me damn them.

So, please, do pardon my defeatism.

All I can do, is offer you A place to rest Your world-weary head.

I am not an activist, I was, once, but I have become An escapist, Instead.

--- 9-4-2025, M.A. Tempels © Napowrimo 9: If you tolerate this your children will be next

[classystudentclown]

It's hard to express this gift in a dying world,

Small, fractured, and curled. Blurred.

Somewhere between absolute obscurity and observed.

We find ourselves in our next of kin.

Our neighbors. Our friends.

Somehow divided between who we are and people we've never met.

It's hard to struggle against the waves that drown you when you don't know how to swim.

TheArtisticZero

[classystudentclown]

Once I wrote about a troglodyte who nestled into the confines of caverns — a crater, so far

so very far

— and he was shapeless, amorphous, in the lingering stupor;

scattered echoes turn dissonant, reverberate between wall to wall nothingness, strange speleothem madness, a maze... a thoughtform, an awareness lingering in this lunar void as its increasingly translucent layers

erode away —

what will it become once stripped completely bare? And, what will become of memories no longer remembered?

© Anna S. 2025 // @definegodliness 's Napowrimo #3 [ man on the moon ]